The year my daughter Charlotte played goalie, there was only one time she was in a cheerful mood following a game. Can you guess what it was about that singular game that made the clouds of goalie-gloom part, giving way to sunshine and smiles?
Perhaps her team won? Actually, no. Charlotte’s U-8 team was totally overmatched and they lost about 15-2. (This particular rink didn’t have a scoreboard, so no one knew the exact score.)
Perhaps the opposing coach came up to her after the game and complimented her on her goaltending performance? No, that didn’t happen, either. I do recall that Charlotte was constantly fending off shots and had almost no time to rest. She must have made about 50 saves, and many of them were "SportsCenter" worthy. But she didn’t receive any out-of-the-ordinary compliments that day.
Perhaps it was the first week of the season, and just being out there on the ice with her teammates was a rush? Nope. This game took place in January. Charlotte had been enduring the goalie role for three months by this point in the season.
The reason Charlotte was so enthusiastic following her team’s thrashing was revealed to me moments after she climbed into the back seat of our minivan. Her delightful demeanor surprised me. "Daddy, that was so much fun!" she exclaimed. "You know why?"
I never would have guessed what she said next, and I’ll never forget it either: "Because there was no scoreboard!"
Enlightenment surged through me. Prior to this moment, my wife and I had been trying to figure out why our daughter had grown weary of a position she had once loved, and even Charlotte couldn’t explain it. This particular game, however, was the perfect controlled experiment. A single variable (the scoreboard) was removed, and even though she allowed more goals than the other goalie — and everyone knew it — Charlotte was "in the zone" for all three periods and had a total blast defending her net.
Beyond the insight this "controlled experiment" gave my wife and me into our daughter’s athletic psyche, there are at least three broader lessons that all parents of young athletes can glean from this case study.
▪ In many sports leagues for beginners, an official score is not kept — and there may be some merit to this methodology. My children have played in tee-ball leagues and even a basketball league where the adults running the games celebrated every run scored and every basket made, but they didn’t keep track of the score (although some of the kids did) and neither team was declared a winner at the end. Yet the kids still had fun. Invariably, there are parents who grumble about this approach, but my 8-year-old daughter’s complete enjoyment of her hockey game sans scoreboard (and her stressed-out discontent at all other games, win or lose) at least suggests that "keeping score" might be an irrelevant (and even detrimental) practice in leagues for our very youngest athletes. Sure, it’s important for childhood experiences to include learning to win and lose. But perhaps it would be prudent to make learning to enjoy playing a prerequisite.
▪ We all know that, during a game, our children’s mindsets are affected by the words and conduct of the various people surrounding them — from the head coach’s pregame remarks and the assistant coach’s comments following a shift, to the parents’ shouts from the stands and teammates’ attitudes on the ice. But another important factor influencing players’ states of mind isn’t human — it’s the scoreboard. And no player’s psyche is affected more by the numbers lighting up the scoreboard than the goalie’s. For her, the opponent’s score represents an on-the-spot report card. Any number greater than zero is proof of the goalie’s failure to do her job, no matter how artful those goals might have been. The scoreboard doesn’t record the goalie’s saves — it only records her mistakes. Overtly. And just as the negative words and attitudes of coaches, parents and teammates can take their toll on any player, so can the instant, public feedback of the scoreboard on the mind of the goalie.
▪ Not everyone is mentally suited to play the goalie position. Not only does it require a certain kind of focus, a certain kind of pride and a certain kind of resilience, it also requires the ability to constantly reframe and redefine the meaning of the numbers on the scoreboard in order to keep oneself in an optimal state of mind. The goalie who, midway through the third period and down by one goal, can think to herself, "I’m not letting any more pucks get past me, and I believe my teammates will score the tying goal, and then I’ll be the hero in the shootout!" instead of, "Oh no, we’re about to lose, and it’s all my fault!" was born to play goalie. Likewise, the goalie who can perceive a loss as a team loss, and transform disappointment into excitement about competing again in the next game — was born to play goalie. And of course, the goalie who can block out the scoreboard altogether and simply play every minute with joy and intensity, regardless of the score, also was born to play goalie.
Charlotte finished up that hockey season as her team’s netminder, then switched to skating out, which she’s done ever since (she’s now 11). Recently we talked about that season, and Charlotte and I agree that playing goalie taught her three important life lessons. First, duty and dependability. She had told the team she would serve as their goalie for the entire season, and she is proud that she fulfilled that commitment — even though it was difficult sometimes. Second, empathy. Now, after every goal scored by the other team, Charlotte is the first one to race back and offer words of encouragement to her goalie. (From experience, she knows how helpful that can be for "reframing" the moment!) And finally, Charlotte has learned that while winning is obviously the objective of each game, it certainly isn’t the point of playing sports: competing is supposed to be fun no matter what the scoreboard says.
