The Fat Lady sang and I tried to not listen.

Retirement finally found me.  Army Hockey was ousted in the playoffs two weeks ago, ending our season and subsequently my career.  Unfortunately the final minutes of the last game saw us down more than we could make up before the buzzer sounded.  Though still not admitting defeat, I realized that my life as a hockey player was approaching dangerously close to its demise.  The seconds kept ticking away.  Every time I looked at the game clock I cringed, not only because we were losing, but also because if the score didn't change dramatically and quickly I would never have the chance to play another game in my Army hockey uniform.  The thought was crushing. 

I decided I was not going to go down easily.  I stepped on the ice for one of my last shifts with adrenaline pumping and a fierce look of determination in my eyes.  I was going to score a goal on my final shift!

I took a few strides when suddenly the puck took a fortuitous bounce and landed on my stick.  "Here we go," I said to myself, "back of the net."  I made a move to my left to avoid a defender and picked up my speed.  Racing down the boards across center ice I realized that the opposing team was in the midst of a line change.  "Perfect," I thought, "just what I need."  There was not a defender within twenty feet of me.  The only person left to beat was the goalie.  I had a clear path.  It was going to happen.

I began thinking of where I was going to shoot the puck.  "Five-hole? No.  Low stick? No.  High glove? Yes! That's it!  I am going to finish my career with a beautiful breakaway goal capped off with a magnificent shot off the cross bar and into the back of the net." 
Crossing the blue line I started moving towards the middle of the ice as to get a better angle to shoot.  I looked up at the goalie and stared him in the eye.  I thought I saw fear -- he knew I was going to score on him.  There was nothing he could do about it other than get it over with.  I handled the puck back and forth - flashing it in front of him to fool with his mind.  It was time to shoot.

I looked backed down at the puck.  The black disc spun slowly as it moved along with me.  In a matter of seconds that little puck was going to be in the back on the net.  I wound up to shoot.  Here it was - the final goal of my career. 

The lights at Mercyhurst's Arena are not noticeably bright, but as I looked upwards I could barely manage more than a squint without being blinded.  I thought that it was a bit odd for stationary objects to be moving while I wasn't.  I also found it strange that I was five feet from the goalies crease -- an area normally flooded with players when someone has the puck, as I presumably did, but there wasn't another skater near me.  "That's strange," I thought, "Where is everyone?"  

I soon discovered that the players were at the other end of the ice...with the puck that I thought I had.  The puck that was supposed to be in the back of the net.  The puck that was going to score my last goal.  The puck that distracted from paying attention to a rapidly approaching defender careening down upon me as I was about to score my final goal. 

Wow, some hit you took," my linemate said to me as I finally dragged myself back to the bench, "he really had you lined up!"  I said nothing.  "Didn't you see him coming?" another teammate asked.  I guess not.

The ringing in my ears as I skated off the ice was certainly from the pummeling hit I took in the waning minutes of my career, but I couldn't help but think it was some crude sports joke.  A "fat lady" was singing in my ears and I desperately did not want to listen. 

I didn't find my final shift as a hockey player nearly as humorous as I do now.  In fact, it was hard to crack a smile for days following that loss (it may have had something to do with the pain in my jaw).  However, as I look back at those final events I chuckle at the immense optimism and absolute certainty I had about the goal I was going to score.  The lightheartedness I have about that final shift is something I hope to carry on over to whatever it is I'll being doing next.  I learned a lesson that day.  I learned that even when you're absolutely certain about something it may not turn out in your favor.  All you can do then is get up, skate to the bench and move on.

Thanks for reading.
#7

For this blog I decided to invite a guest writer.  Emily Williams is an athletic intern with Army sports and an aspiring journalist.  She covers numerous sports here at West Point including hockey.  When I asked her if she was interested in sharing her take on Army hockey she was a bit reluctant, but after some coercion she agreed.  Emily writes from the unique perspective of not only an athletic intern, but also the daughter of a West Point graduate.  I must say that after reading her blog I was taken a bit off guard by her gracious comments towards this year's senior class.  Thank you for those, Emily, and thank you for writing!  Enjoy.

