A Junior Hockey Journey: Crossing the Northern Border

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June 28, 2015:

The Norfolk Vikings Coach and General manager emailed me the day before I was set to arrive in Simcoe: “12:00 Meet at the clock tower on Norfolk Street. We will be doing dryland.”

We were about to cross the Canadian border through Allentown, New York and were aware that our phones would soon operate on data charges alone. We took the QEW, Queen Elizabeth Way, for about thirty minutes before switching to Route 25, then 27 to 63 and finally Talbot through Cayuga into Norfolk County. The roads were small and stretched straight for miles on each end.

In every which direction along our way, the land grew high with corn stalks and farmhouses. By 9:00pm, we were fortunate enough to witness the sun dip behind those fields, and with Tom Higginson’s ‘American Nights’ softening my ears, my eyes watched salmon pinks and the yellow bellies of perches swarm the Canadian sky. At night, the sky was dark, save for a few stars. Those modest beacons gleamed in a blackness that, I swear, I had never seen so pure. It was rural and it was bliss.

Our car had found Simcoe without complication, one of the few small miracles witnessed that day. Both our GPS and phones had malfunctioned crossing the border and were premature with their Canadian maps. We settled into The Travelodge hotel pretty late that night. And, although I recall hearing some French still buzzing behind closed doors, I had no idea those muffled ‘Putains’ would be some of my closest teammates, just a few rooms away.

-Jeff Gu

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A Junior Hockey Journey: 9 Days till a year

Students and faculty alike have often asked me about my transition back into regular school life. They ask how it was in Canada, as if our northern neighbor had held some closeted, esoteric knowledge that I, alone had uncovered. Others, rather nonchalantly, asked for conversation and just to be polite. Either way, I had my memorized lines prepared, enough just to say something, and yet, really without having to really say anything.

“Canada was a wholly unimaginable experience. I met and lived with players from all different socio-economic backgrounds, cultural backgrounds, and living habits. At some point or another, I had spent time living with players from Quebec, Slovakia, Finland, Florida, California, Colorado, Nebraska, Illinois, and West Virginia. I had become brothers with players from France, Utah, Alberta, New York, and Texas.”

I would continue, “There was one player who, at home, drove his own Ferrari, and another who sold his car for that initial July plane ticket to Ontario,” always finish with the line, “It’s like having spent a lifetime on a plane with the shutter closed and having just finally opened it to catch a glimpse of the ‘real world,’ with all its brief triumphs and indiscriminatory injustices.”

And, of course, written down, it’s all quite polished now. Originally, orally, it was the equivalent of completing jumping jacks while trying to gargle expired chocolate milk, an absolute, and unequivocally chaotic and sputtering mess.

A brief note: although I have no idea why anyone would be so inclined to try, the above metaphor is strictly that, not a challenge.

A second note: if anyone does decide it a feat of strength and try to do jumping jacks while gargling spoiled milk, send the video my way. I’m always up for a laugh.

To get to the point of what I was saying, I haven’t really recounted any experiences from last year. Was it all worth it? Do Canadians actually say ‘eh?’ How did I end up asleep on a highway? Does Tim Horton’s have the best doughnuts? (Yes. And there’s no explanation- they just do). Why is making a left turn ‘making a Larry?’

Over a semester has past since I last visited Simcoe, Ontario, early last summer. 9 days from a year today, it will have been 12 months since I left the Norfolk Vikings, having suffered a concussion. It’s been enough time that I believe that I should finally begin candidly telling some stories and rebooting the purpose of this blog- to give my Junior ‘A’ experience as a high school student in a foreign country.

-Jeff Gu

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The Divide

Three days ago, February 11 2016, NYPD officer, Peter Liang, was convicted of the manslaughter of Akai Gurley. My heart and prayers are with Mr. Gurley’s wife and little girls. Their loss is something I haven’t had the misfortune of experiencing and therefore something I cannot truly understand, and yet at some level, knowing that an innocent life is gone and knowing that two children will grow up without a father, I understand plenty.

