The Passenger Seat

The job never ends. It just changes.

Over the last few weeks, we've spent a lot of time talking about development—not just how to develop a better hockey player, but how to better understand the young person wearing the skates.

We've talked about recognizing where your player is today and understanding that development doesn't happen on a straight line. We've looked at the hockey growth chart and how every player can have a different path, a different pace, and most importantly, a different reason for playing this game.

We've also talked about communication.

Learning to actually listen to what our players are telling us. Building relationships with coaches where conversations can happen openly. Making sure the player, parent, and coach are working together instead of pulling in three different directions.

All of those conversations lead us to another important question:

Where does the parent fit into all of this?

Because understanding your player's development is important. Knowing where they are on their hockey journey matters. Communicating with everyone involved matters.

But none of that means we simply stand back and watch.

Parents have an enormous role in this journey.

The challenge is understanding that, just like our players...

our role has to develop too.

Think Back to the Beginning

Think back to the first time you dressed your player for hockey.

If you're anything like most hockey parents, you probably had absolutely no idea what you were doing.

Does this pad go on the left leg or the right?

Do the socks go over this?

Where does this strap go?

Why are there so many straps?

And how in the world am I supposed to get this jersey over these shoulder pads?

Somehow, despite arriving at the rink 45 minutes early, you're sweating, they're missing a glove, somebody suddenly has to use the bathroom, and practice starts in three minutes.

But eventually, you figure it out.

Then something funny happens.

They start figuring it out too.

At first you're dressing them in the lobby.

Then you're helping them in the locker room.

Eventually they're putting everything on themselves and you're relegated to tying skates.

Then one day they figure that out too.

Fine.

"At least let me tape your stick."

Eventually they don't need that either.

Then comes one of those strange milestones in youth hockey nobody really warns you about.

They grab their bag, throw their stick over their shoulder and disappear through the locker room door.

And you're standing on the other side.

No elbow pads to fix.

No skates to tie.

No stick to tape.

Nothing.

So you walk over to the glass.

And watch.

It can almost feel like you're slowly being removed from their hockey world.

But you're not.

Your place in it is simply changing.

That's Development Too

We spend so much time watching our players develop that sometimes we don't notice what's happening to us.

When they're little, they need us for everything.

That's not being an overbearing hockey parent.

That's being a parent.

A six-year-old isn't registering themselves for hockey. They aren't driving themselves to practice. They probably aren't remembering their water bottle.

They aren't researching clinics.

They aren't asking coaches about development plans.

They aren't comparing levels or figuring out what opportunities might be available next season.

We make hockey possible.

We buy the gear. We find the ice. We make the schedule work. We drive the miles. We wash the jerseys. We rearrange weekends. We sit in cold rinks. We eat dinner in the car.

And if you have multiple children, there's a pretty good chance somebody else in the family is getting dragged along for the ride too.

Parents matter.

A lot.

But somewhere along the way, something starts changing.

Not because our players stop needing us.

Because how they need us begins to change.

And I'll admit that I understand that differently today than I did when I was the kid carrying the hockey bag.

I Didn't Understand It Then

When I was playing, I don't think I truly understood everything my parents were doing.

Why would I?

I was thinking about hockey.

I wasn't thinking about what time my parents had gotten up.

I wasn't thinking about their work schedules.

I wasn't thinking about gas.

Or equipment.

Or registration.

Or meals.

Or what else we could have been doing that weekend.

And I certainly wasn't thinking about my sisters being dragged all over the place because their brother had hockey.

Again.

Another rink.

Another weekend.

Another ridiculous hour.

To me, I just had hockey.

That's one of those things you don't really understand until years later.

Because now when I look backward, I don't only remember the hockey.

I see them.

I see the drives.

I see the early mornings.

I see the waiting.

I see the weekends that weren't really weekends anymore.

I see my sisters sitting in the car.

I see all the things that had to happen around me so that I could simply walk into a rink, put my skates on and play.

I didn't appreciate all of that in the moment.

I'm not sure kids are supposed to.

But I certainly appreciate it now.

And when I think about what my parents did right, it wasn't simply that they gave me opportunities.

It was how they gave them to me.

They never pushed me toward somewhere I didn't want to go.

They met me where I was.