Parades at West Point are not like typical parades. As onlookers assume their seats in the aluminum bleachers overlooking the grassy stretch of the parade ground (a.k.a. "The Plain"), the Corps of Cadets simultaneously assumes their position in formation behind the stone edifice of Eisenhower Barracks. Announcing the corps' impending entry to the plain, the fife and drum band sounds the opening notes of "The Army Goes Rolling Along." By the second measure, the men and women of the Corps march through the barracks' corridor-like sally ports that align the plain. Resembling marching statues as they take their assigned positions on the green terrain, the grey-clad cadets command the attention of all the bleachers' occupants. Over the loudspeakers, a voice resonates across the plain, "The Corps of Cadets numbers 4,400. Each year approximately 1,000 cadets join the Long Grey Line as they graduate and are commissioned as 2nd Lieutenants in the U.S. Army." Spouting off more statistics about the average cadet, the voice continues, "Seventy percent of cadets graduated in the top fifth percent of their high school classes, and over 50 percent of cadets lettered in varsity sports." After reading a long list of similar stats that I never remember, the voice ceases and the corps retreats, marching back into the stony fortress from whence they came.

As a granddaughter and daughter of West Point graduates, I have attended my fair share of these military parades, and, unlike most onlookers, the aspect that appeals to me most occurs not during the parade, but before and after when the plain is barren.

Prior to the parade, my eyes always drift to the soon-to-be-occupied parade ground. My thoughts rewind through time and, while I do think of famous past cadets such as McArthur and Eisenhower who treaded the ground in front of me and who now permanently reside on this ground in monument form, it is the past cadets whose identities have been long forgotten who consume my thoughts. I wonder what their names were, where they grew up, and what hobbies they enjoyed. After the parade, these same queries reenter my thoughts as my eyes, once again, drift towards the now recently abandoned plain. This time, however, I wonder about the current cadets whose shoe imprints are still visible in the thick, damp grass of the parade ground. Failing in my attempts to assign names and personalities to the men and women who fill these shoes, all I see are the imprints of 4,400 statistics. I find it unfortunate that the only facts my fellow onlookers and I know about these men and women are compacted into a list of figures that we may or may not remember. Consequently, as I began my internship this semester for Army athletics, my ambitions were to not only gain experience in my field of study, but to also uncover the identities of those clad in the grey.

With the majority of my time as a media intern spent interviewing coaches and players of various Army sports teams, I have come to know the cadets who not only wear the grey uniforms but who also don the Black Knights' jerseys.

One of my first interviews was back in January with the six seniors of the Army hockey team. That day, my co-worker Dennis and I were interviewing the guys for what we in the Army sports broadcasting office call "Black Knights Sound Bites." Aired once a week on the Army sports website, Black Knights Sound Bites are icebreaker questions such as "Who's your favorite actor?," "What's your favorite band?," "Who is your favorite Army Athlete?," etc. While I was preparing the camera for the interviews, Will Ryan, Zach McKelvie, and Josh Kassel came shuffling into the room. They must have been relieved to be finished with classes for the day (or some equivalent circumstance) because all three were in exceptionally high spirits.
"My favorite actor is Samuel L. Jackson," Josh chuckled, responding to the first question, "I like him because he stars in great movies like 'Snakes on a Plane' and 'Lakeside Terrace.'"
Laughter erupted from Zach and Will who were standing behind the camera.
"It's not 'LakeSIDE Terrace,'" Zach exclaimed, "It's called 'LakeVIEW Terrace.'"

I could not help but to share Zach and Will's laughter. It was quite obvious that Samuel L. Jackson was not really Josh's favorite actor. However, in a poor attempt to fool us, he failed to remember the title of Mr. Jackson's latest movie. 

As Josh, Will, and Zach continued entertaining me with their Black Knights Sound Bites responses, Mark Tilch, Bill Leahy, and Matt Hickey arrived, awaiting their turns at interrogation.   

Throughout my initial interview with the Army hockey seniors, I learned that Josh enjoys listening to the Zac Brown Band (when he is not watching Samuel L. Jackson movies, of course); Zach's favorite food is grilled cheese because he once scored two goals in high school after eating a grilled cheese; Will Ryan's favorite Army athlete is none other than his teammate Zach McKelvie because he is fond of Zach's "grace on the ice"; Mark enjoys listening to the Rolling Stones because his mom always listened to them when he was young; Bill's favorite movie is "Hook" because the idea of never growing up appeals to him; and Matt is a fan of Bob Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues."

Following my first encounter with the guys, I developed a fondness for their gregarious personalities. And, over the past few months interviewing and getting to know these six seniors, I have developed a respect for them as well.  Within each of them is an extraordinary commitment to team - not just the hockey team, but also the Army team. It is humbling to witness these guys giving 110 percent everyday, fully aware that they will never play professional hockey. "Hockey may be what got me here," Matt said in one interview, "but it is not what's keeping me here." Sharing Matt's attitude, the other seniors know that upon graduation they will report to their assigned posts and serve in the U.S. Army, protecting and fighting for our country. Instead of playing for fame and recognition, they simply play for the love of the sport and for each other.

