I'm a hockey guy...a pond hockey guy, a backyard rink guy, a youth and high school hockey guy.
And I didn't last 40 pages.
This should be one of my favorite books. It should speak to me in the way a book about high school hockey should speak to someone who played, lived, and loved high school hockey. But something about Mr Atkinson didn't feel right. There was an unspoken arrogance that I couldn't shake, cemented by this passage (which I'll shorten to reduce the clutter), in which he skates at the HS rink with two of the high school players (for the first time, days after meeting them):
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"Gradzewicz is a solid kid, thick through the shoulders, and a good skater...he's a candidate for varsity. But his game looks soft. I'm nowhere near any of these kids as a skater or puckhandler, but whenever I approach Gradzewicz, the yellow-haired sophomore maintains a large gap between us and backs up until he nearly crashes into the net. 'Hey Dan,' I call out to him. 'Show a little aggression once in a while.'
When we're resting against the boards, I ask Soucy to demonstrate this nifty little drag move I've seen him use. Grinning proudly, he cradles the puck with the blade of his stick, dragging it behind him as he skates along. Just as the puck reaches a point almost directly behind him, Soucy slides the puck between his own skates and kicks it ahead to his forehand. Executed properly, the move will leave a defender clutching at thin air.
'Pretty nice,' I say. 'But if you're at center ice and it doesn't work, you're giving up a rush going the other way. Use it in their end of the rink.'
'Okay, Mr Atkinson,' Soucy says. He practices the move down low in the corner. When they think I'm not looking, Soucy and Gradzewicz glance at each other and smile."
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That was page 38. I never saw page 39.
That passage alone told me all I needed to know about Mr Atkinson. That he thinks he should be correcting behaviors a day after meeting kids he was supposed to be writing about (not coaching). That he thinks that he can judge (and comment on) a defenseman's aggression after 5 minutes of stick-and-puck with an old man in sweatpants. That he thinks two teenage kids tooling around with a writer would even care what he thinks. I just couldn't continue on with this book, despite my relationship to the game mimicking Mr Atkinson's, knowing that it would likely be filled with misplaced judgment of high school kids and far too many flashbacks to the awesomeness of his youth.
I wanted to love this book, and twice I tried, separated by more than a year. But Mr Atkinson pushed me aside both times.
That smile that the two players shared, Mr Atkinson? That was those two kids calling you a douchebag.