For Liang, there is punishment in knowing he took an innocent life. There is punishment in seeing the impact of his mistake on a mother and her small children. It is not something that anyone can prepare for. Liang made a mistake. He misfired his gun and that bullet, ricocheting through a darkened stairway, shortened the life of an innocent man.

From multiple media outlets, it is told that Liang and his partnering officer, both rookies, were patrolling a public housing project. There, Liang, already on guard and tense, misfired his gun at a sudden sound while in a dark stairway. He and his partner did not initially see any injured persons and they began a quarrel about reporting the incident. It is told that Liang was primarily concerned he would get fired. Upon further investigation, the officers found a wounded Kai Gurley and his friend. In this instance, Liang acknowledged not trying to help revive the wounded Gurley. He wanted to wait for professional medical assistance. Gurley would not survive the gunshot wound.

In the past year, there have been debates nationwide about the brutality of police towards black men. Liang’s case, however, is not one of brutality. He didn’t knock a black man to the ground and strangle him to death. He didn’t knowingly fire eleven shots at a teenage boy, with the twelfth ending that boy’s life. He didn’t jail a woman for a minor traffic violation and then brutalize her until she felt her only escape was suicide. In cases across the States where officers have purposely preyed on unarmed blacks, why is it that the officer of a misfire is finally the one convicted of manslaughter?

For me, the injustice in Liang’s conviction isn’t entirely the conviction itself, but that other officers did not receive a punishment for far worse crimes. It can be argued that following the precedent set in the trials of these officers, Daniel Pantaleo, Darren Wilson, and Brian Encinia, still free, that Peter Liang too should not be convicted.

I do not believe that Liang is a scapegoat for the NY release of Daniel Pantaleo in his crime against Eric Garner. Liang killed an innocent man and for that he should receive punishment. I hope, however, that whatever form he receives is that which is universal to all officers. If Liang must serve 15 years, then let this be a precedent set for future cases. If an officer who’s misfire killed an unarmed man receives 15 years in prison, then may an officer who is indicted of purposeful murder, brutality, and racism receive a heavier or at very least similar conviction.

There is a trust that needs to be renewed between citizens and police. When officers perform their duty in a way that ends in the deaths of innocent and unarmed citizens, they are no longer ‘Serving and Protecting.’ And while these incidents do not reflect the majority of officers, they do shed light on the struggle of our nation as a whole. My opinion is in solidarity with that of Executive Director of the Committee Against Anti-Asian Violence, Cathy Dong, “We have always said this case only means that we want to make sure that [all] officers be held accountable.”

If this conviction paves the way for more just trials involving officers in the future, then Liang’s 15 years would become a sacrifice for safer streets, for both citizens and officers alike.

 

Junior A

Duncan Keith of the Chicago Blackhawks, Drew Doughty of the LA Kings, PK Subban of the Montreal Canadiens, I scoured YouTube for highlights of my favorite professional hockey players. I had never been so anxious. This was my chance to show my team that even at sixteen, I would be a strong contributor for the team for the rest of the year. As I scrutinized Keith’s poke checks, Doughty’s agility, Subban’s edgework, I did my best to channel their mindsets. The night before my team’s season opener, I spent a restless night watching film.

I awoke from my hockey-induced slumber the next morning ready for the game of my life. As I laced up my skates for morning skate, a troubling doubt entered my mind. I had left behind everything to follow a passion. Instead of pursuing a normal education, I was taking classes online. I only saw my friends over a distant social media. My parents needed to make a ten-hour drive just to see me. Was it worth it? With all this floating in my head, I stumbled onto the ice.