Prior to playing their last home game a couple of weeks ago, the seniors were honored for their four years of team commitment. Before the guys entered the ice, I assumed my usual spot behind the home goal. Observing the atmosphere around me, I detected no apparent difference that night at Tate Rink as opposed to any other night. Spectators were filing into their assigned seats, children were begging their parents for more popcorn from the concession stands, and the zamboni was making its final lap around the ice. After the zamboni disappeared, the announcer's voice echoed throughout the rink, "Ladies and gentlemen, please turn your attention to the ice as we honor our seniors of the 2008-09 season." Hearing the announcer over the loudspeakers, it reminded me of the voice heard before the cadet parades on the plain. This time, however, there was no reason for me to listen; I did not need an anonymous voice to convince me of the quality of the men before me.

As the seniors skated to the blue line, I did not see statistics. I saw the six guys who stole my laughs back in January and the six guys for whom I have the utmost respect. I saw friends, hockey players, soldiers, and tomorrow's leaders. I saw Josh, Zach, Will, Mark, Bill, and Matt.

Post Night.

Earlier this year I wrote about Branch Night - the event in which the members of the class of 2009 were introduced to their respective branches of the Army.  Last week my classmates and I had a similar event: Post Night - an evening in which we pick (or for some, "are assigned") our first duty stations.  For many cadets this night is more exhilarating than Branch Night.  The evening's outcome determines where one will live for the next three to four years AND the type of unit that one will be serving with (i.e. Airborne, Mechanized, Stryker...I know most of you have no idea what I'm talking about - but just think of it as the type of job you'll have).  So as you can imagine, there is a lot riding on the decisions made that night. 

My fellow Field Artillerymen and I, nearly 150 people, sat in merit order inside the auditorium inside the Kimsey Athletic Center waiting for the clock to strike 1930 (that's 7:30 p.m. for you non-military folk).  When the long hand of the clock finally made the tick indicating 7:30 a Major immediately began giving instructions as to how the evening was to play out.  "You'll have twenty seconds to get off your butt and up to the front of the room.  Before the twenty seconds expires you'll select your post," he said.  Or else what, I thought to myself.  "Or else your pick will be skipped because you're stupid for not knowing where you want to post and we'll move on to the next person!" he finished.  Okay, got it, don't be stupid.

It is advised prior to the Post Night that each person rank order their choices.  There are only so many slots per each post.  When all the slots for your desired location are taken and you have not picked yet ... tough luck!  You now need to pick somewhere else.  For those ranked towards the top of the branch it is not necessary to rank order your choices because all the posts will be available when it is your turn to pick.  However, for those ranked lower in the branch it is not only advised to rank order your picks, but absolutely essential!  When you are sitting at 138 out of 141 people in the branch, as a friend of mine was, it is not likely that your first or second or third or fourth or fifth etc. choices will be available.  If you're lucky you may be able to get your 10th choice. 

The uniform for the evening was "Army Combat Uniform" (aka: fatigues).  However, some cadets took the liberty to be festive.  It was safe to say that the cadet that arrived in only a swimsuit, goggles and flippers was going to select Hawaii.  Sadly for him however, he wasn't in Hawaii quite yet.  He wore the snorkel gear to the event not knowing he needed to make the quarter mile walk back to his room - it was 12 degrees outside - brrrr!  Another Cadet arrived in a Cowboy hat and boots.  While this is not garb for a lot of cadets, as many are from the South, or "the Sowth" as it's said, it was a bit strange that this particular cadet was dressed this was as he was from Detroit.  "Texas here I come!" he exclaimed as he grabbed the First Cavalry patch off the board, "Fort Hood!" 

As for me, when my chance to pick approached it became clear that I was going to get my top choice.  I walked to the front of the auditorium while my classmates attentively watched.  I slowly grabbed the Tropic Lightning patch.  Ironically however, this Tropic Lightning patch was not sending me to sandy beaches, sunshine and coconuts as the "Tropic" may indicate.  Instead I selected to go to Fort Richardson in Anchorage, Alaska.  "Holy crap!  He picked Alaska," a cadet murmured behind me.  "I hear it's freaking freezing up there," another said.  For a quick instant I began to second guess myself.  Am I crazy?  Then, as if on cue, a friend of mine blurted out, "It's okay, he's a hockey player, he can handle it."  And that's when I knew I'd made the right decision.  I'm a hockey player.  I could handle it.     

Thanks for reading,

Go Army!

