Rumours of Peter Zezel's death are exaggerated. He is seriously ill but still holding on. Please show your support for him at:
http://www.torontosun.com/sports/hockey/2009/05/26/9569546-sun.html
or:
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/group.php?gid=2331529009&ref=ts
We're not letting him go without a fight!
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Please Pull Through, Peter Zezel
Best known as a high-scoring Philadelphia Flyers rookie and part of the Toronto Maple Leafs resurgence in the 90s, Peter Zezel is in another battle for his life.
http://slam.canoe.ca/Slam/Hockey/NHL/2009/05/25/9568941-sun.html
Let's hope he wins this draw and kicks the illness back.
My heart goes out to his family, his parents - there is nothing worse than the fear and uncertainly of a sick child, whether's he's four hours or 44-years old.
Godspeed.
http://slam.canoe.ca/Slam/Hockey/NHL/2009/05/25/9568941-sun.html
Let's hope he wins this draw and kicks the illness back.
My heart goes out to his family, his parents - there is nothing worse than the fear and uncertainly of a sick child, whether's he's four hours or 44-years old.
Godspeed.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Hockey Is Not Life & Death
Finding out your teammates' brother had a brain tumour removed is life and death.
My son’s team is in the semi-finals so we headed to the arena full of excitement. The usual clichés were bandied about, ‘I’ll die if we don’t win’ and ‘Playoffs are do or die’ being some of them. We got a reality check in the pre-game coach’s chat.
I could tell by the look on the his face that he was in a very serious frame of mind, and thought nothing of it, because, this after all, is Minor Atom semi-finals – first team to reach four points advances to the gold medal match. What could possibly matter more than playoff hockey?
“Riley’s brother is in hospital following brain tumour surgery,” was not what anyone in that room expected to hear from our coach. We were all frozen. A week ago this boy was watching his brother play, now he was recovering from a major operation.
When the words first bounced from my eardrums into my conscience, there was nothing – nothing to think, to do, to say. I’m a writer – surely there must be words for this? No. This time, silence spoke and I did not dare to interrupt.
The game was dedicated to a little boy in hospital, the family by his side, and his brother on blades.
Riley got to wear the special jersey – number 99 – for this game. I’ve watched him play since October but today was his career game. It was a slow start for our kids, understandably so. If I couldn’t get the news out of my head, how could I expect it of them?
Something clicked and when they finally scored, the pressure was off. Those kids had put it on themselves to win, trying so hard, that for a short while, the fun was gone.
Sometimes scoring a goal goes beyond the physical sphere; sometimes it’s more than a little chunk of rubber landing it the net. Today was one of those times.
When the puck slid past the goalie, it didn’t cure a sick little boy. It didn’t magically make everything better. It did however, make 13 kids forget, for a few seconds, that maybe playing the game isn’t the most important thing.
Who you play it for, that counts for more than any names and numbers on a score sheet.
My son’s team is in the semi-finals so we headed to the arena full of excitement. The usual clichés were bandied about, ‘I’ll die if we don’t win’ and ‘Playoffs are do or die’ being some of them. We got a reality check in the pre-game coach’s chat.
I could tell by the look on the his face that he was in a very serious frame of mind, and thought nothing of it, because, this after all, is Minor Atom semi-finals – first team to reach four points advances to the gold medal match. What could possibly matter more than playoff hockey?
“Riley’s brother is in hospital following brain tumour surgery,” was not what anyone in that room expected to hear from our coach. We were all frozen. A week ago this boy was watching his brother play, now he was recovering from a major operation.
When the words first bounced from my eardrums into my conscience, there was nothing – nothing to think, to do, to say. I’m a writer – surely there must be words for this? No. This time, silence spoke and I did not dare to interrupt.
The game was dedicated to a little boy in hospital, the family by his side, and his brother on blades.
Riley got to wear the special jersey – number 99 – for this game. I’ve watched him play since October but today was his career game. It was a slow start for our kids, understandably so. If I couldn’t get the news out of my head, how could I expect it of them?
Something clicked and when they finally scored, the pressure was off. Those kids had put it on themselves to win, trying so hard, that for a short while, the fun was gone.
Sometimes scoring a goal goes beyond the physical sphere; sometimes it’s more than a little chunk of rubber landing it the net. Today was one of those times.
When the puck slid past the goalie, it didn’t cure a sick little boy. It didn’t magically make everything better. It did however, make 13 kids forget, for a few seconds, that maybe playing the game isn’t the most important thing.
Who you play it for, that counts for more than any names and numbers on a score sheet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
