Denial ...

Hi gang,

Well, it's been a busy, busy year since my last post, and I need to make more of a concerted effort to tend to my blogs! In less than a month, I'll celebrate the first anniversary of the little "fluff and buff" I had on my right hip, which was necessity by 40-plus years of abuse on the ice and on the soccer fields. Little did I know, at the time, that the hip arthroscopy I had done a week before my 53rd birthday would force me to take a long, hard look at my Peter Pan lifestyle of playing sports into my second half-century.

I've always bounced back from surgery, starting with work on my lower legs (both) to relieve pressure from severe shin splints in college -- which spelled the end to my budding soccer career -- to more recent 'scopes on my knees. The hip work, however, proved to be considerably more daunting. Arthritis is like that. The surgeons can shave bone and repair torn labrums and clean up the frayed cartilege (which, I might add, was plentiful in the ol' hip joint), but there was no miracle cure for the arthritis. So I'm left with a small section of the hip that's bone-on-bone, facing the prospect of hip replacement somewhere down the road, and the very real possibility that my days of playing goalie might be over (the accompanying photo was taken in the spring of 2008, shortly after my team got spanked at a tournament at Lake Placid).

All of which got me thinking about a post I penned a couple of years ago about my brother Chris, and his decision to call it quits from competitive hockey ("competitive" in the most generous sense of the word) after another tournament in Lake Placid the following year. In the true spirit of denial, I revisit that post fairly regularly. In a weird way, it helps me to stay focused on my rehab, now going on 12 months and counting. It gets me worked up into a lather about how I won't give in to Father Time, how I'll keep tilting at windmills. Sure, I don't like my odds. But I've never been much of a betting man. And as long as there's hope ...

Hanging them up ...

May 17, 2009

Boston, late evening

I had a bad feeling the moment the email downloaded on my Outlook Express. The sender was my brother, Chris, and the subject line simply read: "Hanging 'em up ..."

I didn't want to open the email, to be perfectly honest. Chris is my younger brother, by 16 months, and we'd just spent a tremendous weekend playing hockey together at Lake Placid. True, our team didn't record a single win (or a single goal, for that matter), but being on the ice with my brother was a real treat for me. I'm one of six siblings, including five boys. Yet, due to myriad circumstances, we didn't get many opportunities to play alongside each other after elementary school, though most of us continued to pursue sports.

Later in life, after my older brother Sean became an accomplished orthopaedic surgeon, our gang of old jocks would joke that our family alone would ensure him a steady practice. And Chris certainly had his share of injuries. He suffered back problems as a kid, and blew up one of his knees playing indoor soccer in college. Recently, there were knee and elbow issues (admittedly, the injury roll-call becomes a blur after a while). But if anyone could overcome an injury, it was Chris.

The guy is built like a tank, and (unlike me) has a real focus and commitment to weight-training and stretching routines. During our old-timer hockey weekend, I marveled at his adherence to his pre-game stretching ritual. Me? I pre-medicated with a 800 mg of Ibuprofen and hoped for the best. Chris was one of the best players on our team that weekend (though I'm afraid I'm damning him with faint praise, given our miserable showing), and on the long drive home we talked about getting together to play again soon. Maybe even another tournament. That's why his email took me aback.

Chris was actually writing to a guy who runs a local pick-up skate, and he had blind Cc:'d me on it. The note was brief and to the point: "Several weeks ago in one of our Monday night skates I collided hard with one of my team mates and hurt my left shoulder. The shoulder won't need surgery but I've decided it's time for me to hang up the skates. One too many sports related injuries over the years, I guess."

I knew about the shoulder injury, but thought it was, at worst, a minor hindrance. That's either a testament to my brother's toughness, or my own willingness to ignore the severity of any injury. Maybe both. Regardless, I'm hoping this is only a temporary setback (I fired a quick reply, asking: "You sure?"), and not permanent. I can't imagine that Chris has played his last hockey game. Otherwise, I'd have to acknowledge that I might be one step closer to calling it quits.

Which brings me back to Lake Placid. We had two pairs of father-son tandems on our squad, and each had the tournament photographer take a separate photo of them after the team photo was taken. I briefly considered having him snap a photo of Chris and myself, but then thought; "Nah, we'll have plenty more opportunities." Little did I know. These moments are fleeting. That's probably why they're so special to us. Enjoy them.