Missed passes, weak shots, improper form while skating, basic mistakes plagued my skate. Each mistake only acted as a catalyst for the next one. My spirit sank. As a buzzer announced the end of practice, I followed the crowd off the ice. There, just outside the locker room, on a plain white sheet of paper, I read the short single-syllabled two lettered last name I had known my entire life. Along seventeen other players, I would be dressing for the Viking’s season opener. Despite the bad skate, I would still be given the honor of being one of the first players to don team colors.

As I sat in my stall to take it all in, I recalled the words of Sports psychologist, Dr. Nate Zinsser, from a camp earlier that summer at Hamilton College, “If you play well, tell yourself you’re playing well. Let it sink in. If you play bad, tell yourself you got the bad out of the way. Now, there are only good plays left.” Following those words, I prepared myself. The substandard morning skate just meant that I was bound for a good game.

A short nap and a hearty lunch later, the team was on a coach bus bound for Niagara. In the two-hour drive, my ears filled with the motivational words of John Wooden, Gordie “Mr. Hockey” Howe, and Vince Lombardi. In those two hours, I repeated to myself the enchanting words of Mr. Hockey,  “You find that you have peace of mind and can enjoy yourself, get more sleep, and rest when you know that it was a one hundred percent effort that you gave – win or lose.”

An hour before the start of the game, I thought we would have to forfeit. Save for a lone goalie, our Frenchie, Renan Sarrazin, the team didn’t have game sweaters. Due to a clerical mix-up, we waited as some car we didn’t know raced to our rescue. The life of our first game had been mastered by what I would later discover had been a small green Toyota. We watched as the minutes for warm-ups counted down, until a buzzer finally signaled the end. Minutes before the official start of the matchup, our jerseys arrived.

Before the team’s first game, Coach Brian Fish instructed us “Forget the refs and forget Niagara, do what you have to do when you get out there. I don’t care what they say, warm your goalie up.” With our blood pumping and faces determined and anxious, the Norfolk Vikings poured out of the locker room onto the ice. We clapped our sticks into the ice, as fans roared for the start of the game. Moments later the puck dropped.

Fish called the lines from the bench, Bullivant, Pretorius, Brown, Tomlinson, Gu. As I skated towards a center face-off circle, buddies who hadn’t dressed that game cheered me on and the veteran defensemen gave me stick taps as I passed them. The game was fast-paced. By the end of my first shift, my legs were burning and I was out of breath. I loved every second of it. In my head, I had made the first cut. I was, officially, a Junior A hockey player.

My first goal came that night. Unofficially. Right off an offensive face-off, Mark Pretorius of San Diego won the puck back and from my wrist shot, the puck found its way above the goalie’s pad and into the net. It was waved off due to an extra man from our team who shouldn’t have been on the ice.

By the end of the third period, I had played my first Junior A hockey game. Hell, I’d even scored.

On the returning bus ride, as I sat near the coach bus window looking out into the clear Ontario sky, I was tapped on the shoulder by my head coach, Brian Fish. He gestured me to the front of the bus where he had been sitting and offered me a seat next to his. I took my new spot as he began, “You had a good game. You’ve gotta be quicker of course, and make sure you’re making the most out of gym every morning. We’ll make a Junior A player out of you; a good one. But you’ve gotta trust me. Some of the lessons and systems I teach you will seem unconventional. Sometimes even counterintuitive, but trust me.” As I nodded my head and made a short allegiance to my coach, he put a hand on my shoulder and nodded me back to my original seat. Not really a conversation, but the significance of it all to me was measured in one thought. As a sixteen year old, playing against twenty and twenty-one year olds, my coach trusted me. I had peace of mind.

In those first moments cutting into that hard ice, I knew. Just sitting in the locker rooms, waiting for those jerseys, I already knew. I was meant to be there. I’m meant to be here, following my dream.

A Unity Split into Two

From the bottom up, tanned Oxfords, two-pleat smoky dress pants, a light blue polo. I stared at myself in the mirror, straining over every crease and every loose dog hair, scrutinizing the Viking staring back at me.

