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

My daughter, the teenager!

Originally published on Oct. 14, 2009

Boston, beautiful & brisk.

On Friday, I will become the father of a teenager! How is that possible? My life forever changed on Oct. 16, 1996, when MaryAylssa Diane "Maddi" O'Connor made her grand entrance into the world. And, if I remember correctly (sleep deprived as I may have been), she entered eyes wide open, with a pair of lungs to match! I became not only a father, but a husband in a much, much more profound sense than I ever could have imagine, being with Lauri throughout her labor.

The fact that I was in that hospital room, helping as much as any fumbling husband really can at that moment, was a testament to the seismic shift my life had taken in the previous 16 months. At age 36, the guy who my Mom said was her "confirmed bachelor," got married. Part of that deal, I knew, was children, if we were lucky enough. I've never met a woman -- or maybe I should say I never dated a women -- with such a strong maternal drive as Lauri, and she made it clear that if we were going to get hitched, then fatherhood was in my future.

Of course, being a guy, I spent our first year of marriage blissfully unaware, carrying on like I always had, running off to play hockey and hoops, riding my bike, going windsurfing. Lauri and I were young professionals, settling into a new house, all fancy free and open to a world of possibilities. But Lauri was setting up a "home," building the foundation. After all, it was my bride who, when she first saw our neighborhood, commented: "What a great place this will be to raise kids." She got us a cat -- a great, entertaining feline we named Marley -- to help me get adjusted to the concept of responsibility. Then, shortly after Valentine's Day, we learned we were in the "family way."

We signed up for parenting classes, and Lauri got busy with fixing up the new bedroom, buying cloths (a late ultrasound revealed we were having a girl!), and reading, reading, always reading. Me? I just stayed out of the way. We really enjoyed picking out the name, and settled on MaryAlyssa Diane O'Connor. The name is a playful combination of my sister's (MaryEllen), Lauri's mom (Diane), and a name we both really loved, Alyssa. Plus, her initials gave her the instant nickname of Maddi, which we joked would come in handy once our eldest became a teenager and decided she hated her name!

Now that moment is at hand, and I can't believe what a blur the last 13 years have been. Of course, everyone tells you it will pass like a freight train. Intellectually, you understand that. But emotionally, you want nothing more than to have a life DVR, something that allows you to pause, capture, or even rewind all the good parts. And there have been so, so many "good parts" watching Maddi on her journey through childhood. She's always had that dazzling smile, those twinkling eyes. She's grown straight and strong, built so much like her beautiful mom. Like most children, Maddi has been a challenge and a joy. An early daycare teacher -- Miss Marcia -- once called Maddi a "gentle soul," and in all the years that have passed since, I don't think anyone has described Maddi more succinctly or more accurately. The girl's got a heart of gold, which is something I really try to remember during all those maddening parent-child flare-ups that inevitably happen between generations. Life has an annoying way of letting all the niggling details -- the small stuff -- wear on our patience and hamper our ability to see the big picture. Again, I'm so grateful for Lauri, and the yin & yang of our partnership that allows us to council one another when one of us is spinning out of control. It's reassuring to have that rock, one that isn't bashful about reminding me just how super our kids are.

Perhaps the greatest compliment I can offer Maddi, and her mom, as well as younger sister Brynne, is letting them know that there is no place, no place, I'd rather be at any moment in time than with them. Though I'm a writer who once lived for adventure travel, I find I have, at most, a 48-hour window while away before I start missing my girls something fierce. I've discovered depths of emotion I never knew existed, fired by Lauri and stoked, constantly, by Maddi and Brynne. I realized that I could never return to the newspaper field, where human tragedy is the daily fodder of the business. I just don't have the stomach for it anymore.

Some of my new-found traits, I admit, are less-than-admirable, like the inevitable Papa Bear reaction to any perceived sleight suffered by my child. Still, always the reporter (and Libra, I suppose), I try to be fair and impartial when Maddi goes through a rough patch, whether it's a falling out among friends or a squabble at home. Often she bears some responsibility, and it's my job as a parent to make sure she understands how her actions impact others. Those lessons haven't always been easy. When she aches, I ache. Like a good friend once told me when Lauri and I were first expecting, there's no greater sense of helplessness than when your child is hurting, and you can't take that pain away.

All that said, we have been incredibly fortunate. We've had a few scares, such as the time Maddi, only two, was rushed to the hospital with an unknown viral infection. But, taking the past 13 years as a whole, we have to count our blessings. We have a small, cozy cottage here in Hamilton, which means that, more often than not, the four of us are tripping all over each other (in addition to the two cats and True, our knucklehound). For the most part, I absolutely love it. Though it would be nice to have a bigger house (just ask Lauri), I can't imagine enjoying the distance that would come between us. Maybe that will change, as Maddi, and then Brynne, burrow deeper into the unsettling arena of adolescence. I hope not. My Mom used to counsel that you prepared kids the best you could, and then you have to let them find their own way. I see Maddi, on the cusp of her teenage years, and I just hope and pray that the adventure is a rich and rewarding one. And I pray the Good Lord lets me be a part of it.

Best,
-Brion

My beautiful bride

Originally published on Nov. 2, 2009

Boston, pristine!

Today is my bride's birthday. She gets one day to celebrate every year. I get 365, because I was lucky enough to have her say "Yes" when I proposed 16 years ago (on my birthday, no less ... how's that for the present of a lifetime?!).

Lauri Zinn O'Connor is a rare and special woman, not only because she puts up with this crusty old Irishman, but because she does so with such grace and quiet understanding. Living with a self-employed freelance writer (or at least this self-employed writer) is no walk in the park, but Lauri somehow makes every day special. That is her gift, and that's why I'm one of the most fortunate men on this planet.

Lauri typically handles all my idiosyncrasies -- and I admit I have more than my fair share -- with her natural good humor and a finely honed sense of convenient amnesia. We have our flare-ups (what couple doesn't?), but even at the worst moments, there is no one I'd rather be with. Her laugh is absolute music to my ears, with a voice to match (my brother Sean once said, in a complimentary nod to Lauri: "Marry someone with a voice you like, because you'll be hearing a lot of it.").

She even indulges me in my Mitty-esque flights of fancy regarding my athletic pursuits, whether its cycling, hockey, soccer, skiing, or something else. In fact, if I'm sitting around moping, due to this injury or that, she's the one who will shake me out of my doldrums and get me back on the flow train.

Lauri's also an incredible mom to our two precocious daughters (who, fortunately, get their good looks from the Zinn side of the family!), and the indisputable head of our little household. She keeps our Hamilton cottage neat as a pin (at least by my standards; I'm sure she'll disagree), inside and out.

But, as my Mom liked to say, there's a world of difference between a house and a home. Lauri makes our house a home. She's the glue that keeps us together, and I want her to know how much I appreciate and adore her. That goes double for the girls, I'm certain.

Yes, I may have my shortcomings, but at least I have the good sense to know I've got it good. Check that. I've got one of the best! Thanks, beautiful!

Hugs and kisses,
-Brion