Best,
-Brion

The luck of the draw ...

Sept. 11, 2010

Nine years ago this morning, I was hunkered down in my basement office, furiously tapping away at my keyboard, trying to wrap up a story before my scheduled flight the next day. Lauri called me after dropping the girls off at day care, asking if I'd heard the news -- a plane had flown into the World Trade Center in New York. I hadn't, but my immediate reaction was that it must have been a small, single-prop craft. Maybe a lunatic, maybe just an awful accident. Like the rest of us, my mind wouldn't even consider the reality that eventually came to pass.

I went upstairs, flipped on the tube, and watched the horror unfold. By that time, the second airliner had flown into the South Tower of the WTC, and all hell was breaking loose in Manhattan. I sat there, dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what was happening right before my eyes. Terrorism had taken on an entirely new meaning. When the TV anchors announced that the second jet was United Flight 175, a chill knifed through me like a bony finger of the Grim Reaper. United Flight 175 was my flight the next day. Although I was on assignment for Continental, my trip was organized by the Hawaiian tourism office, and they booked me on United, flying direct to Los Angeles, then to Hawaii.

My mood immediately shifted from disbelief to ashen. I was actually shaking, watching the coverage. My story didn't get done. My flight, and trip, were canceled. My life, like the lives of countless thousands, was changed forever. So had the world as we knew it. And we're reminded of that every time we fly, every time we wait in a security line. Our daughters, thankfully, were too young to comprehend the depth of the evil on display that day. Lauri, my wife, was understandably distraught. I, for some odd reason, was simply numb.

That night, I played hockey down at the local prep school. I hadn't planned to, but needed to do something to shake myself out of my stupor. So I grabbed my gear, drove down to the rink, and got into the first fist fight I could recall since high school. It was stupid, a reflection, I'm sure, of the tension that everyone was feeling that night. Not even hockey, a game that was my great escape for most of my life, could provide any refuge.

A month later, I flew to Denver, Colorado, to meet my brothers Matt and Mike. We were headed to the High Lonesome Lodge on the western slopes of the Rockies, and along the way the United States unleashed its military fury on Bagdad. When we arrived at the High Lonesome Lodge, the place looked like a ghost town. Buzz Cox, the manager, explained that the lodge had been booked solid by Cantor-Fitzgerald, the finance firm devastated by the 9/11 attacks.

Americans, to this day, are justifiably outraged at the murderous acts of Sept. 11, 2001. Like most, I will never forget. But I also try to remember how fortunate I was, of the difference that 24 hours can make. Did God "spare" me? I don't think so, because that would insinuate that He didn't spare the 2,977 people who tragically lost their lives that day (and the 19 hijackers He allowed to live long enough to perpetrate such a heinous act). Sometimes I think the Almighty simply sets things in motion, and then lets the chips fall. Why wasn't I on that flight, along with Ace Bailey and Mark Bavis of the Los Angeles Kings and 63 others? It was just fate; the luck of the draw. It's a cruel reminder that none of us are guaranteed anything. Ever.

Which is why we should celebrate everything we do have, and never once take the things we hold dear for granted. I get to enjoy this stunning Saturday morning, and plan to go for a bike ride the minute I get this essay posted. Today, I'll hug my bride and our girls a little more tightly. I'd like to say I do that every day, but I don't. Life, with all its challenges, tends to dull the immediacy of these moments. But every now and then I'm reminded. I need that.

Best,
-Brion

Wild Child

Watching my two daughters - 13 and 11 - playing together in the backyard on this beautiful Saturday morning reminded me of one of my favorite essays, penned a good five years ago for the Trustees of Reservations.

Into the Wild

My two young daughters love being outdoors – in sprawling, windswept fields, lush green forests, and soothing, sandy beaches that stretch forever. Whether that's the result of nature or nurture, I don't know. They’ve never had a choice. My wife, Lauri, and I possess a primal need to flee from our work-a-day worlds. We’ve always found that escape in unspoiled settings. And ever since our girls came into this world, they’ve accompanied us.

