Who Stole the Fire?

Fundamental Hockey Academy | Weekly Blog

When the love of the game starts to fade, what can we do to bring it back?

Last week, we talked about Stop Watching the Puck, focusing on awareness, movement, and learning to see the game beyond the six-ounce piece of rubber everyone is chasing. This week, I want to take a break from the technical side of hockey and talk about something that has been weighing heavily on my mind this season. The more time I spend coaching different age groups, the more I find myself asking a question that I don't think we discuss nearly enough in youth sports.

When does a player stop loving hockey?

I'm not talking about professional players retiring after long careers or veterans who have given everything they have to the game and finally decide it's time to hang up their skates. I'm talking about our kids, our friends, our neighbors, and our teammates. The players we've watched grow up in locker rooms, on benches, and across countless early mornings at the rink. The ones who, somewhere along the way, decide they're done.

Sometimes life gets in the way. Other sports, jobs, relationships, school, and a hundred other things compete for their time. That's part of growing up, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with finding another passion. But sometimes something else happens. They don't leave because they found something they love more. They leave because they stopped loving something they once couldn't live without, and that is what has been bothering me.

Remember When Just Being at the Rink Was Enough?

Hockey is my passion. I've been around this sport for roughly 30 years, and I still love walking into a cold rink, hearing the sound of skates cutting through fresh ice, and watching a group of players chase a six-ounce piece of rubber around like lunatics. Think about how ridiculous our sport really is. We wake up before the sun, drive ridiculous distances, spend entirely too much money on equipment, and voluntarily walk into freezing buildings. Yet, somehow, we love every minute of it. We're part of a relatively small community of people who understand why all of that makes perfect sense.

But somewhere between being a wide-eyed 9-year-old and a teenager approaching adulthood, something changes. The numbers start shrinking, teams that once had dozens of players trying to find a roster spot begin struggling to fill them, and by the time players approach 18, many of the faces we remember from their younger years are gone. I've watched it happen for years, but now that I'm coaching across multiple age groups, I'm beginning to recognize the changes long before a player actually decides to leave.

We often accept this as the natural progression of youth sports, and to some extent, it is. Kids grow up, develop new interests, and make decisions about how they want to spend their time. But I can't help wondering how many of those players are leaving because they genuinely want something different and how many are walking away because we've somehow allowed the excitement to disappear.

Two Locker Rooms, Two Completely Different Worlds

This season, I've had the opportunity to coach across multiple age groups, from 10U through 14U, and it has given me a perspective I didn't fully appreciate before. My coaching philosophy doesn't change based on the age of the players. The level of instruction changes, the intensity changes, and the complexity of the game changes, but two things remain consistent: attitude and expectations. I put the same effort into coaching and mentoring a 9-year-old as I do a 14-year-old. I may challenge the older player more, demand a higher level of execution, and expect a greater understanding of the game, but I always expect every player to show up, give their best effort, respect their teammates, and be willing to learn.

Now, come spend five minutes in one of my 10U locker rooms sometime. Seriously, just stand in the doorway and take it all in. The energy is almost overwhelming. Players are laughing, talking, chirping each other, getting their equipment ready, and practically bouncing off the walls waiting to get onto the ice. The confidence in that room is contagious, and you can almost feel the excitement the moment you walk through the door. These kids aren't worried about what team they'll make next season or whether someone in the stands thinks they're good enough. They're excited because they get to play hockey.

And when the coaches start talking, something remarkable happens. They listen. I know, parents everywhere are probably wondering how we managed that miracle when getting them to listen at home can be an Olympic event, but they do. They're hungry, they're coachable, and they genuinely want to learn. They want to show us what they've been practicing, they want to compete, and they want to be part of something. Yes, that locker room gets loud, and yes, sometimes emotions run high after a difficult game. But those emotions come from players who care deeply about what they're doing. That locker room is alive, and as much energy as I pour into those players, they give just as much back to me.

Now let's walk into a different locker room. This season, I inherited a new group of older players, many of whom I had never coached before. The first few times I walked into that room, something immediately felt different. It was quiet, but not the focused, ready-to-work kind of quiet. It was uncomfortable. Players argued over simple decisions, there was little excitement, and the sense of a shared team identity wasn't there. These were talented players who could skate, shoot, pass, and understand the game, but something was missing. The skill was there, yet the passion that should have been driving it seemed to have faded.

