Hockey Coach Quotes

Developing better people should be the number one goal for any coach when dealing with kids. In trying to develop better people, we are going to develop more and better pros.

Ana feels like pushing her neighbour up against the wall and telling him that the locker room where those boys sit telling their stupid jokes end up preserving them like a tin can. It makes them mature more slowly, while some even go rotten inside. And they don’t have any female friends, and there are no women’s teams here, so they learn that hockey only belongs to them, and their coaches teach them that girls only exist for fucking. She wants to point out how all the old men in this town praise them for “fighting” and “not backing down,” but not one single person tells them that when a girl says no, it means NO. And the problem with this town is not only that a boy raped a girl, but that everyone is pretending that he DIDN’T do it. So now all the other boys will think that what he did was okay. Because no one cares.

...if I let him walk away now, we'll forever be a "just"; Just hockey player and skating coach. Just music swappers. Just friends. A not-quite-almost whose time passed through as quickly as the train, fading into the distance before it even had a real chance at staying, at becoming something more, because I didn't speak up.

David drives back to Björnstad. Sits in the car and cries in anger. He is ashamed. He is disgusted. With himself. For an entire hockey life he has trained a boy, loved him like a son, been loved back as a father. There is no player as loyal as Benji. No bigger heart than his. How many times has David hugged number sixteen after a game and told him that? "You are the bravest bastard I know, Benji." The bravest bastard I know. " And after all those hours in locker rooms, all those nights in the bus, all the conversations and blood, sweat and tears, the boy didn't dare tell his coach his greatest secret. It's a betrayal, David knows it's a terrible betrayal. There is no other way to explain how much a grown man must have failed for such a warrior of a boy to make him think his coach would be less proud of him if he was gay. David hates himself for not being better than his father. For that is a son's job.

Every name looks fashionable when it's etched in silver. (Stanley Cup)

You want to be a hockey coach? Get used to not having the things other people have. Free time, a family life, decent coffee. Only the toughest of men can handle this sport. Men who can drink terrible coffee cold, if need be.

He sounded like he was used to people swearing at him, which made no damned sense, because he was gorgeous and a hero.

The most enduring heroes are people who don't try to be.

Careful in what and how you are learning. Professors specialize in “teaching” knowledge – They do not specialize in organization and application of knowledge. This is often why modern education includes “job placement” for real-world understanding and immersion of what you learn. Listen, you can grow up in Saudi Arabia, or in Kenya, or Bolivia – and study every book available on-line about hockey. But that will NEVER, by itself, lead you to become an adept hockey player or Hockey Coach. Yet, this is exactly the kind of thing going on all across the Fitness Industry, with ‘weekend certifications’ and the like. Knowledge is more than information gathering– and knowledge is NOT power in and of itself. Knowledge and access to it, is merely the “potential for proper and expert application.

Hockey wants them that way. Needs them that way. Their coach teaches them to go hard into close combat on the ice. No one stops to think about how to switch that attitude off when they leave the locker room. It’s easier to pin the blame on her: She’s too young. Too attractive. Too easily offended. Too difficult to respect.

The men were famous once. Some of them still are. They were the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team and Brooks had brought them together, 24 summers before. He had picked them and provoked them and pushed them, sometimes irritating them and often infuriating them by his hardness and his aloofness, his scathing rebukes and his unrelenting mind games.

Look, no one wants to hear that maybe she’s the reason her mother flew the coop. But my advice to you is to put this behind you. File it away in the drawer that’s saved for all the other crap that isn’t fair, like how the Kardashians are famous and how good-looking people get served faster at restaurants and how a kid who can’t skate to save his life winds up on the varsity hockey team because his dad is the coach.

Hockey is a club that holds its members tightly, the bond forged by shared hardship and mutual passion, by every trip to the pond, where your feet hurt and your face is cold and you might get a stick in the ribs or a puck in the mouth, and you still can’t wait to get back out there because you are smitten with the sound of blades scraping against ice and pucks clacking off sticks, and with the game’s speed and ever-changing geometry. It has a way of becoming the center of your life even when you’re not on the ice.

Brooks wanted to abandon the traditional, linear, dump-and-chase style of hockey that had held sway in North America forever. He wanted to attack the vaunted Russians with their own game, skating with them and weaving with them, stride for high-flying stride. He wanted to play physical, un-yielding hockey to be sure, but he also wanted fast, skilled players who would flourish on the Olympic ice sheet (which is 15 feet wider than NHL rinks) and be able to move and keep possession of the puck and be in such phenomenal condition that they would be the fresher team at the end.