Still, it’s not like we’ve got a pair of wool-clad, granola-chomping nature imps. They’ll zone out in front of the Boob Tube as quick as any kid, immersed in the hypnotic pull of SpongeBob Squarepants, Fairly Odd Parents, Jimmy Neutron and Lizzie Maguire. In short, they’re “normal.” To get them outside and engaged, they need a nudge.

That wasn’t always easy, especially when the girls were toddlers. But we managed, graduating from Baby Bjorns to backpack-style kid carriers to all-terrain strollers. What we learned was that children are incredibly adaptable. The key is getting them out before they know any better, so they accept the great outdoors as part of the natural order of being a kid.

The adjustment, ironically, may be tougher for the parents. We're the ones who fret about everything that we think we need to do to make it a great experience. It was my older brother Sean, the father of four, who shook me free of my paralysis by putting parenting in proper perspective. “Brion, you only have to stay one step ahead of a six-year-old.”

He’s right. We weren’t planning an Everest expedition. Armed with Sean’s sage advice, I decided not to let things get too complicated. We started with small trips, for an hour or so, and then just let them build (the girls, we found, are particularly adept at telling us when they are ready to take the next step). We kept it simple.We packed snacks, an extra sweater, bug spray and sun block. Without lesson plans or itineraries, we set out with faith in the idea that when kids and nature mix––something wonderful will happen. And it did. The girls just romped. And we joined them, from the fruitless-but-wildly-entertaining chase of butterflies to the energizing investigation of intricate tidal pools and shadowy forest floors.

Today, my oldest, eight-year-old Maddi, craves open spaces. As we crest the boardwalk at Crane Beach in Ipswich, she inevitably picks up the pace, her spontaneous giggle revealing the unfettered joy of a child with room to run. Six-year-old Brynne takes a different approach, aware that keeping up with big sister is a big undertaking. Instead, she delves into the minutiae of small, secret places, whether on the leaf-filled serpentine trails of Ravenswood or in the scrub pine woods behind the dunes at Crane, uncovering frogs and worms and salamanders.

Watching Maddi and Brynne, something else quite remarkable happens. Lauri and I realize that our girls, with their unbridled enthusiasm for the natural world, spark our own imaginations. With that, they help rekindle our passion for the great outdoors.

North Shore resident Brion O’Connor is a freelance writer and longtime member of The Trustees of Reservations.

Four hundred words to last forever

Father's Day, 2010

Since I can remember, Father's Day has been a time of reflection for me. This year is no different. Below is an essay I wrote to Dad last year, and just felt the need to post it again (with updates, of course, as Father Time waits for no man). Still miss him, and think of him, often ...

Thinking of Dad

Today, on Father's Day, I find myself torn between generations. On one hand, I'm looking ahead to the coming challenges I face as a dad (my girls are 11 and 13; life is unlikely to get any easier in the foreseeable future). On the other, I'm thinking of my own father. It's been almost four decades since we lost Dad, a victim of a smoking habit he just couldn't break. I say "we" because, by all accounts, Dr. John Joseph O'Connor Jr. was an immensely popular man. That was doubly true under his own roof, with a beautiful wife and six kids who adored him. He finally succumbed to his Camel-induced cancer in August of 1971, just before I began 8th grade. I can't begin to describe the upheaval that loss caused, in part because I probably never fully dealt with it. We O'Connors are pretty crafty when it comes to compartmentalizing our feelings, though some are better than others.

Now that I'm past my own half-century mark, my own memories of Dad are somewhat faded, like the edges of an antique, sepia-toned photograph (similar to the one above, of Mom and Dad on an early date in New York City). I remember watching the ambulance leaving our driveway, not understanding that I'd never see Dad again. And I remember bawling my eyes out at the funeral, when the stark sight of his casket brought home the full impact of our new-found reality: Dad was gone, and gone for good.

The years that followed brought a rough-and-tumble road of highs and lows. Mom, a truly remarkable woman, managed to keep our clan together when a number of her kids – myself included – threatened to veer out of control. Later in life, after I began my career, it slowly dawned on me that Mom had been both a mother and father to all of us. The burden must have been immense, yet Mom never flinched (or, if she did, she never let on to us). So I suppose that, on this day, she deserves credit as well. But she had help. Just before Dad went in for exploratory surgery in January, 1971, he wrote us a letter, parting words of wisdom from a man who knew full well that no one is guaranteed to wake up from the operating table. Mom saved the letter, and made sure we each got a copy after Dad passed away. I wish I could say Dad's words always kept me on the straight and narrow, but I've made too many mistakes. But those are mine, not his.