We've made significant progress changing that atmosphere as the season has gone on, and I'm proud of the direction the players are moving. But the experience left me asking a question I couldn't shake. What happened between 10U and 14U? How does a kid go from being excited just to breathe the cold air of an old rink at six in the morning to dreading another practice? Where did that excitement go, and perhaps more importantly, what role did we play in losing it?

When Hockey Becomes Something You Have to Do

As players get older, the game changes, and so do the expectations surrounding it. At 10U, many players are simply happy to be there, but by 14U, everything seems to have a label attached to it. House, Advanced, Select, Travel, AAA. Suddenly, conversations revolve around who's moving up, who made the team, who got cut, who's getting more ice time, and who's playing on the top line. The game becomes increasingly competitive, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but somewhere along the way, we risk allowing those labels to define how successful a player feels.

Instead of asking whether they had fun, we start asking whether they scored. Instead of celebrating the effort they gave, we focus on the result. Instead of enjoying the opportunity to play, some players begin feeling like every practice, every shift, and every game is another evaluation. We spend so much time preparing them for the next level that sometimes we forget to let them enjoy the level they're playing right now.

And let's be fair, that pressure doesn't always come from parents or coaches. Sometimes it comes from teammates, sometimes from social media, and sometimes it comes from the players themselves. A kid who was once one of the strongest players on the ice suddenly finds himself surrounded by players who are bigger, faster, and stronger. The game that once came easily now requires more work, and the confidence that used to come naturally begins to slip. Maybe they stop carrying the puck because they're afraid of making a mistake. Maybe they stop trying something new because they don't want to look foolish in front of their teammates. Maybe they convince themselves that because they aren't one of the best players anymore, they somehow aren't good enough.

Eventually, instead of playing hockey because they love it, they're playing because it's what they've always done. They've spent years at the rink, their parents have invested countless hours and dollars, and hockey has become part of their identity. Walking away can feel like letting everyone down, even when they're no longer enjoying themselves. There's a tremendous difference between wanting to be at the rink and feeling obligated to be there, and as coaches and parents, we need to recognize that difference before it's too late.

Maybe We Need to Change, Too

I've spent a lot of time this season thinking about what I can do differently because if I walk into a locker room full of players who have lost their excitement, simply demanding more effort isn't going to solve the problem. I can push them harder, run more demanding practices, hold them accountable, and challenge them to improve, but none of those things automatically makes a player love hockey again. In fact, if a player is already struggling to find the motivation to be there, adding more pressure without understanding what's happening may only push them further away.

So maybe the answer starts with us. Maybe we need to spend more time building a team identity that gives players something to belong to beyond the scoreboard. Maybe we need to take one of those intense practices and replace it with something completely ridiculous, a goofy competition or a game that serves no purpose other than making them laugh and enjoy being on the ice. Maybe we need to give them more ownership of their locker room, their team traditions, and the things that make their group unique instead of making every decision for them.

I've even considered having some of those older players show up before a 10U game and simply spend a few minutes around that locker room. Not to coach, not to evaluate, and not to teach a lesson, but just to experience that energy again. Let them watch a group of kids who aren't worried about rankings, scouts, or what team they're going to make next season. Let them see the excitement, the laughter, and the anticipation of players who would give anything for just a few more minutes on the ice. Sometimes the best reminder of why we love something is watching someone else discover it for the first time.

I don't know that there's one answer, and I certainly don't believe every player who loses interest can or should be convinced to stay. But I do believe we owe them more than simply watching the excitement disappear. Before we ask why a player isn't giving us more, maybe we should ask what's taking so much out of them. Are they struggling with confidence? Are they frustrated with their development? Are they feeling pressure to perform, or have they simply forgotten that hockey is supposed to be enjoyable? Those conversations might teach us more about our players than another hour of skating drills ever could.

Parents, Remind Them How Special This Really Is

Here's something I wish more young players understood. You don't have to play travel hockey to be a good hockey player. You don't have to make Select, play on the top line, score the most goals, or have your name announced over the loudspeaker to be proud of what you've accomplished. Sometimes we become so focused on the next level that we forget how difficult it was just to reach the one we're already playing.

Think about the world outside the rink for a moment. How many kids in your child's classroom can actually skate? How many can skate backward, handle a puck, receive a pass, or understand the positioning and timing required to play this game? Depending on where you live, your child might be one of only a handful of hockey players in their entire school. They're part of a relatively small group of young athletes who have learned to do something incredibly difficult, and somewhere along the way, many of them have forgotten just how impressive that really is.