When I wanted more, they helped me find more.

When I wanted another challenge, they helped me take the next step.

When I needed encouragement, they encouraged me.

When I needed a push, they gave me one.

But I never felt like everything they had invested in me created a debt that I had to repay.

There wasn't a destination I had to reach to justify the miles.

There wasn't a team I had to make to justify the money.

There wasn't a level I had to reach to justify the weekends.

There wasn't a player I had to become to make everything they had done worthwhile.

They supported the player I was while making sure the door was open for the player I might want to become.

There's a difference.

And today, as both a parent and a coach, I understand just how difficult that balance can be.

So... Who's Driving?

Think about your player's hockey life for a minute.

Who packs the bag?

Who knows what time practice starts?

Who remembers the water?

Who signs them up for clinics?

Who asks about Advanced?

Who wants the extra ice?

Who talks to the coach?

Who worries about next season?

Who suggests going outside and shooting pucks?

And here's the uncomfortable one:

Who wants hockey more?

You?

Or them?

There isn't necessarily a wrong answer.

Age matters.

Maturity matters.

Every kid is different.

Sometimes we're going to want something for our kids before they understand why it's important.

That's parenting.

But over time, shouldn't some of those answers begin changing?

That's where I think about the passenger seat.

When our players first start hockey, we're driving.

Actually, we're driving the whole bus.

We decide where we're going, when we're leaving, what we're doing when we get there and probably what they're eating on the way home.

They just come along for the ride.

But as they grow, we start handing over little pieces.

Pack your bag.

Remember your water.

Tape your stick.

Talk to your coach.

What do you want to work on?

Do you want to go to stick and puck?

Do you want the extra clinic?

What level do you want to play?

Eventually the question becomes bigger:

What do you want from hockey?

And that's when we have to start moving from the driver's seat toward the passenger seat.

But this is the part I really want parents to understand.

Moving into the passenger seat does not mean getting out of the car.

Push vs. Pull

One of the easiest ways to recognize this transition is to pay attention to whether you're constantly pushing your player toward hockey or whether they're beginning to pull you toward it.

There's nothing inherently wrong with pushing.

Kids need encouragement.

Kids need structure.

Sometimes they need to hear:

"You committed to this team, so we're going to practice."

Sometimes they don't want to get off the couch.

Welcome to parenting.

But eventually, hopefully, we start seeing some pull.

"Can we go shoot?"

"Is there stick and puck this weekend?"

"Can we watch the game tonight?"

"Can you show me how to do that?"

"What do I need to work on if I want to make Advanced?"

That's different.

That's not Mom or Dad creating motivation.

That's a player beginning to own it.

And when that happens?

Meet them there.

If they want to shoot 100 pucks, grab the bucket.

If they want more ice, help them find the ice.

If they tell you they want to play at the next level, help them understand what that level requires.

If they need a coach, find someone who can help.

Give them every opportunity you're reasonably able to give them.

But here's the harder part.

We also have to be willing to meet them when they're pulling us somewhere we didn't expect to go.

Maybe they don't want Advanced.

Maybe they don't want hockey five nights a week.

Maybe they want to play soccer too.

Maybe they absolutely love hockey but have no interest in making it their entire identity.

Maybe hockey is simply where they see their friends twice a week and have an absolute blast.

Can we support that player with the same enthusiasm?

That's the question.

Because there's a big difference between helping our children discover how far they can go and deciding how far we need them to go.

And if we're going to give them some ownership over where they're going, eventually we have to give them ownership over something else too.

Responsibility.

Part of Taking the Wheel

There's another side to giving our players ownership that can be uncomfortable for parents, because we're naturally wired to prevent problems when we see them coming.

At some point, responsibility has to move seats too.

When they're six years old and you see their water bottle sitting on the kitchen counter, grab it. When they're brand new to hockey, check their bag. Make sure the skates are there. Make sure they have both gloves. Make sure they have their jersey and socks.

They're learning.

And part of our job is teaching them how to do all of this.

But should we still be doing all of it for them at twelve?

Fourteen?

At some point, "Did you pack your bag?" needs to replace us packing it for them.

And eventually, even that reminder probably needs to disappear.

That's hard.

Because you're going to walk past the kitchen counter and see the water bottle sitting there.