Still, for a man who understood that he might be looking the Grim Reaper straight in the eye, his words were kind, supportive, almost soothing. Here's an excerpt:

"As for loving and helping each other, this is the greatest gift you can give me. Sometimes it's hard, I know, but it can be done, and once done is a great and warm feeling and a wonderful thing. And you bigger children, watch over and guide Pooken especially – he's awfully little and will need all of you.

"Always stand straight and honest – work hard, hurt no one, enjoy the really good things in life. Look at trees and the sky and flowers and really see them as God's gift to us. Be fair in all your dealings with people. Try to see and understand their side. Don't get into arguments over unimportant things – rise above that – but be strong and steady in your principles. If you have to stand all alone for what you believe to be right, do it! And somehow know I'll be beside you always."

Over the ensuing 38 years, the simple, straightforward 400 words in Dad's letter have buoyed me, nurtured me, and sustained me. They've comforted me, and motivated me. I still cannot read his line about being beside me without my eyes watering. Clearly, the words don't replace the man, but they've kept his legacy alive. There was no better proof of that than the spring of 2008, as my Mom was in the final stages of her own struggle with cancer, and my five siblings and I gathered in Manchester, NH. Our spouses later commented on just how moving it was to see the bond that the six of us have, how close we are, how much we care for one another. This, again, is part of Dad's legacy. He would have been proud, I'm sure.

For the longest time, I was convinced that I'd never have children of my own, due in part to my own fears of what the future might hold, and the possibility of leaving them prematurely. Then I met an amazing woman, one who had maternal instincts in spades. Fatherhood no longer seemed so daunting, not as long as I had Lauri to share the load. We've been blessed with two terrific daughters, Maddi and Brynne. Neither are perfect, but given the fact that I'm their dad, that would be an unfair expectation.

I've now lived longer than my Dad. Maddi, my oldest, is exactly the same age I was when he died. That responsibility sometimes scares the daylights out of me, even now. In those moments of doubt, I still talk to Dad (and Mom), asking for advice, and for patience. I know they're both beside me. More than anything else, they taught me that family come first, no matter what pitfalls life throws in our path. But I also need to find the strength to avoid disappointing them. That's not a burden. It's a blessing.

Best,
-Brion

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

The annual physical ...

CONSUMER WARNING: The following blog entry contains material of explicit nature, which some readers may find unsettling, or even disturbing!

March 31, 2010

There are few things in life more revealing, or more, um, invasive, than the annual physical. Not confession, not those heart-to-heart chats with my bride, not those long, soul-searching conversations with the man in the mirror. Nope, the annual physical exam takes the cake, because your body doesn't lie.

This year, I shuffled into Dr. Taylor's office resigned to hear the worst. It hadn't been a good year, physically speaking, and my body was a veritable road map of inactivity. Between a banged up shoulder (the result of a nasty over-the-handlebars mountain bike spill) and a persistent groin injury, my cycling and hockey playing had been severely curtailed over the past 18 months. And the proof was hanging over my belt. I had packed on at least a good 20 pounds of lard, absolutely useless adipose tissue. I knew that wasn't going to go over well with Dr. Taylor, a straight-shooter who I've known for almost a quarter century now.

A nurse in pajamas takes me through the rudimentary, baseline tests. I'm still a shade over 6-foot-2, which means I haven't started to shrink, vertically speaking. Horizontally, I continue to expand. My weight now hovers around 230. I'm tempted to toss off every last stitch of clothing, but I know that's not going to make much of a difference. The fact that the nurse says my weight "isn't bad" for someone my height and age (52 now) tells me all I need to know about the collective health of this country. She says the same for my pulse and blood pressure readings, which, if you charted on a graph for the past 15 years, would look like the front side of the Matterhorn. "OK," I tell myself, "you knew this wasn't going to be pretty."