And they don’t have any female friends, and there are no women’s teams here, so they learn that hockey only belongs to them, and their coaches teach them that girls are a “distraction.” So they learn that girls only exist for fucking. She wants to point out how all the old men in this town praise them for “fighting” and “not backing down,” but not one single person tells them that when a girl says no, it means NO. And the problem with this town is not only that a boy raped a girl, but that everyone is pretending that he DIDN’T do it. So now all the other boys will think that what he did was okay. Because no one cares.

The sociologist Robert Merton famously called this phenomenon the “Matthew Effect”after the New Testament verse in the Gospel of Matthew: “For unto everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance. But from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.”It is those who are successful, in other words, who are most likely to be given the kinds of special opportunities that lead to further success. It’s the rich who get the biggest tax breaks. It’s the best students who get the best teaching and most attention. And it’s the biggest nine- and ten-year-olds who get the most coaching and practice. Success is the result of what sociologists like to call “accumulative advantage.”The professional hockey player starts out a little bit better than his peers.

not if Shannon is over her illness.  Come, Dytyna.  We discuss your performance now." "When will we know if I'll be competing?" "We will not know until Monday when we check in at the Olympic arena.  Coach Taylor will know then." "I'm going back to the hotel to call your father, Kerri.  We plan on meeting for lunch then will head on over to the hockey arena.  Two kids in the Olympics!  Whoa.  I'll see you later."  She leaned down and gave Kerri a hug before she kissed her forehead.  "Stay out of trouble." "I can hardly get into any trouble in the Olympic village, Mom."  At almost seventeen, Kerri was still able to feel embarrassed at receiving her mother's counsel, and she thought that her mother's advice was unfounded.  The village was closed off, after all, from the rest of Turin and from the fray of the crowds that converged upon the venues.  She watched her mother walk away before she stood up and adjusted the strap

the locker room where those boys sit telling their stupid jokes ends up preserving them like a tin can. It makes them mature more slowly, while some even go rotten inside. And they don’t have any female friends, and there are no women’s teams here, so they learn that hockey only belongs to them, and their coaches teach them that girls are a “distraction.” So they learn that girls only exist for fucking. She wants to point out how all the old men in this town praise them for “fighting” and “not backing down,” but not one single person tells them that when a girl says no, it means NO. And the problem with this town is not only that a boy raped a girl, but that everyone is pretending that he DIDN’T do it. So now all the other boys will think that what he did was okay. Because no one cares. Ana wants to stand on the rooftop and scream: “You don’t give a shit about Maya! And you don’t really give a shit about Kevin either! Because they’re not people to you, they’re just objects of value. And his value is far greater than hers!

But it was only a dog." Of course no one actually says that, but it feels to Sune as if all his neighbors are thinking it. Everyday life just carries on out in the street while he sits in a million pieces in his kitchen. When he collects the mail someone goes past and says "sorry for your loss," but that isn't what he wants them to feel sorry about. He wants them to feel sorry about his life, and the fact that he's going to have to see it out now without that ill-disciplined, unruly little monster. Without paws on the edge of the bed and bite marks on his wrists. How's that going to work? Who's going to eat all the liver pate in the fridge? He receives a few text messages and phone calls from the committee of the hockey club and a couple of coaches of the youth teams, all very sorry, but not as if it had been a person. They're sad that Sune is sad, of course, but they don't really understand his loss. Because of course it was only a dog. It's so hard to explain that it's more than an animal when you're that animal's human. Perhaps it takes more empathy than most people are capable of. Or more imagination.