When you're surrounded by talented hockey players every weekend, it's easy to start believing you're average. But average compared to whom? The best players in your league? The kids trying out for the next level? The handful of players who seem to make everything look effortless? Those comparisons can slowly steal the confidence and enjoyment from a player who has already accomplished something remarkable. Your child doesn't need to be the best hockey player in the building to be proud of being a hockey player, and neither do you.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting more. There is nothing wrong with chasing a higher level, working harder, setting goals, or dreaming about playing college hockey someday. I encourage those things every day because I believe players should challenge themselves and discover what they're capable of accomplishing. But the pursuit of the next level should never completely erase the enjoyment of the level they're playing right now. Not every player is going to play college hockey, not every player is going to make AAA, and not every player is going to be the star of their team. But every player deserves the opportunity to love the game they're playing today.

Coaches, We Have a Responsibility

I believe in hard work, discipline, accountability, competition, and pushing players beyond what they think they're capable of accomplishing. None of that changes, regardless of the age group I'm coaching. But I'm beginning to believe that one of our greatest responsibilities as youth hockey coaches isn't just developing better players. It's helping develop players who still want to play next season.

We spend countless hours teaching skating, shooting, passing, positioning, and systems, but how much time do we spend protecting their passion for the game? How often do we ask a player how they're doing instead of immediately telling them what they're doing wrong? How often do we recognize the kid who worked harder than everyone else but never showed up on the scoresheet? How often do we give players the freedom to make mistakes, laugh at themselves, and remember that the game they're working so hard to improve at is still supposed to be fun?

I don't want to lower my expectations, make practices easy, or remove competition from hockey. I want to remind players why the work is worth doing. A player who genuinely loves the game will often push themselves harder than any coach ever could because there's something inside them that wants to get better. They'll challenge themselves, work through difficult practices, and come back after frustrating games because they still believe the effort is worth it. As coaches, we can encourage that fire, feed it, and give it room to grow, but we also need to be careful that we're not the ones putting it out.

And sometimes that means recognizing that not every player needs the same thing from us. The player who thrives on being challenged in front of the team might be standing beside another player who needs a quiet conversation and a little encouragement. One player might need us to push harder, while another needs us to recognize how much effort they're already giving just to show up. Coaching isn't simply about knowing the game. It's about knowing the players, understanding what motivates them, and recognizing when our approach needs to change.

Before They Hang Them Up

One day, every player will take their skates off for the last time. For some, that day comes after decades of playing, while for others, it comes much sooner than anyone expected. And that's okay. Life changes, priorities change, and people grow into different interests. Hockey doesn't have to be a lifelong commitment for everyone, and choosing to walk away doesn't mean a player has failed or wasted the years they spent playing.

But I never want a player to walk away because they forgot what made the game special. I never want a kid to believe that because they didn't make a certain team, they somehow failed. And I never want a player to look back on their youth hockey experience and remember nothing more than pressure, expectations, and disappointment. I want them to remember the locker room, the ridiculous conversations, the early mornings, and the teammates who became friends. I want them to remember the coaches who believed in them, the goals they scored, the mistakes they made, the games they lost, and the moments they couldn't stop smiling.

Most of all, I want them to remember what it felt like to step onto the ice and forget about everything else for an hour. That feeling of freedom, excitement, and belonging is what brought so many of us into this sport in the first place, and it's something worth protecting.

So this season, I'm challenging myself to do more than develop hockey players. I'm going to work just as hard to keep the fire burning as I do to improve their skills. Maybe that means changing a practice, listening more, creating opportunities for players to enjoy being teammates, or reminding a frustrated teenager that they were once a little kid who couldn't wait to get to the rink. Maybe it means accepting that sometimes the best thing we can do is give them the space to rediscover their love for the game on their own.

Hockey should challenge you. It should push you, test your limits, and teach you discipline, resilience, teamwork, and accountability. Those are lessons that will stay with players long after their competitive hockey careers are over. But hockey should also be fun, and if we've forgotten that somewhere along the way, maybe it's time for the adults to remember it, too.

I don't expect every player I coach to become a lifelong hockey player, but I hope every one of them leaves with memories that make them smile when they think about the game. Whether they play for another season or another 30 years, I want them to know that their time on the ice mattered.

Before we worry about developing the next great hockey player, maybe we should spend a little more time making sure we're not losing the ones we already have.

And to every parent and coach reading this, I'll leave you with one question:

When was the last time you asked your player why they still love hockey, and actually gave them the space to answer?

Coach Wes
Fundamental Hockey Academy