So the doc comes in and, patiently, listens to my concerns and my confessions (I always feel, somehow, that I've let him down when I've let myself go). Some things are a natural byproduct of age ... the fading eyesight and faulty hearing. Others -- primarily a waistline running amok and the loss of muscle tone and flexibility -- are self-imposed. Dr. Taylor nods and smiles, pokes and prods, and records all the salient points on his laptop. In his matter-of-fact style, he tells me what I already know: I'm woefully out of shape, and need to turn things around if I hope to keep pursing any kind of truly "active" lifestyle. Actually, he didn't say "woefully," but I know better.

No physical, of course, is complete without "the exam." And Dr. Taylor, always the gentleman, always saves this indelicate test for last. I honestly don't mind the notorious digital exam. Not that it's pleasant, mind you, but it sure beats the alternative of not knowing if I might have prostate issues. Rarely can ignorance be more dangerous.

But everything seems to check out OK this time around. I pull up my trousers, and think about pulling myself up by the bootstraps and getting back into a sensible, and serious, exercise routine. I owe it to Lauri and the girls. And I owe it to myself.

Best,
-Brion

Saddle up!

Originally post Nov. 11, 2009

Boston, promising!

My daughter Brynne is possessed. I suppose, if I were to be completely truthful, I always suspected there was a chance of this happening. But I, like so many parents, turned a blind eye toward my child's true passion and hoped, instead, that horses would just be a passing phase for my youngest. I should have known better.

After all, this is the girl who, at the ripe old age of six, came up to me one day with a determined look in her eye and asked me if I'd take to over to Myopia, an old-moneyed hunt-and-polo club that abuts our neighborhood. "Why?" I asked, thinking I'd already guessed the answer.

"Because I want to see if they'll give me a job, so I can ride the horses," Brynne replied, obviously having thought this plan through.

I was caught completely off guard.

For a second, I was speechless, probably because my heart had lodged in my throat. This earnest young girl of mine wasn't asking for riding lessons, wasn't asking for a horse. She was asking for the opportunity -- at 6! -- to earn her riding time. "Oh, honey," I said, not knowing in the least the Pandora's Box I was prying open, "if you want it that bad, Mommy and I will find a way to make it happen."

And we have. Brynne started taking lessons within the month, with a gentlemen recommended by a friend who happens to belong to Myopia. For Brynne, it was love at first ride. She took to it naturally, looking calm and composed from the get-go. Then we got really lucky.

When Patrick confided that work commitments would prevent him from continuing with Brynne, he recommended Karla Parnell. Brynne has been with Karla ever since, riding once a week (sometimes twice a week in the summer, when Lauri and I can scrape together a few extra bucks) from nearby Looking Glass Farms, atop Penny or Cricket or Dabble or Eagle. Lauri and I love Karla's no-nonsense approach, and Karla has really taken a shine to Brynne because she doesn't want to just show up and ride. She wants to immerse herself in the experience.

Brynne arrives early, tacks up the horses, and stays late, brushing them down afterward. I swear, I sometimes think there's nothing she'd rather be doing than mucking out stalls. Nothing except riding, that is. And, without fail, every time I watch her saunter off with Karla, my heart stutters.

At home, Brynne's room is a shrine to equitation. She has horsey blankets and pajamas and jackets and calendars and books and portraits and statues. On the door is a sign that says, simply, "Brynne's Stable." Her favorite stuffed sleeping buddy is a handsome chestnut named Sampson. Thanks to Brynne, our DVR is overflowing with episodes of "The Saddle Club." Her Christmas list is copied directly from Dover Saddlery. She is, without a doubt, in deep.

The first photo above is from Christmas two or three years ago, during a visit to my brother in-law's house. In classic class-clown fashion (Brynne is the second child, after all), she's horsing around on her cousin Olie's new hobby horse

But this past fall, during the annual Myopia Hunter Pace, my daughter's favorite pastime really hit home. I watched as Brynne, in full riding regalia (a second-hand outfit neatly tailored by Lauri, I should add), came trotting out of the woods aboard Cricket and cleared the final jump. It was beautiful beyond words.

My little girl, now 10, didn't look so little anymore (the second photo was snapped a moment later). She was a young and talented equestrian, confident and radiant. Her smile was as brilliant as it was priceless.

While I love the fact that Brynne plays hockey, I've never once allowed myself to think -- not for a moment -- that her deepest affections lie with my chosen sport. Brynne likes the rink, but loves the stable. It's as simple as that. She's always been a young lady who knows what she wants, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Best,
-Brion