Some of these kids are just plain trouble.” Grant glanced over at the boys sitting in the glass-walled box. Mac had been like that, all anger and confusion. He’d been in juvie too, arrested for possession after falling into a gang. Grant was gone. Mom was sick. Dad was a mess. Looking back, Grant wondered if dementia was beginning to take hold back then and no one recognized the symptoms. Lee had been the one who’d coped with Mac’s drug and delinquency problems, and Mom’s deathbed talk had snapped her youngest out of it. A program like this might have helped his brother. “Who knows what those boys have had to deal with in their lives.” Corey’s eyes turned somber. “We’re all sorry about Kate.” Reminded of Kate’s death, Grant’s chest deflated. “And thanks for the help,” Corey said. “These boys can be a handful.” “Is your son on the team?” “No.” Corey nodded toward the rink. A pretty blond teenager executed a spinning jump on the ice. Corey beamed. “That’s my daughter, Regan. She’s on the junior figure skating team with Josh’s daughter, the one in black. The hockey team has the next slot of ice time.” “The girls look very talented.” Even with an ex-skater for a sister-in-law, Grant knew next to nothing about figure skating. He should have paid attention. He should have known Kate better. Josh stood taller. “They are. The team went to the sectional championships last fall. Next year, they’ll make nationals, right, Victor?” Josh gestured toward the coach in the black parka, who had deposited the offenders in the penalty box and was walking back to them. “Victor coaches our daughters.” Joining them, Victor offered a hand. He was a head shorter than Grant, maybe fifty years old or so, with a fit body and salt-and-pepper hair cut as short and sharp as his black eyes. “Victor Church.

Hockey and cooking are similar in so many ways, especially if you are a player-coach, the guy in charge on the ice, a role I would closely relate to that of a chef in the kitchen - they are both contact sports. You've gotta keep your head up, keep moving and communicate well. Even though you might be the leader in the kitchen or on the ice, you need to understand that that you're part of a working machine and that machine stops working if one of the pieces isn't working in unison with the others. I learned from a very young age the importance of being part of this team dynamic and how hard work can take you to so many different places. (Chef Duane Keller)

Never underestimate the raw, brute power of a pissed-off hockey coach. Hell hath no fury like Coach on a rampage.

A long time ago inside a local ice rink, 15 year olds went to battle to win a game of hockey.  They played for themselves, for their teams, for their coaches, for their towns, and for their families. It was a 0-0 tie in the 2nd period.     Both goalies were outstanding.  But one appeared to be somewhere else. Thinking.  The shot came.    The antagonist wasn’t aiming to break the scoreless tie.  He was living up to his agreement with the other team’s coach.  A coach who wanted his son to be the team's goalie.     He didn’t want a new goalie that could take his team where they have never been.  The playoffs.  A goalie that could secure his team at the top.  The coach watched the shot he bought.      The goalie could have shifted, dodged out of the way, but he was paralyzed.  He dropped to the ice when the puck struck his unprotected neck.     The player skated over to examine the goalie. He had accomplished his task.    And with the money he earned, he can buy the bicycle he always wanted.     The goalie’s father was standing amongst the other parents.  He was enraged that his son didn’t make the save.     He felt the hard work he put into his boy slowly fade, and quickly die out.  He knew how good his son was, and would be.  He knew the puck struck because the goalie let it.  He did not know why.   I groaned as the puck hit me in the arm.  I had pads, but pads can only soften the blow. I squeezed my arm.     My father stood and watched.     My friend fired another shot that whacked me in the throat, knocking me down.  I felt dizzy.      It was frigid on the pond in winter.     This is where I learned to play hockey.  This is also where I learned it was painful to be a goaltender.  I got up slowly, glowering at him.  My friend was perplexed at my tenacity.     “This time, stay down!” And then he took the hardest slap shot I have ever encountered.     The puck tore through the icy air at incredible speed right into my face.     My glove rapidly came up and snatched it right before it would shatter my jaw.  I took my glove off and reached for the puck inside.     I swung my arm and pitched it as fiercely as I could at my friend.     Next time we play, I should wear my mask and he should wear a little more cover than a hat.  I turned towards my father.  He was smiling.  That was rare.     I was relieved to know that I was getting better and he knew it.  The ice cracked open and I dropped through…      The goalie was alone at the hospital.  He got up and opened the curtains the nurse keeps closing at night so he could see through the clear wall.     He eyed out the window and there was nothing interesting except a lonely little tree.  He noticed the way the moonlight shined off the grass and radiated everything else.  But not the tree.  The tree was as colourless as the sky.     But the sky had lots of bright little glowing stars.  What did the tree have?  He went back to his bed and dozed off before he could answer his own question.   Nobody came to visit him at the hospital but his mother.     His father was at home and upset that his son is no longer on the team.  The goalie spot was seized by the team’s original goalie, the coach’s son.     The goalie’s entire life had been hockey.  He played every day as his father observed.  He really wanted a regular father, whatever that was.  A father that cares about him and not about hockey.  The goalie did like hockey, but it was a game.         A sport just like other sports, only there’s an ice surface to play on.  But he did not love hockey.     It was just something he became very good at, with plenty of practice and bruises.     He was silent in his new team’s locker room, so he didn’t assume anyone would come and see how he was doing.