You're going to know the tape isn't in the bag.

You're going to see the hockey sock they forgot to pack.

And every instinct in you is going to say:

Grab it. Fix it. Save them.

Sometimes we should.

There are safety issues we obviously don't play around with, and I'm certainly not suggesting that a player who forgets their water should be sent onto the ice to skate sprints without it. Coaches and parents can use common sense.

But there also has to be room for small, reasonable consequences.

Forget your tape?

Maybe you have to ask a teammate to borrow some.

Forget your water?

Maybe you're drinking from a paper cup at the bench and it's inconvenient.

Forget something you need for practice?

Maybe you have to walk into the locker room and explain it to your coach.

Forget to charge something?

Maybe you don't get to use it that day.

Those aren't punishments.

They're experiences.

And sometimes one uncomfortable experience teaches responsibility better than Mom or Dad asking "Do you have everything?" twenty times ever could.

That's an important distinction.

We don't manufacture consequences to teach our kids lessons. Hockey—and life—will provide plenty of those on its own. Our job isn't to make their road unnecessarily difficult.

But our job also isn't to quietly remove every bump before they reach it.

If we always remember the water bottle, they don't have to.

If we always check the bag, they don't have to.

If we always talk to the coach, they don't have to.

If we always fix the mistake before they experience it...

they never really own the mistake.

And if we're asking them to eventually take the wheel, we have to let them learn how to drive.

That means occasionally missing a turn.

It means making a mistake and figuring out how to correct it.

It means learning that preparation matters—not because Mom or Dad said so, but because they experienced what happens when they weren't prepared.

The goal isn't to stand back smugly and say, "I told you so."

The goal is for them to eventually come home, unpack their bag, see the water bottle on the counter and think:

"I need to put that in there for tomorrow."

Without us saying a word.

That's growth.

It won't show up on an evaluation sheet.

It won't make their wrist shot harder.

It won't make them skate faster.

But we're not only trying to develop hockey players.

We're trying to raise young people who can eventually carry their own bag.

And maybe that's why we have to occasionally resist the urge to carry it for them.

The Ride Home

Of course, learning responsibility doesn't mean they're suddenly going to handle everything perfectly.

They're still kids.

They're going to forget things.

They're going to make mistakes.

And sometimes those mistakes won't happen before the game.

They'll happen right in the middle of it.

Then comes the car ride.

Every sports parent knows this one.

Sometimes your player just had the greatest game of their life.

Sometimes they played terribly.

Sometimes they scored three goals.

Sometimes they couldn't seem to do anything right.

Sometimes they won.

Sometimes they lost.

And sometimes they made the mistake that changed the entire game.

They know it.

You know it.

And now you're sitting beside each other in the car.

As parents, we desperately want to help.

We saw something.

We know something.

We want to fix something.

"You know, on that second goal..."

Stop for a second.

Because involvement doesn't always mean instruction.

Sometimes being involved means understanding when not to talk.

Maybe they're angry.

Maybe they're embarrassed.

Maybe they're disappointed.

Maybe they're already replaying that mistake over and over again without our help.

Maybe after a great game they don't need us analyzing that either.

Maybe they just want to enjoy it.

Maybe they just want some food.

Maybe they just want Mom.

Maybe they just want Dad.

Sometimes the most important question we can ask is incredibly simple:

"Do you want to talk about it?"

And then actually respect the answer.

Yes?

Listen.

No?

Drive.

There will be plenty of opportunities to learn from hockey.

But sometimes your player doesn't need another coach sitting beside them.

Sometimes they just need their parent.

Don't Confuse Independence With Distance

As our players become more independent, it's easy to think our involvement should begin fading with it. Let the coaches coach. Let them carry their own bag. Let them make their own decisions. Give them space after the game. All of that has value, but independence was never supposed to mean distance. They may not need us inside the locker room anymore, but they still need us in their corner. Maybe that looks like shooting pucks in the driveway when they ask, watching a game together on the couch, taking them to stick and puck, or throwing a football around on a night when nobody feels like talking about hockey at all. Sometimes it's asking questions. Sometimes it's listening. Sometimes it's recognizing that they need a push, and sometimes it's having the restraint to know they don't. The involvement doesn't disappear; it simply becomes less about doing things for them and more about being there with them.

