Ice Cream

As much as anything, it is the sounds I remember.

2012. Late on a glorious Thursday afternoon in the third week of May. An exciting sporting contest, between two fierce rivals, enters the final minute. Visiting SMUS, “my” school, battles host and favoured Oak Bay.

At stake, the coveted Howard Russell Cup, first introduced well over a century ago. Emblematic of high school rugby supremacy in the city of Victoria.

A sizable and boisterous crowd, still ringing the field, now goes deathly silent. The game knotted at 22-22, as a SMUS player lines up a potential winning penalty kick. Smack in front of the posts, 30 meters out, a relative chip shot. A chance for glory.

I struggle to watch as the kicker carefully places the ball on the tee. Four steps back, one to the side. Amidst the hush, he steadies himself, then moves forward. I close my eyes. And listen.

A dull “thud.”

Immediately, having coached SMUS teams for eons, I know the strike is not clean. Not the desired, solid thunk I anticipate. Instead, as I glance up, the ball, wobbling in flight, fights to stay aloft and hold its line. Hooking just enough, it rebounds off the left-hand upright back into the field of play.

Worse follows. An alert Oak Bay forward secures possession, passes to an unmarked teammate. He hammers the ball miles downfield, chases hard. Makes a tackle, steals possession. In the ensuing chaos, SMUS strays offside. Penalty. The Oak Bay kicker makes no mistake with his attempt. 25-22, as the referee’s whistle signals full time.

For the victors, pure delight. Equally, relief at an escape against the odds. For the vanquished, extreme disappointment. Denied what would have been a deserved, if somewhat unexpected, triumph by the width of a goal post.

Off to the side, one SMUS player stands on his own. My son, alternately stewing and seething, his face a tortured mixture of frustration and anger. No doubt processing the narrow defeat, his missed kick, and the wonderful opportunity gone abegging.

I love watching him play. Admire his positivity, selflessness, and team first approach. His move to fly half, a key decision-making position, improves our overall performance. He deals effectively with game strategies, understands momentum swings and tempo. Knows what to do, from where and when on the field. Appreciates that winning the so-called big moments is vital to success.

Still, as is the case with countless other parents, I agonize when things do not go well, when errors occur, when my son personally makes mistakes. Even though I always counsel that no single play, in isolation, is ever the difference between winning and losing. And that many of life’s truly valuable lessons are forged through dealing with disappointment or failure.

So, for me, as his father and also his coach, it will not be the actual defeat or his unsuccessful kick that lingers.

Instead, it will concern how best to handle the car ride home.

I sit behind the wheel of the family SUV. As the radio plays softly, I sneak glances into the back seat. My son, still wearing his grass stained, blue rugby jersey, stares blankly out the window. As his mind no doubt replays again and again the kick caroming left off the post.

As he has always been something of a reluctant goal kicker, only doing the job due to lack of other candidates, I look to fill the painful stillness with some meaningful words.

My brain cycles through a number of options, mindful of my own teenaged sporting or musical miscues. Important missed putts, missed jump shots, missed tackles, missed notes, aplenty.

To announce I am proud of him, and his effort, feels patronizing. To suggest that we will “beat them next time” feels dismissive, as, especially for a soon to graduate senior, there will not be a next time. To discuss what went wrong with the critical kick itself will feel like salt in a very fresh wound.

And so, we drive home in silence. I give him time and space to process the hurt and wrestle with his emotions.

Finally, I chance an opening. Not to offer platitudes but hopefully to provide some reassurance or a softer place to land. “Anything you want to talk about,” I ask gently. “Or should we get some ice cream instead.”

His expression does not change. Just a short shake of the head and a clipped, terse “no thank you.”

No coach or parenting book truly prepares an adult for moments such as these. Those moments inevitably a delicate dance of when to push, when to pull back, when to be blunt, when to offer wisdom and support. With solutions, or courses of action, likely to differ each time.

The weekend passes without further incident, and the team returns to practice on the Monday. Game analysis complete, as a group we talk about resilience in tough times. That we can survive setbacks. That we must stick together, get up and go again, through both the wins and the losses.

As the days pass, I notice that my son stays on the field to do extra work. Seeks to groove his kicking technique, in advance of a round of 16 game in the British Columbia high school tournament. Perhaps looks to exercise some demons as well.

Our opponent, GP Vanier, promises to be a tricky matchup. Unpredictable, well marshaled by a crafty coach, and led by several dangerous runners, the north Vancouver Island side could cause an upset.

Sure enough, it so very nearly happens. Loose SMUS defence, a lucky bounce or two, and some superb finishes see the upstart Towhees lead 19-12 with virtually no time remaining on the clock.

Time for one last play. Left hand side of the field, near halfway. SMUS feeds the scrum, the mathematics simple. Score a 5-point try, then add the 2-point convert. Force the game to extra time.

Finally, an attack clicks. A clever offload sees SMUS break through the midfield, the centre then shipping the ball on. Pinning his ears back, at full speed the winger rounds the last defender and crosses the try line. The score reduces the deficit to two points. 19-17, with the potential extras to come.

Still, the conversion is certainly no gimme, but rather positioned wide out on the right.

I enter the field, hand the kicking tee to my son. I wonder as to his mental state, how he will handle the pressure. Whether the miss a week ago vs Oak Bay will play on his nerves.

Managing a quick smile, he pivots, outwardly calm and determined. He fully understands the situation. Miss and we lose, make and we tie. Sets up the ball, goes through his usual routine. As for me, my stomach churns, my heart pounds. Half turning away, I can barely watch. Though, once again, I listen.

“Thunk.”

Such a sweet sound.

I spin round, but I already know. I track the ball, but it is never missing. Flying high and true, it splits the uprights. 19-19, with sudden death overtime now required.

Better follows. A long, raking diagonal punt pins Vanier on its goal line. From this position, SMUS secures a turnover, ploughs over for the victory. 24-19. Survive, advance, and on to the quarterfinals.

And this time, the car ride home is anything but silent. Plenty of chatter, smiles, and laughter. Of the game's key plays, of rehashing the final minute, of the crucial conversion itself. Joy cancels out the previous week’s despair. Sport, yet again, neatly balancing life lessons, highs, and lows.

On impulse, I turn left, pull into a parking lot. The ice cream shop beckons. My son needs no second invitation. Orders two large scoops of chocolate caramel as I hug him tightly.

Editor’s note – Ironically, SMUS does get a chance to “beat them the next time.” In a rematch vs Oak Bay, four days later in the BC quarterfinal, SMUS, with my son contributing three wide angled conversions and a long range penalty goal, fights back from 19-8 down to win 29-24. Vivat!!