famous peak performance coach, used a version of it to propel the Los Angeles Kings hockey team to a stunning

Trash talking wasn't really personal. Guys just glommed onto whatever was easiest, like the fact that I was half-Asian or a girl. Now that I was 15, I took a lot more grief because most girls had switched to girls' hockey. I wasn't switching. I had played on the same hockey team since I moved to North Vancovuer, and I liked my coach and my teammates. Why mess with something great?

Coach was right. You had to enjoy the moment. In all the years I'd played hockey, this was the first time I'd won anything real.

Because we're a small-town team of sixteen girls who win some and lose some, and unless you grew up here, you don't stay in the Upper Peninsula forever. Coach did not grow up here.

There's something in Coach's tone that freezes me in place before her sparsely decorated desk. Beside her laptop, she always keeps a current team picture and a framed, signed Julie Chu puck. And they aren't there now. In fact, the desk calendar has been torn off to a blank sheet and the whiteboard on the wall, usually crowded with lines and drills has been scrubbed clean.

Coach Henson has been here three years and he's still trying to whip those boys into shape. My guess is he's getting nervous watching his game clock tick down. He can't afford to take a chance on us.

There was something about Shane North's voice that made Troy want to tell him to stop being a punk and shut up. The reaction was instantenous from the moment Troy looked up and saw Shane standing in the doorway and it had more to do with why Troy didn't want to think about Shane wet, half-dressed and holding a surfboard that it did with hockey.

Dad’s voice sounds down the hall. “You ready to go, Kole?” “Coming, Dad.” I drop my voice. “Or I will be tomorrow night.” “Jesus.” Asher drops his head back against the wall. “I’m a dead man. Coach is going to kill me.” “Probably. So you might as well make sure it’s worth it.” To completely drive him wild, I lean down, lift his shirt, and suck the leftover cum off his dick. “Better put that thing away before Dad sees it.

Being a hockey coach and ex-NHL player, I have dealt with a lot of overgrown, testosterone-filled man children in my life. It takes some epic levels of assholism to piss me off.

What he really had was a team of misfits captained by a goalie with anger-management issues and a facial piercing, coached by the man who ended Max’s professional hockey career, and owned and managed by a sleazy asshole who was going to use that for publicity.

A coach will set up the next three lines after the one that’s on the ice. But then, seeing what the other team puts out on the fly, he’ll tell players at the very last second that it’s their turn to hit the ice, even if they’re not the next line in the rotation. That’s because the opposing coach has done something—put out his top line, put out his bruising fourth line—to influence the line match. For some coaches, this is the perfect system through which to defeat an opponent. For most observers, it’s a handy way to unbalance your players’ ice time to their detriment.

He had to do his best, and depending on the game—a good night, a bad night, ahead or behind—he had to come up with a few things he hadn’t thought of before. He may have seemed only a cheerleader, even to himself, but in a tone, a gesture, a look in his eye, he needed to get across his message. And do it instantly. “You just played it by the seat of your pants,” he says about coaching those games in Verdun. On the rinks of Willibrord Park, he was learning to become a game coach.

Do you want kids?” Carter asks me suddenly. “Or no kids? Do you hate kids? You probably hate them, working with them all day and whatnot. No, that’s stupid. You love them; you coach your niece’s hockey team on your own time.” Nothing is more adorable than an anxious, rambling Carter who doesn’t know what to say.

Come on, son.” Those words. My fragile shell starts to spider web. There’s nothing he could have said to affect me more. How long have I waited to hear that phrase spoken to me? When he puts an arm around my shoulder, leading me towards the door, my vision blurs. I don’t know the last time I cried. But I’m about to. As a 30-year-old professional athlete, the last thing I want to do in front of my hockey coach is fucking cry.

...this year I’m your equipment manager, so if you need anything, let me know, and I’ll give it to you.” My cock twitches. What he said wasn’t supposed to sound sexual, but apparently my body is going to take it that way. I mentally tell it to calm the hell down because having sex with a cactus would be less dangerous than fooling around with Coach’s son, even if that destructive part inside me is already reveling in the fallout that tryst would bring. As I watch Kole’s gaze move over my almost naked form, I have to wonder if there was sexual innuendo implied after all.