#7

     

*Author's note:  the following is my "Pershing Essay which is: "the annual USCC event for first class cadets to "remind all West Pointers of the relevance and practical meaning of what the Academy stands for in their lives."  Referencing GEN Pershing's thoughts on the importance of West Point on his career, reflect on your West Point experience and write a short essay about what it means to you as you approach graduation."  While in no way does it relate to hockey I believe my teammates share the same opinion based on their eating habits.  Enjoy!

 

Reflecting on my experience at West Point is no small task. This "Pershing Essay" is supposed to give me an opportunity to do just that.  However, I find it difficult to reflect on, "What graduating from West Point means to me" before I have actually graduated.  As it currently stands I am about four months away from receiving my diploma from this prestigious academy and yet the only thing I think about is what I am eating for lunch tomorrow.  I guess the euphoric feeling of donning my cap and gown (or full dress over white as we will wear here) has not set in yet and therefore I have no idea how it is going to feel to graduate.  What I do know, coincidentally, is what I am having for lunch tomorrow.  And like every day at West Point lunch consists of something - and peanut butter. 

Writing on what it means to graduate from West Point and the "relevant and practical meaning West Point has in my life," as the prompt suggests seems irrelevant and unpractical to me.  It is much more fitting to ask that question after graduation.  With that in mind I find it much more appropriate to write about how I managed to get this far along at West Point - and hopefully to graduation.  Answering that question provides more accurate and pertinent substance than that of the previous prompt for two reasons.  First, because of the aforementioned fact that I have not graduated.   And second, because understanding how I will graduate is far more interesting than what graduating means to me.  Luckily, tracing the source to my alleged success (AKA: graduating) here is easy.  I need to look no further than a jar of peanut butter.

Any visitor to West Point has surely seen the many statues of famous Americans.  Grant, MacArthur, Patton, Thayer etc...  However, the giant statue of George Washington outside the Cadet Mess Hall is one monument that is difficult for visitors to see up close.  It lies within the sacred land known as "Cadet Area."  Stay Out!  For visitors are not allowed in this area unless accompanied by a cadet.  At least so says the sign (Mom, the generals are going to catch you).  Anyways, Washington sits atop his horse in full view of 'The Plain' so he can posthumously review the Corps of Cadets during parade with the strong 'stone' like bearing of a general.  As the first president of the United States and the first commander and chief he is of obvious importance to the nation and the United States Military Academy.  Without him we may not exist as we Americans presently do.  His presence at West Point is certainly justified.  But it is my fervent belief that George Washington's statue has been misplaced and should be moved. 

You may be asking yourself at this juncture, "Where is he going with this?"  So far I have rejected the original prompt and replaced it with my own.  I have brought up the subject of peanut butter and its importance to me.  Then I suddenly halt that discussion to suggest that George Washington's statue should be moved.  Bear with me.  I am taking this somewhere.    

I had a vision the other day that the horse President Washington abides on spontaneously emerged to life and galloped to the front gates.  He stopped, regained statue form (not too dissimilar from that of a gargoyle) and assumed a much more noticeable position for all visitors to view.  He deserves it.  I do not know the name of Washington's horse, but his initiative and boldness for this act is commendable.  Someone give him a medal, please! 

As for the hole Washington leaves by the Cadet Mess Hall...I have the perfect replacement and this is where peanut butter comes back into play. 

George Washington Carver - the creator of peanut butter - will fill that hole.  His invention of the creamy sometimes crunchy substance is worthy of a monument.    

I am not alone when I say that peanut butter has made my time at West Point a success.  It has made the bad days tolerable, the mediocre days better, the good days great and the best days incredible.  Peanut butter is a quality of life enhancer.  It is consistent.  It is always there for me -everyday, every meal, every bite. 

According to Wikipedia, the renowned and reliable academic journal, Peanut Butter is: "a food paste made primarily from ground roasted peanuts, with or without added oil. It is popular throughout the world.  Its primary use is as a sandwich spread."  While this definition may be accurate and scientifically informative it is certainly not all encompassing.  Wikipedia forgot to add that peanut butter is "a godsend and a savior; it can be used for anything (not just as a sandwich spread)."  Personally, it is the base of my diet.  I heard a rumor that its nutrients encompass all the aspects of the food pyramid - though I'll need to check the source. 

In order to understand the relevance and importance of peanut butter and its subsequent catalyzing of my success at West Point one must understand the basis of success.  Amongst the essential contributors to success is motivation.  Motivation is fueled by many things.  One of those things is high morale.  High morale equals high performance.  High performance equals success.  It is my belief, and hopefully I am not alone, that a hearty meal is a substantial contributor to a morale boost.  Peanut butter is hearty.  It is no surprise then that every time I leave the mess hall I am highly motivated and ready for action surely because of the copious amounts of peanut butter I just consumed. 

