For those of you who don't know, I coach little kids (9-10 year olds) hockey in Winnetka, IL. USA Hockey, the governing board of all things youth hockey in the US requires you complete a "Coaches Certification Clinic" every season until you move up to a certain level of certification. I'm not sure what level that is, but I hope I get there soon. Anyway, they offer various clinics in every state and you're supposed to register for the level you need, attend, and be certified. Certified means you get to be on the bench with the kids, and a half-inch square sticker on the back of your "USA Hockey Coaches Card" that says Level X. Very prestigious.
In Chicago, these clinics fill up very fast, so you have to register for them like they're White Sox World Series tickets, not fucking likely. I got lucky enough to register for a Chicago clinic, but unfortunately it was the same weekend as my friend Jim's wedding, so I couldn't attend. My coaching companion was also locked out of the Chicago clinics and it quickly became apparent we were going to have to go somewhere out of Illinois to get our certification. This, in itself, sucks horribly, but what sucked even worse was when he couldn't get into the same one I had registered for, eliminating the carpool angle.
Come Sunday, December 12th, 2004. I wake my ass up at 5:30 AM and hop in my car for the picturesque journey to Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. Now, if there's one good thing to come out of this trip, it was the McDonald's breakfast in Fond du Lac. Small towns have the best McDonald's because normal people work there, they speak English, aren't from the ghetto, and are generally very nice to you. The McDonald's bliss ended quickly. I must have hit 88 mph at some point during my drive because it seemed as though I had traveled back in time. I don't think I saw a car manufactured after 1993, local bars advertised Schlitz and PBR, and tapered denim was in full effect.
Good thing the clinic was on a Sunday. A Sunday during football season. A Sunday in a town less than 90 miles from Green Bay. Luckily I had my trusty beard, or I would have probably been lynched for not fitting in. The uniform in Wisconsin requires a beard, some sort of camouflage, 1990 or earlier issue tapered denim, construction boots, and a Packers hat, jersey, jacket or sweater. Then you need to say things in a funny accent using words like "idear", "the plant" or "fishing."
The clinic was absolutely miserable. You basically sit there from 8:00 until 4:00 in the same spot, with small 5 minute breaks every hour or so. They talk to you about things like concussions and hockey drills. Finally, you're so excited to be done that it takes you a few moments to realize you have to drive back through hell, and hopefully hit 88 mph on the way home to return to civilization as you know it.
schrags