I need you, Maddie. I can handle the business end of things, but I'm still learning hockey and player relations. The team thinks I'm a puff bunny. Madden's brows furrowed and then a deep laugh shook his shoulders. "Puck bunny. And jeez, what'd you do?" "Nothing! I didn't do anything. My first day, Coach Finley quit and I needed someone to run practices, so I went down to the rink and asked Carter where the assistant coach was." "Carter... Phlynn? And I bet you called him Carter in front of the whole team. Now I get it." Jacey swatted her brother's shoulder. He smirked, so she pinched him. "I don't see what the big deal is. What's wrong with first names?" "Nothing. If you're on the team or sleeping with them. Pro sports are about last names and nicknames, Jace.

I've always loved watching figure skating and even tried my hand at sewing a skating dress years ago, but instead of twirling figure skaters, a group of hockey players in mismatched practice jerseys are out on the ice. There doesn't seem to be any teacher or coach. Nor are any of them doing much besides horsing around.

Juniper Falls, Minnesota might be a small town, but we've produced 18 NHL players, 5 NCAA All-Americans and three Olympians, including a member of the 1980 Miracle on Ice team. Hockey is almost everyone's blood and NHL games are only for people like us; the Olympics are only once every four years. Juniper Falls High School Hockey is a town event. No, it's the town event which is why, outside of the team and our coach, we're all treated like royality.

It's hard not be intimidated by my hockey coach after three years of being yelled at and humiliated by him, especially when I've been held back during a game to follow that unspoken rule of not outplaying a senior.

Sports in general, and hockey specifically, forced those lessons on us all, and they stuck with us for a lifetime. No coaches to tell you what to do. No parents to tell you how to behave. No referees to tell you what’s fair. And no linesmen to break up trouble if someone loses his temper. Yes, that’s freedom. But it’s also responsibility—we had to figure things out for ourselves or there wouldn’t have been those day-long games we loved so much. Unfortunately, in many respects those long-ago days are a world removed from what we see today.

I can’t remember any of those coaches ever telling me to chip the puck off the boards when things got tough in our own end. We were allowed to try things, creative moves that could get us out of jams on the ice (or into them). That kind of coaching would show itself in the way I played as a professional years later. Without that background of guidance from my minor hockey coaches, I doubt I could ever have become the player I did.

Players are shaped into puzzle pieces that fit with all the others. A boy is stripped to a set of skills at the whim of coaches and scouts. To keep playing hockey, do more of this and less of that. The untalented and undedicated are discarded, swept away at the end of each season. Survivors plug away, baited by hope.

What does a playoff team look like?.., It looks like this... A playoff team is tired. They're in pain from a long season. They're frustrated about losses. But they're full of passion. Passion that will let them overcome the fatigue and the pain... A playoff team has to have energy. They have to be prepared to do whatever it takes. to battle one-on-one late in the 3rd period. To block shots. To play 2 or 3 overtime periods, i that's what it takes to win. They have to be the 1st to the puck, Clear the net. For the next 2 months, a playoff team has to bring that energy to the arena every night... It's not just the passion and the energy. It's not just physical conditioning. It's mental conditioning too. You have to stick to the game plan. You can't let fatigue or distractions get in the way of how you play. Some of you men have never been in a playoff game. Everyone will tell you it's a whole new season. Everyone will tell you it's intense. You have no. Fucking. Idea... All of you have trained yourself to leave everything behind when you step on the ice. And that's what you have to do now... You have to make the mind shift that this is a new season. The only that matters now is what we can control -- being ready for the next game... You have to have confidence in yourself. And n your teammates... Some of you guys haven't been playing together that long. But I've seen the teamwork you all bring. The work ethic. I've seen the relationships and the chemistry develop. You have to have trust in each other... and that means being trustworthy. Being there for each other. For the team... coaching staff. Trust in the game plan. Trust in the preparation... I ave trust in you. We can do this.

Even though his sister was five years older, Jack couldn’t help feeling jealous. Becca’s skills were so impressive that coaches had moved her to the boys’ team. Yes, Jack, often said, Becca’s my sister. Yes, she plays hockey on the boys’ team. For some reason, Jack usually had to give the info twice. Yes, she’s my sister. Yes, she plays for the boys team.