I once went a day without eating peanut butter.  The results were catastrophic.  I failed a quiz, absolutely stunk at hockey practice and to cap it off I nearly crashed into a cop car as I was running errands.  Conversely, I once went a day in which I ate peanut butter at every meal (even snack time) and the results were magnificent.  I aced my military history quiz, was placed on the power play at hockey practice and received a "good room standard" note on my room correction card - a feat rarely achieved. 

So, as I reflect on my journey through West Point I need to only delve into the plastic confines of a Skippy Jar, immerse myself into the buttery goodness and reap the rewards.  Thank you to George Washington Carver for making my time at West Point tolerable successful and fulfilling.

Thanks for reading,

#7

"I'm glad I'm not on that team!" exclaimed a cadet to another. 

"What team?"

"The hockey team.  Didn't you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"They didn't get Winter Break!"

December 25, 2008 was the shortest Christmas I have ever had.  In fact it actually lasted one hour shorter than timely possibly.  I had the unique, but unfortunate opportunity to celebrate Christmas for only 23 hours.

How is this possible you may ask?  It's quite simple actually.  At 10 A.M. on Christmas morning I hopped on a plane at the Minneapolis-Saint Paul Airport destined for New York.  Along the way I crossed an imaginary line demarcating the Central and Eastern time zones. An hour of Christmas Day evaporated as quickly as Santa disappears up the chimney.  That inconvenient time change had shortened one of my favorite holidays.  I was being summoned back to West Point, along with my teammates, for a Christmas evening practice.

Winter Leave, as we call it here at West Point, comes with great anticipation every year for the Corps of Cadets.  A semester's worth of work is nearly complete and the comfy confines of home loom in the not so far off future.  Restless anticipation sifts through the barracks during finals week - a week filled with tests of unfathomable lengths and tortuous study sessions.   These are the last obstacles to hurdle prior to going home.  Time moves slower than a tortoise.  The week is endless. 

But finals week finally ended and winter leave began.  However, for the hockey team, winter leave ends nearly as soon as it begins.

On Christmas Day (Christmas Eve for the West Coasters) all twenty-nine members of the Army Hockey team come back to West Point to prepare for holiday tournaments.  One would suspect everyone to be filled with 'Grinch like' scorn because someone had literally just stolen their Christmas.  And in fact I must admit that that suspicion is nearly correct, but not completely. 

It is certainly difficult to be away from family during the holidays, knowing that they are all gathered around the fireplace unwrapping gifts and drinking delicious seasonal drinks.  All the while you are cramped in seat B45, knees to chest, elbows tucked in and still two and half hours away from your destination.  It is easy to brood about the cruelty Christmas Day has inflicted upon you.  After all, it is that perceived cruelty that provoked a cadet into denouncing anyone's participation on the hockey team.  Why would anyone want to forgo their winter leave to play hockey?  Are they ludicrous?    

Yes, that is quite possible.

Playing college hockey, though a dream come true for all who play, comes with its sacrifices.  It's the longest season of all college sports spanning seven to eight months.  The season encompasses Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukah, New Years and often Spring Break.  Nobody is forced to play the sport, but all of us would be crazy to give it up.  For most of us it's something we've been doing our entire lives.  College hockey is the culmination of years and years of work (not to mention years and years of our parents' time and money).  Sacrificing a few breaks, winter break included, is in our eyes a small sacrifice in the big scheme of things.  My teammates and I have sacrificed many 'breaks' to play hockey.  Most college students live for these breaks.  They go careening off to Cancun, Jamaica or maybe hit the slopes in Aspen or Vail.  We play hockey.

We play hockey for one reason: to be with our teammates and friends playing the sport we love.  I find that what you are doing is far less important and meaningful than who you are doing it with.  There may have been more fun things I could have done over winter break than practice hockey, but there is not a group of guys I'd rather do something with than my teammates.  Hockey players are a strange breed.  We do things that most others would view as irrational (like giving up winter break).  But it is in that strangeness that we bond together - a bond that allows us to have a good time wherever, whenever.              

As Christmas Day wore on into its wee hours and the Army Hockey team huddled at center ice, laughing and enjoying each others presence, I couldn't help but think I'm glad I'm on the Army Hockey team!

