The Scoreboard of Life

It’s been a while since I’ve done a personal post but with the U.S. - Canada hockey game tonight, I’ll admit, I spent a lot of time thinking about my kids and my time on the ice with them. So, let’s take a pause from serious topics and talk about the one that really matters the most to all of us.

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For the better part of two decades, my weekends, my early mornings, my late nights, my travels, and my heart have been consumed by two things—my kids and their sports. Not just the games, not just the wins and losses, but the journey. The 5 AM practices. The heartbreaks. The car rides. The quiet moments of reflection after a tough loss. The electric moments of triumph when hard work paid off. The belief that if they wanted something badly enough, if they worked hard enough, if they got knocked down and stood back up enough times—they could have it.

And now, here we are. The scoreboard has changed.

One son is in Canada, chasing the dream on the ice, playing hockey at a level most never reach. He’s preparing for the next step—choosing a college, figuring out where the path leads next. His game has always been about heart—blocking shots, playing the tough minutes, being the glue guy. The kind of player that doesn’t always get noticed in the highlights but is the backbone of every team he’s ever played for. The kind of kid who gets knocked down, gets cut, gets written off—and just keeps coming back. Stronger. Smarter. More determined.

The other is outside Chicago, deep into his next season of life, gearing up for the spring college golf season. Two years ago (age adjusted, of course), he had no shot at beating me. Now, he’s one round away from owning me forever—a reality that both stings and fills me with pride. His journey has been different—his game is built on precision, confidence, and a quiet, relentless belief in himself. He wasn’t the best at first. He wasn’t even close. But he chipped away at the mountain, one swing at a time, until he stood on top. And now, his path is clear—competing at the collegiate level, refining his game, proving to himself and the world what he already knows: he belongs here.

As a parent, you tell yourself this is the goal. You want them to outgrow you. To take what they’ve learned—the wins, the losses, the hard lessons, the relentless pursuit of something bigger—and make it their own. You want them to step onto the ice, onto the course, into life, and own their space. But when it happens, when they no longer need you in the same way, when the hours of driving to practice become texts from another city, when the post-game breakdowns become quick updates over the phone—it hits differently.

They say it goes fast. And it does.

But I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

Because at the end of the day, the scoreboard that really matters isn’t in hockey arenas or golf courses. It’s in the kind of men they become. The work ethic, the resilience, the ability to handle the tough losses and keep moving forward. The understanding that nothing worth having is given—it’s earned.

And if that’s the game I was coaching all these years, then I think we played it pretty damn well.