Coach Reynolds stood before them in the locker room, short and stocky with a bald head and drooping walrus mustache. No matter how much he skated with the team, he never lost his pouch of a stomach.

If Boston College didn’t offer them both a commitment though, T.J. would rather go where they could play together. They had great chemistry as linemates with every rush up the ice. Brad was fast, strong on the boards, won battles in the corners and possessed solid forechecking skills. He had that magical ability to score and create plays for his teammates, making him the type of winger that coaches sought. Their friends called it twin telepathy the way they killed penalties together and always knew where the other would be.

To Coach Brantford, I could do almost nothing right. He told me that I didn’t play tough enough, I didn’t hit anybody and that my skating and passing needed a lot of work. If you came to a practice or a game, you’d have never known that I scored 25 goals & had 39 assists what with Coach Brantford always harping on me about something I was doing wrong.

Even though Coach Brantford was a young guy, he was 24 years old, he had an old school mentality. He probably got that from his dad.

If you would have asked the coach if he’d like to have a team of players like me, skilled guys who could skate, pass and shoot, play hard, but clean or a team full of players like Billy, who weren’t the most skilled, but who would intimidate and attempt to put an opponent through the boards, he tell you in a nanosecond he’d want a team full of “Billys.

It’s impossible for me to separate the miracle that we achieved as a team with the memories and gratitude I have for all the people who helped me get there, from my mother and father, my sisters and brothers, to 10 years worth of coaches and friends and teammates.

You don’t make a journey like that alone. You make it with a lot of love and sacrifice. That’s probably why I was searching the stands for my father after we won the gold medal against Finland. It was a moment that was begging to be shared.

There are a million things a coach can’t control. Brooks, an obsessive planner, was going to make sure he was on top of what he could control.

Brooks punished them in drills on the ice and gave them a 300-question test to assess their psychological makeup off it. He was relentless. If they couldn’t take this small sampling of life under Brooks, they wouldn’t last through one Olympic practice shift.

All I’ve ever wanted was to go pro ever since my dad first put me in hockey when I was 7. Some of the other kids go to fancy hockey camps in the summer and practice with the best coaches, but I never could. My folks are divorced and even working two jobs, my mom could barely keep up with the rent, so my hockey fees were partly subsidized and my dad paid the rest. There was no money available to help my performance. I had to earn my chops on the ice by myself.

Yeah, if I could just do as I was told, turn myself into a hockey machine, focus on the game, not let myself get distracted by that girl in the park, the way her hair moved as she ran, the way she’d been a bit of a smart ass about the allergies thing, the way… then the coaches were yelling again and we got back to work.

Five minutes before practice is scheduled to end, Coach Giles blows his whistle and motions for us to join him at the bench. His typically stoic face crinkles into something like a smile. “Great news,” he says. “Just got a text from the activities office. Halcyon Lake has been selected as one of this year’s HockeyFest cities.” Carter whoops and Justin lifts me off my skates and spins me around as the guys talk over one another in their excitement. “Holy crap,” Showbiz Schroeder says. “Ho.Ly. Crap.” This is the closet Showbiz comes to swearing (admirable, considering the potty mouths on our team), further evidence that this announcement is a big deal.

The sound of the lace slipping through the grommets is reassuring. All the mottos and mantras each coach has drilled into my mind repeat in my head. Believe in yourself. Visualize yourself as a winner.

The Chicago Falcons may never have had a girl on the team before, but technically, the league doesn’t have any rules against it. I know I can out-skate and outplay any boy in these tryouts. All I have to do is show the coach what I’m made of.

I go over it for the millionth time in my head. I was the best at that tryout. Xander was mediocre at best. I know the coach meant me. He just didn’t want a girl on the team.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” he accuses Coach Slattery. “You send these kids out there to be tackled and elbowed and hit with hockey sticks. And when they get injured, you abandon them?

You can't look back. You can't dial up euphoria on demand, or try to recreate what happened a quarter century ago. You move forward and you live your life and try to be a better person every day than you were the day before. You take each day as a new journey, even as you are grateful for the ones you have already had.

You push on, do your best, and if you are really brave, you dream big, doubts and fears be damned. This is the stuff that miracles are made of, and the proof was there to see, on February 22, 1980.