Thanks for reading,

Go Army!
#7

For a long time I wanted to be a professional hockey player.  I dreamt of myself glissading across center ice at the old Met Center with 20,000 jubilant fans screaming my name.  It was glorious.   Sadly, I came to the realization a few years ago that I was not going to make it as a professional hockey player.  However, just because I realized that I was not good enough to make it in the big leagues did not mean I stopped dreaming about it.    

When I was a kid I drew pictures.  Every picture I drew related to hockey.  I would draw my favorite players, goalie masks, team logos, and even myself (scoring a goal of course).  One day I drew what vaguely resembled the blueprints of an arena that I later named "The Matt Hickey Memorial Hockey Rink."  At that point of my life I did not understand the particular context of the word, 'memorial,' and thus did not realize the self inflicted demise I was predicting upon myself.   None-the-less, I confidently believed I was destined to become famous enough to assume the right of having a rink named after me, a la John Mariucci (Mariucci Arena, U of Minnesota),  or Joseph and Fredrick Tate (Tate Rink, West Point).  All these drawings resembled what was important to me.  In fact, they resembled the only thing I ever thought of - hockey.  In my life I was going to be a hockey player. 

Last week I found myself dozing off in class and habitually took up the harmless act of doodling.  After 45 minutes of applying random pencil marks to my notebook paper I looked at the collection of doodles and was suddenly jolted with the feeling of déjà vu.  "Have I seen this before," I asked myself.   Wayne Gretzky was raising the Stanley Cup, Goldy the Gopher was rousing the crowd at Mariucci and the Minnesota North Stars logo was stringently still pointing north.  Incredibly, as if by some trick of the mind, I had recreated my third grade notebook.  It had been thirteen years since I last sat in Mrs. Gagliardi's third grade classroom and vigorously produced hockey drawing after hockey drawing and yet I was still turning out the same pieces of art work. 

At the end of class my instructor sarcastically commented on the details of my notes, "It looks like you filled an entire page today," he said.  My page was certainly full, but it resembled a classical hockey collage much more than the 5 steps to the engineering decision making process that were apparently mentioned in class that day.  This was not the first time I spent an entire class period doodling, nor was it the first time in which I doodled excessively and exclusively of hockey.

I am a senior in college and will eventually graduate and thus take that daunting step into 'real life.'  In the meantime I continue to struggle through the rigors of a school that throws all the academics at me that I can handle along with military duties that push me way out of my comfort zone.  On top of it all, I have committed myself to becoming a soldier in the U.S. Army during a time of war.  Yet, with all these things laid out in front of me - things that should occupy my mind - I still inextricably always revert back to hockey. 

I think Jon Krakauer said it best when he wrote, "It is easy, when you are young, to believe that what you desire is no less than what you deserve, to assume that if you want something badly enough it is your god-given right to have it."  But of course no one ever realizes that at the time.  In my 22 years of living I have never wanted to be anything other than a hockey player.  And even though I realized my dreams were for naught some time ago, I still always relapse back to my passionate desire of hockey when daydreaming about my future. 

My hockey career is terminal.  In fact, come this spring, I will be finished with my organized hockey days.  When that day comes and my final buzzer rings I will take comfort in the fact that while I might not be going to the NHL I will have proudly and gladly allowed the game of hockey to corrupt my life.  Just ask all my teachers...                      

Thanks For Giving.

"Thanks for coming," I heard a teammate say to his friends or family after our game.  As I sat on an overheated bus I asked myself, 'just what I had to be thankful for at the moment?'  We had just lost both our games in a two game series by an unsettling seven goals.  Our team was in the midst of a three game losing streak in which we were outscored 18-8.  To say the least, things stunk!  On top of it all, awaiting me bright and early the next morning was a stack of books that cried for thorough searching as I had three papers due the coming week.  So, as our bus trudged along the snow ridden road at what seemed like a snail's pace, I again asked myself, what in the heck do I have to be thankful for?

As it turns out, I have a lot for which to be thankful.  We all do.  And as Thanksgiving approaches and we all begin to prepare gargantuan feasts of roasted turkey, buttery mashed potatoes and creamy pumpkin pie - a meal that looks so big it could feed an entire army - let us not forget that indeed one of the many reasons we are afforded the opportunity to dine so elegantly and comfortably is because of an army - the United States Army, which ironically will see many of its members forgo this gluttonous meal that we all so blissfully consume.  Let us not forget to be thankful for their sacrifice.

Amongst the thousands of soldiers deployed are a handful of former Army Hockey players.  While there are many I do not know, in fact so many I cannot possibly count, there are a few I know personally and, therefore, feel a strong urging to publically thank them for their service.

