Occupation: Dreamer

             It’s 3:30 on Saturday morning in January. I’m creeping down the stairs to warm up the car. In the basement, I’m dressing in my mind and stuffing a bag; pants, socks, shirt, headwear, footwear, tape, stick. At the last moment, I coax my sleeping son out of bed and quietly half carry him, still partly asleep, out of the house. I put it in reverse and, under cover of darkness, slip out of the neighborhood. I’m not a spy or a kidnapper… I’m a hockey dad, and we have a 45-minute drive to our 5:30 a.m. ice time.              Everyone reading this knows what I am talking about. When I walk into the rink, it’s just one meeting of eyes and we each acknowledge the sacrifices we make of sleep and weekends and holidays for our players.             I coached mites, midgets, and peewees until I turned my players and families over to their high school or club coaches; Taylor (‘10) came to Prep in ‘06. I needed to find another way to share my enthusiasm for the game and hockey commu

In 1977 I looked at myself in the mirror, and I saw a scrawny, insecure, and confused teenager who could list, as a singular accomplishment, 4 months of dishwashing at the Holiday Inn.  Yet my ego told me I possessed superior talents and skills that simply went unrecognized.  In fact, I had a severe, and probably incurable, case of “anal-cranium.” I am grateful that Henry (Mr. Milton, to me) often reminded me of this because without breaking through my ego I would never learn anything as a student either at that school or, as it turns out, for the rest of my life.   At Hyde School, Mr. Milton occupied the office of the Dean of Students. If you are unfamiliar with prep school hierarchy, the Principal may be the head of the school, but the Dean of Students is God, dispensing punishment and favor.  Towards the end of my time at Hyde (I found out later – no badges), I became one of “Henry’s boys” - minions privileged to carry out any instructions he dispensed.  He made the mundane seem glo