My rock, my Mom

Mother's Day, 2010

This is the second Mother's Day to pass since we lost Mom, and I'm afraid they're not going to get easier with the passage of time. In fact, with my own girls now a 'tweener (11) and a teenager (13), I miss Mom and her wise counsel more than ever. We lost Mom in late May of 2008, her last Mother's Day with us spent in a hospice home, her battle with cancer in its last skirmishes. I was fortunate enough to be given the opportunity, by my editor at Masters Athlete magazine and a good friend, Sean Callahan, to pen the following essay as a small "Thank You" note to the most influential woman in my life. I love and miss you, Mom. But the lessons you taught, about life and love, remain with me forever. -B

The rules of the game, according to Mom

Jane Pare O'Connor Morin won't be remembered as a giant in the pantheon of legendary coaches. But she was to me, and to my siblings. She was my rock, our matriarch, and the lessons she instilled in us went far beyond the playing fields. Mom's no-nonsense but fun-loving parents on the West Side of Manchester, New Hampshire, forged her philosophy regarding sports. She learned early to keep games in perspective. But she also knew that sports were important, especially to kids, and she understood that games were often a valuable metaphor for life.

I was one of six O'Connor kids, five boys and a girl (the toughest of the bunch). Growing up in New Jersey, we all played sports, and we learned to play them right, because of Mom. Dad was a fan, and a decent athlete in his own right, as best as I can remember. But work kept him from home far too often, and his cigarette addiction took him from us far too young. I was only 12, unable or unwilling to comprehend the finality of death, and the void it left in my life.

Mom grieved, but she didn't give in to her grief. After all, with six kids, including an infant, she had precious little time for wallowing. For three years, we stuck it out in New Jersey, just as my fledgling soccer and hockey careers were shifting from low to high gears. Still, the transition was a smooth one, thanks to two of Mom's great beliefs. One, sports would keep us out of trouble (generally true). Second, her children were her first and last priority (always true). She didn't pamper us, and sports always played second fiddle to academics. But if we wanted to play, she made it happen.

The only catch was that we had to abide by Mom's ironclad rules regarding games. First, you played hard, but fair. Sportsmanship trumped winning, always. Second, "If you decide to play, it’s a commitment. You give it everything. You owe it to your teammates, and you owe it to yourself." It was a singular life lesson that I often find myself repeating, whether to my own two girls, or the numerous youngsters I coach (I wish I could tell some of my Over-40 teammates the same thing, but it's doubtful those old dogs can re-learn old tricks).

When I decided to follow in the footsteps of my idol, New York Ranger great Eddie Giacomin, and become a hockey goalie, Mom's reply was succinct. "You get the equipment, and I'll get you to the rink." That meant a paper route. Goalie gear in the early 1970s wasn't as exorbitant as it is today, but it was still a big investment for a kid paying his own way. But I desperately wanted to play. So I got the paper route. I got the gear. And Mom got me to the rink, without fail, regardless of the ungodly hour of our practices, or the treacherous, mid-winter road conditions.

Eventually, after my sophomore year in high school, our clan headed north to New England. Mom was savvy enough to realize that she could sell the New Jersey house for a tidy profit, and move to a nice home in Manchester NH, where she had the support of family. And my education continued. During my teenage "angry years," I'd play Mom in tennis, and rarely won. That's because the woman could return everything. No matter how much I huffed and puffed, there was no blowing down the house on the other side of the net. "You're just beating yourself," Mom would say quietly, laying the foundation of another life lesson I still carry with me.

Other times, Mom wasn't so quiet. She never shied from drawing attention to herself where her kids were concerned. This was a woman who would strain her vocal chords to the point of laryngitis, exhorting my high school soccer squad and excoriating our overwhelmed refs. Which made me, a senior captain, a target. During one memorable exchange, one ref pulled me aside mid-game and said: "Look, O'Connor, I don't care that your Mom is always pointing out our mistakes, or that she's usually right. Just tell her to stop sharing it with the world."

Mom's own world was rocked 14 years ago, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Ever the warrior, Mom battled the disease, and it was soon in remission. We figured that cancer, like any other hurdle that came across her path, was no contest for this feminine force of nature. She returned to her tennis, and began riding a bike (easier on the joints) and attending water aerobics classes. She seemed the picture of health, and her own late-life fitness regimen was a model I still aspire to. So it came as a shock, several years ago, when Mom's cancer returned. Time, like the cancer itself, is a relentless opponent, and Mom is in the fight of her life these days. It's a fight I know that, ultimately, she can't win.

Recently, Mom offered her prized tennis racquet to my eldest child. Maddi smiled wide and thanked Grammy. It tore my heart out. I knew Mom wasn't simply passing along an heirloom. She was passing the torch, acknowledging that she wouldn't play again. I appreciate the circle of life. I'm just not ready to close this particular loop, because any victories that life brings will lose a little luster if I can't share them with the best coach I ever had.

FINIS