Corey Rudd and Seth Beamer, both USMA '06, are currently deployed to Iraq.  Chris Migliaro, USMA '06, just recently returned from Iraq and is scheduled to deploy to Afghanistan this spring.  Brady Dolim, USMA '07, is currently deployed to Honduras.  Mike Picone, USMA '07, is deployed to Bahrain.  Chris Garceau, USMA '05, recently returned from 15 months in Iraq.  Chad Fifield, USMA '05, recently returned from Afghanistan.  Chad received a purple heart and bronze star for his actions while deployed. 

Lastly, Derek Hines, USMA '03.  Derek, a former Army Hockey captain, was killed in action in Afghanistan on September 1, 2005.  Anyone that knows Derek's story knows of a true friend, phenomenal teammate, and the epitome of a leader.  He paid the ultimate sacrifice on our behalf, leaving behind a family and friends, so we can continue to live the lives we enjoy today.   

I do not mean to single out these individuals from any other service members for any reason other than their connection to me and Army Hockey.  The sacrifice of all service men and women are equally as admirable and notable. 

So as we all gather with our friends and family over the long holiday weekend keep these individuals and their families in your mind.  Of the many things we have to be thankful for they are certainly amongst them.  To all service members: "Thanks for giving!"        

Branch Night - Joining Our New Teams

"Open your envelopes," said the colonel on stage.  His command sparked an onslaught of emotions.  A cadet four rows behind me burst into tears.  A cadet in front of me raised his hands in triumph.  His smile extended to the ceiling.  By simply opening an envelope the 1,000 cadets around me were expelling over three years of anticipation in a matter of seconds.  I had yet to open mine.  It was Branch Night for the Class of 2009.

I never thought an envelope could encompass much power.  After all, what message inside an envelope could possibly evoke such strong emotions?  It was not a death certificate as some reactions seemed to indicate.  It was not a winning lottery ticket as others exuberantly portrayed it to be.  The message inside these envelopes, as I saw it, was simply an invitation to a team.  The team in this case was the branch of the army that was accepting you into its ranks.  Other cadets saw it much different.

West Point differentiates itself from other colleges in many ways.  The culmination of those differences emerged itself completely on this night.  On Branch Night each member of the senior class discovers his or her branch, or subdivision, of the Army in which they will serve upon graduation.  Most people know very little about the Army.  There is simply no need to as a civilian.  I certainly did not know much about it before I arrived at West Point three and a half years ago.  I thought that the Army was simply 'the Army'.  A large bureaucratic organization made up of a collection of people that fight the nation's wars.  I now know that the Army is much more complex than that.  One of these complexities is the branching system.  There are 16 branches.  Each branch specializes in certain functions.  These functions act in congruence with each other creating a force only our army can provide.   

Many cadets have their sights set on a particular branch long before this night.  Some are even set on a branch long before they arrive at West Point.  You can imagine the anticipation felt on behalf of these cadets - some of them hoping to join their family's legacy by entering a certain branch.  It is not until this night that they can rest easily knowing that their hopes and desires are fulfilled - or destroyed.

Going into the evening my expectations were different than most others.  Most notably, my emotions were in-check.  This was surprising to many of my classmates considering their nervous and anticipatory demeanors.  It seemed as if they thought their branch assignment was "the-end-all-be-all."  I looked at the night's outcome differently.  Rather than solely entering a branch of the Army I saw the final outcome providing me with a new team to join.  My branch would be my new team.  Many Army veterans compare their time in the army to that of times spent on athletic teams.  If my experience on the Army hockey team is any indication what my team in the regular Army will be like then I believe that I am in for a pleasant experience. 

The excitement all around me was beginning to take its toll.  It was time to open my envelope.  I lifted up the flap and pulled out a 4x6 piece of paper.  On it was a tiny 1x1 symbol.  I squinted my eyes and said to myself, "What is that?"  "Field Artillery, big guns!" shouted the major who suddenly appeared next to me projecting his baritone voice over the surrounding commotion.  "Congratulations," he said.  "Thank you, sir..." I mumbled as he carried on his way.

Field Artillery.... I thought to myself.  Who in the heck have been field artillery officers?  I later learned that I'd be joining the likes of Napoleon and Sir George Mallory (the first to reach Mount Everest's 'death zone') amongst many notable others as a field artillery officer.  Not too bad!  Those are some distinguished former members of the field artillery team.  I like to call them field artillery hall of famers.  I was told I would learn more about my particular branch in the months following graduation by an intimidating 'Ranger tabbed' captain who was also a member of the field artillery.  That was enough to quell any questions I had about the branch that evening.