It was 7:30pm August 18, 2015 and the night of the town council meeting. The councilors would be deciding whether to allow the Vikings an enlarged pro-style changing room, by approving or denying a motion to tear down the wall between two adjoining locker rooms.

First impressions were a big deal. Coach Fish knew, the Vikings knew. The team planned to attend the meeting uniform in our Norfolk crested blue polos.

A fellow Viking, Nick Holmes, picked me up in his brown Ford Escape along with Renan Sarrazin and Andres Roy. We joked about the locker room situation and laughed about our night watching tents in Dover.

To us, the changing room was almost a guarantee. The meeting was a formality. I had thought to myself during that car ride, I’m in it for the long-haul. I knew the boys on our team, I’ve seen the members of our community in Norfolk, this was a place I wanted to be a part of. Even eating at Wendy’s earlier that day, an older gentleman wished us luck on the decision.

As Coach Brian Fish would later reiterate to the town council, for the past summer, the Vikings had worked towards being a part of Norfolk. We had set up tents for the Friendship and Ice-cream Festivals, we took the Night-Watch security shifts at the Summer Festival. One of my buddies sitting in the car with me at the time, Renan had put in eight hours, 6:00pm to 2:00am, the past Saturday making sure nothing awry happened to vender’s tents at the Summer Fest. I, myself had only managed to go for six hours, 11:00pm to 5:00am. Numerous other Vikings gave up their Saturday nights and then recovering Sunday, all for the community.

The team walked into the library together and sat in the pews. Sitting down, I saw smiles from some of the Council members when our case was presented. It looked as though we would get the locker rooms we were promised. As the night continued, I continually wiped the sweat from the palm of my hands. I watched as the eyes of the team followed each speaker. I heard the team whispering excitement to one another when a council member showed favor towards the rooms and encouragement to each other when one did not. An hour later, a motion was made to vote.

At the time, locker rooms didn’t seem as important as workout regiments or ice-time, but I realize now that having stalls, being together as a team, it forms a culture that reflects the unity of Norfolk. We would represent the wonderful hockey town of Simcoe all across Ontario, and yet, on home ice, our team would be divided by a wall.

How could a hockey community such as Norfolk County allow our team to be pieced apart during games, practices, when all that needed was to simply tear down a non load-bearing wall. An action, that our team had promised to pay for. Any time a team needed to use the professionally styled changing room, the Vikings promised to allow it. We are a part of this community, and we wanted a changing room that reflected the unity of Norfolk. We wanted a room that younger players could use and admire. We hoped for understanding.

Regardless of the decision, we shall continue to strive to work and love this community that has come to be known as our home, away from home.

On August 18, 2015, the motion to create such a space was denied. On the returning car ride, there was only silence and anguish.

A Junior Hockey Journey: One Step Closer

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June 9, 2015:

I kept telling myself that I was one step closer.

Every shot on the driveway, every stick time and public skate, every moment builds to that Dream. It’s every young hockey player’s vision that they make it to ‘The Show,’ that against the odds, they survive to the NHL. Moving to Canada, playing for a Junior A team at age 16, it would be give me the freedom and responsibility I always craved as a teen. Beyond that, relocating to Canada would launch me a level, maybe many levels, beyond my friends back home. Training in Norfolk would heighten my hockey sense and give development that exceeded any program in Connecticut.

It all turned in my head as I sat in a plain, chalk white seat. It was just one among hundreds, all identical, each bound to the other with a thin white cord. It kept conformity.

One by one, the seniors rose to receive their graduation diplomas.

The current juniors became next year’s seniors, and my class of the time, 2017, joined the senior school of Hopkins as the next juniors. In that moment, I was still a Hilltopper. I had made it the four years.

At the end of the ceremony, I left behind the laughter and tears that, in any event, followed the closing of every graduation. For the last of a long time, I gazed out at all the luxurious grass on the Thompson Quad; I memorized each tree and trimmed bush outlining the pathways.

-Jeff Gu

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