And maybe that's the part we don't think about enough while we're living through it. We're so focused on raising independent kids that we can miss what those little steps toward independence actually mean. Every time they learn to do something without us, we've done part of our job—but we've also quietly closed a chapter we don't get to reopen. The skates they can suddenly tie themselves are the skates we won't tie anymore. The bag they can carry on their own is one they won't reach back and ask us to grab. The locker room door they disappear behind is another few feet between where their journey happens and where we get to watch it. We should be proud of every bit of that growth. That's what we've been working toward. But maybe we should allow ourselves to feel something else too, because while we're watching our players grow up in this game, something else is happening at exactly the same time:

Little by little, they're needing us differently.

And this whole hockey journey moves faster than we think.

Eventually, You're Behind the Glass

One day you're sitting in a lobby trying to figure out how shin guards work.

Then you're tying skates.

Then you're taping sticks.

Then you're standing outside the locker room.

Then you're behind the glass.

Someday they'll drive themselves to the rink.

And someday after that, there won't be a practice to drive to.

That's probably hard for some of us to imagine right now.

Especially when it's Tuesday night, you're exhausted, somebody can't find a glove and you're wondering why hockey practice couldn't possibly have been fifteen minutes closer to home.

But that day is coming.

There will be a last time you tie their skates.

You probably won't know it's the last time.

There will be a last time they ask you to tape their stick.

You probably won't know that either.

A last time you load their bag into the car.

A last practice.

A last game.

A last time you stand behind the glass watching your kid play youth hockey.

And chances are...

you won't know any of them are the last time while they're happening.

That's why I don't think the answer is to become less involved.

I think the answer is to become differently involved.

Our role changes.

From doing.

To teaching.

To reminding.

To encouraging.

To listening.

To watching.

But never to not caring.

Someday They'll Understand

Our players probably don't understand everything we're doing right now.

I didn't.

They don't see every sacrifice.

They don't know every schedule change.

They don't understand every financial decision.

They probably aren't sitting in the back seat thinking about how fortunate they are that somebody is willing to drive them 45 minutes to practice.

They're probably on their phone.

That's okay.

Because maybe appreciation isn't something we should expect from them right now.

Maybe that's something that comes later.

Years later.

When they're adults.

When they have families of their own.

Maybe someday they'll walk into a rink with their own child.

Maybe they'll kneel down in front of a tiny hockey player and try to figure out which shin guard goes on which leg.

Maybe they'll be running late.

Maybe they'll be sweating.

Maybe somebody will suddenly need to use the bathroom three minutes before practice.

And maybe, for just a second...

they'll think about you.

Maybe that's when they'll finally understand the miles.

The mornings.

The weekends.

The waiting.

The wins.

The losses.

The quiet car rides.

And all those times you were simply there.

That's certainly how I look at my parents now.

And my sisters deserve some credit too.

They were along for a lot of those miles whether they volunteered or not.

The older I get, the less I remember hockey as simply something I did.

I understand how many people made it possible for me to do it.

And maybe that's the lesson I've carried with me most.

My parents didn't decide where hockey had to take me.

They simply made sure that when I decided I wanted to go somewhere...

I had a way to get there.

That's the kind of parent I hope to be.

And that's the kind of relationship I hope we can help create between players, parents and coaches.

Because eventually our players have to grab the wheel.

They have to make decisions.

They have to make mistakes.

They have to decide how much hockey they want, what they're willing to give to it, and ultimately where they want this game to take them.

Our job isn't to choose every turn.

But it isn't to get out of the car either.

Move over.

Sit beside them.

Encourage them.

Guide them when they ask.

Point out the occasional turn they didn't see.

Let them make a wrong one every once in a while.

And when they decide they're ready to go a little farther...

help them figure out how to get there.

Because the end of helping our players never really comes.

Helping just looks different as they grow.

And maybe years from now, when they're old enough to finally understand what all those practices, games, early mornings, late nights and endless miles really meant, they won't remember how hard we pushed them.

Hopefully they'll remember something much simpler.

No matter where they wanted to go, Mom and Dad were willing to travel beside them.

And maybe that's what being in the passenger seat was supposed to mean all along.

— Coach Wes
Fundamental Hockey Academy