I decided to meander around until I found my teammates to seek out their branches.  Of the five of them I discovered that three branched infantry, one branched armor and the other aviation.  All of us had the same, even-keeled, bearing that differentiated us from many other cadets.  Looking back, the unique perspective we had on the night stemmed from our distinctive experience on the hockey team.          While we did not visibly exhibit an outpouring of emotions we were still excited about the new teams we had waiting for us after graduation.  I think that because we were members of the hockey team we knew something others did not.  The strong bonds and unit cohesion we form as hockey teammates would translate into forming the same bonds and equally productive cohesion with our new teammates.  The excitement for us did not show itself that evening with the revealing of the branches.  The excitement for us will emerge when we meet out new teammates in the months to come.

Thanks for reading.

Go Army!

 

#7

My knuckles turned white as the mini bus, or Dalla Dalla as they call it in East Africa, recklessly zoomed around the corner.  A brief second ago I gazed out the cracked window to my side and noticed that the solid yellow line that separated the two lanes of the road was now oddly on my right.

Cars still drive on the right side of the road in Tanzania. The plastic and steel frame of the bus was clanking and shaking as we reached a speed of about 80 kmh (approximately 60 mph). We finally inched our way pass a similar bus when suddenly, the roaring horn of an 18-wheel semi-truck forced the driver to swerve back into our proper lane.  A bead of sweat slipped over my temple as I slowly uncurled my toes.  I was alive!

Close calls such as these are common stance on the roads of Tanzania - much more common than I would have preferred during my four-week jaunt to the nation that also holds the prestigious honor of being the most Malaria infected in Africa.  I had plenty of non-human produced hazards to be wary of.  The thought of dying a lonely death caused by a preventable auto-accident never occurred to me before I left my house for the summer.  Staying clear of AIDS, Yellow Fever and ferocious man eating mammals occupied the 'take caution of' part of my mind.  Little did I know that every time I stepped into a vehicle I was putting life and limb on the line.

The bus continued on down the road lumbering at a dangerously, steady pace.  I was headed for the city of Moshi, the stepping off ground for my trek to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. I took a few deep breaths attempting to relax, but every time I inhaled the people on both my sides quickly moved in on the territory I had just succeeded by the contracting of my lungs. The acute nearness of my traveling companions forced my shoulders to compress into my spine. The elderly women next to me showed off her toothless smile and held out a pack of gum.  I would have accepted her generous offer had I been able to move my arms, but I was packed as tight as a sardine (in retrospect I should have been wondering how she chewed gum without any teeth).  I quickly realized that I was not going to be able to sleep any of the four hours I had remaining on my journey.  I began to gaze around the countryside, but just as my mind began to flow into a state comfort a ghastly odor drifted into my nose.  The young man to my right had obviously not showered in quite some time and the pungent odor drifting off him would have formed a green cloud in the shape of Slimer from Ghostbusters had I been able to see smells that day.  I defiantly was not going to sleep now.    

I made it home from Africa completely unscathed, but my perspective on life was not as fortunate (or was it more fortunate...?).  Forever will I be affected by my experience in Tanzania - from my visit to an orphanage full of hundreds of impoverished, yet still smiling children, to piles of burning trash and feces, to my many close encounters on the roadways.  These events and many more have helped shape a new perspective on life for me.  I was lucky enough to reach the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, a moment that I thought would define my trip to Africa, but I was wrong.  What defined my trip was not something I achieved, but something the local Tanzanians achieved for me.  They helped me achieve new a state of realization.

Welcome to my blog.  Ryan Yanoshak, our team's 'media guy' approached me about blogging for NCAA.com asking if I'd like "share my experiences."  Mindlessly I responded with an enthusiastic, "absolutely!"  Little did I know he was actually serious.  So, here I am, writing this, and there you are, with your eyes focused on screen drifting out into the unknown dimension of cyberspace, reading it.  Thank you.  You've made my time and effort worthwhile.

Who am I, you may ask?  Simply put, I am Matthew John Hickey, 22 years old, from Saint Paul, Minnesota.  Currently, I am working through my senior (Firstie) year at the United States Military Academy.  In the NCAA world we are known as Army.  Over the next few months I will provide you with my perspectives, as they created through the life of a West Point Cadet.  I will loosely relate my writings to ice hockey, which I play, but my entries will not be entirely focused on the sport.  Instead, they will be aimed at other such things that make my experience, as well as my teammates' unique here at West Point.  The realization that I achieved while in Tanzania may not have directly made me a better hockey player, but it certainly made me more appreciative of the sport I play and the opportunity I have to play it.  And that, in some way, has made me a better hockey player.  

 #7