This weekend, I laced up my skates for the 5th Annual Panhandle Spring Classic, an adult hockey tournament here in Coeur d’Alene that raises funds for the Inland Northwest Girls Hockey Foundation.
What they’re building is nothing short of extraordinary, and it’s already changing lives.
The foundation is making it possible for girls across the region to dream big through hockey. They’re creating space where young women can see a future in the game, not as spectators, but as players, leaders, and teammates. They are shaping a culture where belonging starts at the rink.
Before one of my games, I saw Sam, a player I’ve known for years. I remember when she was just a kid on the ice. Now she’s grown into a strong, confident young woman with big dreams and the drive to chase them. We sat before a game, she had a huge smile and she told me about her future, what she’s aiming for, and how excited she is. That moment hit me in a quiet, powerful way.
That’s the heartbeat of this tournament. That’s the purpose behind the play.
But it goes deeper than that.
Every person who stepped onto that ice this weekend was carrying something. Some were wrestling with health challenges. Others were carrying grief. Some had the weight of family stress, job insecurity, or the thousand small worries that pile up and wear us down. You don’t always know what people are holding, but you can feel it. It’s there.
Then something shifts. The gear goes on. The puck drops. And all that heaviness, at least for a little while, gets left in the locker room.
That’s what this game gives us. A break from the noise. A place to breathe. A few hours to forget the chaos and just play. Just be part of something bigger than ourselves.
That’s the magic of hockey. It doesn’t solve everything, but it helps. It heals in quiet, unspoken ways.
That magic was everywhere this weekend.
It showed up when I walked into the locker room of the team that had just knocked us out and heard my own album playing over the speakers. They didn’t know it was me. They were just enjoying the music. And I stood there, listening to lyrics I wrote playing over a speaker in a place where I’d just left it all on the ice, and I couldn’t stop smiling.
It showed up again and again in the conversations between periods, when people asked me about The Optimist’s Way, shared their stories, told me what the book had meant to them, or asked how they could get a copy.
There’s something humbling about people connecting to your words in the middle of a hockey tournament. It reminded me why I write. Why I share. Why I keep creating.
The world should feel more like a locker room after a good game. Tired bodies, full hearts, and no one left out.
The Teams That Carried Me
I played on two teams this weekend: the Cobra Chickens, and an upper-division squad proudly wearing the Heritage Health jersey.
Let’s start with the Heritage Health team.
I’m almost 50. Most of those guys were 18 to 20, with a few in their late twenties, including my son, Jake. And still, they welcomed me in net without hesitation. They were fast, skilled, and intense. But what impressed me more than their play was their character.
They treated me like I belonged. Lifted me up when I let a few in. Celebrated the big saves. Played hard and laughed harder. They made space for me without question, and that’s something I won’t forget.
They’ve got bright futures ahead. And while they may not carry this tournament with them the way I will, I’ll always remember how they made me feel. I tried to give them my best, made some big stops, let a few go I’d love back. I saw other goalies dialed in at the highest level and felt that nudge in my gut, you’ve got more work to do. I felt so out of place, that imposter syndrome raging in my head, but their kindness let it rest for a bit and I was able to feel that joy and know that I have a place on the ice.
But the way they stood with me, especially having Jake out there on the ice beside me, that was something special. That’s a memory that’ll stick.
Then came the Cobra Chickens.
We fought hard and clawed our way to the championship. Tied it up with seconds left and forced a shootout, despite my very clear pre-game plea: no shootouts, please. Goalies know what that pressure feels like.
First round, I made the stop. We missed. Second round, they scored. We missed again. Third round, I made the save. We had one last shot… it went high. And that was the game. Second place. Proud effort. No regrets.
Joy in the Unexpected
One of my favorite stories of the weekend came from a team I wasn’t even on, the Zambonis.
They were the underdog team with something electric in their locker room. Coy, their captain, was the most enthusiastic person on the planet. He kept his guys pumped and loose, and when they won their first big game, his celebration lit up the rink. You couldn’t help but grin.
Their goalie, Blake, posted a shutout, and the look on his face said it all. Joy. Relief. Pride. Then they came back the next day and won again, a rematch of the night before. When the final buzzer sounded, the roof practically lifted off the place.
If hockey is a mirror of life, this was one of those moments where the mirror caught the best of us. That’s the kind of joy you don’t need to explain. You just feel it.
And then, to cap it all off, I got to watch the final upper-division championship. Two goalies I look up to, Zane Hill and Jordan Belley, were in net. And man, were they good. Calm under pressure. Technically flawless. Mentally locked in. It was like watching a masterclass in goaltending.
They reminded me why I love this position. Why I keep working at it. Why I still believe I’ve got something left to give.
Behind the Mask
Being a goalie is different. You carry the weight of the game. You’re the last line. Every goal feels like it’s on you. Every save feels like a redemption. It’s lonely, brutal, beautiful work. It’s why I wrote Behind the Mask and The Goalie’s Prayer, to put words to a role that most people don’t truly understand.
It’s not just hockey. It’s a metaphor for life. You stand your ground. You stay calm in chaos. You hold your team together and hope that you’re enough.
And at the end of the tournament, as the crowd left and the lights dimmed, I sat in the locker room for a while. Soaking it all in. Letting it settle.
When I stepped out onto the now-quiet rink, a small group was still carving slow circles into the ice. No scoreboard. No pressure. Just the sound of blades slicing the surface and laughter bouncing off the rafters.
Just joy, pure and simple. That’s hockey. That’s what it gives us.
Gratitude
To the Inland Northwest Girls Hockey Foundation, thank you for giving this weekend purpose. For creating opportunity. For making space for future generations to dream, skate, and lead.
To the volunteers, the teams, the fans, and the families, thank you. You made something beautiful happen.
To everyone who skated, cheered, shot, saved, coached, or just showed up, I hope you felt it too.
Because for a few hours, we all got to set the weight down.
We got to breathe.
We got to remember who we are.
That’s the magic.
And I can’t wait to feel it again.
