First snow in Hay River
It hasn’t been very long since my first post, but it feels as if Hay River has already changed for me as a community, as an opportunity, and as a home. Afraid of being sedentary, I had begun running, following a trail along the river. Day to day, I observed leaves shedding from the birches as the sun neared the horizon at ever earlier times. The air grew chill, and I was grateful for my impulse purchase of proper running tights, despite still feeling ridiculous as I pull them on. Ice began to form on the edges of the river, thawing with the afternoon sun, only to reappear the following morning. Influenced by George R. R. Martin, I couldn’t help but think of the refrain of the Stark family: Winter is coming.
Ensconced in the school gymnasium after school, coaching volleyball, I could forget for a few minutes of the rapidly fading autumn. I focused instead on trying to instill the joy of fatigue and aching muscles. Having a team that accepted all those who came to practice meant I couldn’t demand highly skilled play, and instead focused on trying to share the joy I experience being involved in sports, the camaraderie of teams, and the dignity of effort. Of course, I found myself frustrated, trying to find some way to have these kids, who seem to believe they have already achieved a wisdom to which I still aspire, to simply try, to sweat. Too soon, before I was sure if we were ready, if I was ready, we were piling into the bus to head to Fort Smith for the Lawrie Hobart Volleyball Tournament. Luckily I could forget about the volleyball itself, instead wondering how I found myself as one of three chaperones for 30 prepubescent girls and boys.
The weekend passed in a whirlwind of sport, crisis, and sleeplessness. Focusing on the scores in the games we played, one would surely be disappointed at one crushing defeat after another. But for me that was always the wrong level of analysis. On the sidelines, I hopped and howled, encouraging the individual actions of my players. Cheering wildly, I finally saw one young man get a serve over the net after weeks of effort. Whooping with glee I saw another young man sprint from one end of the court to the other to help his teammates return the ball. I began to see these young men understand the exhilaration of pushing oneself, of knowing that you committed everything. For every boy who began to understand the responsibility and joy of a team, however, there was another one who wouldn’t to engage with the game, often refusing to move their feet or even their hands. Standing on the court with arms crossed one boy made me wish for a moment that I could pull him from the game. I couldn’t understand how he could let his teammates dive to their knees, accumulating bruises and scrapes, without wanting to be a part of their sacrifices. Out of my mouth spilled, “Nice try! Try and move towards the ball next time”. Before I could dwell on lackluster performances, there was always another kid finally making a connection and doing something, for them, spectacular.
Snow on the River
Drama and excitement continued outside of the games. Swimming with some of the boys at the rec center gave me the dubious honour of being the “coolest coach ever”. My ego was quickly deflated when another boy managed to concuss himself mildly while fooling around. Hilarity and bemusement ensued while chaperoning the tournament dance, watching awkward slow dances and rhythmically impaired jumping and arm-waving. I instructed on the intricacies of chess and bonded over ping-pong (while averting my official gaze from “sting-pong”). By the end of the weekend, we piled into the bus, a subdued group, exhausted but not beaten. I was content thinking that I had begun to understand these kids as individuals with potentials and vulnerabilities.
I sat on the bus, watching the wind blow and the snow begin to fall. The buffalo facing into the forming blizzard were a sure sign that winter was here, but I think I have a home within which to brave it.
Miled Reflections 