Apollo Hackett: Humility [2/2]

[Renomitsu 930]

Sometimes you convince yourself that you want something.

 

Proximity is important. If something seems attainable, close, and worthwhile in the short term, you usually take it – and in its stead, you give up another opportunity that would leave you happier overall.

 

Hockey was almost that thing for me.

 

 

I’m Apollo. Yeah, like the sun god in Greek mythology. No, I’m not that cool. Or hot. Dad was a teacher – moved to the US from Canada – and mom was a local girl who waitressed.

 

I grew up in Ithaca, New York. Yeah, impoverished, cold-as-balls Ithaca. Not a lot of money, and not a lot of history – unless you count typhoid epidemics and guns. I’d always liked the chilliness of Ithaca, if I’m being frank; I’ve lost track of the number of times I’d been bundled up under a dozen blankets as a kid to keep warm in the winter. Heat, three meals a day, and having parents at home were all luxuries – but you can be sure I cherished them when I got them.

 

See, when dad moved down from Canada, he didn’t have a lot of money – he, like a few other Canadians, was hoping for the ‘American Dream’ in the early nineties – but something strange happened with his paperwork and he wasn’t certified to teach in the US. Importantly, however, he had a hope for something greater for his family He worked as a substitute for a handful of years, took a loan out with whatever tiny credit he had, and used that to fund his way to a teaching degree. Like all teaching jobs, however, it didn’t pay much based on what he told me later on. When I was in school, my parents struggled with being poor, and sometimes that stress boiled over into fights and frustration. Some say poverty teaches humility – and I’d like to think it does.

 

But it also teaches desperation.

 

I wish I could say I was the class clown, needing to be the center of attention and handling frustration in a positive way. In grade school, I instead got angry. Angry with how unstable things could be at home, angry with how I didn’t get to see my parents because I didn’t understand how hard they worked for me, and angry because I couldn’t be as good as anyone else. In elementary and middle school, I bullied kids. Gave them sneers, used my size to intimidate them and look ‘cool,’ punched a kid or two to prove a point. I was such a little sh*t. Dad still jokes about it with me to this day.

 

That didn’t mean I was awful at school – just misdirected. Or at least that’s what my guidance counselor told me. Phys ed was a great way for me to let off steam, and dad would take me out to the ice rink every once in a while to skate. He told me stories about my uncle Saul, and how he was one of the lucky one in a hundred thousand that was good enough to play in the Victory Hockey League. But he was in Canada, hired by the Brampton Blades, and then off to Toronto briefly, then over to Seattle. We’d watch him on TV every once in a long while – but we could only really see him when he played in New York. I bonded with Dad over hockey, mostly – because I sure couldn’t connect with him in school, even if my grades were okay. He always reminded me that Uncle Saul took a chance and put everything he had into hockey – and while he made good money, it was far from a guarantee.

 

As much as I disagreed with and tried to get into shouting matches with him, Dad showed me how important stability was. The world’s scary when you don’t know how long your paycheck will stretch.

 

He and Mom took extra shifts to afford hockey gear for me, since that and science were just about the only things that would make me happy. We got some old pads and I’d play with some neighborhood kids when one of the nearby ponds froze over. I was a little taller, a little heavier, and a lot more willing to lay out other kids (within reason, anyhow); and, probably pretty importantly, I learned how to play fair and nice at my father’s request. My hockey gear was a privilege I never wanted to lose.

 

Once I got to the high school level, it became pretty hard to keep up with hockey. My parents emphasized the importance of college, and while it was nice to play with the neighborhood guys, I knew a chance at a decent-paying job would be worth far more than a 1% chance of making it to the big leagues. I played with the varsity squad mid-way through my first year, since the neighborhood guys I was friends with were the same ones on this team. It almost seemed like being ‘poor’ didn’t matter to them – I could still be on a sports team, a ‘put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is’ jock rather than a ‘stuff-you-in-a-locker’ jock. But I studied, and studied hard; while my grades were only a little above average, I managed a decent GPA and made my parents happy.

 

I realized quickly that, in spite of how my friends and I made big plays at the frozen pond rink, real competition was a little different. Guys just about my size could be found across rosters at larger, better-renowned schools, and we didn’t win a whole lot. Hockey still served as a nice outlet for stress, but my passion for it waned; I focused on acing biology and making sure I didn’t fail elsewhere so I’d still have a shot at some decent mid-Atlantic and northeastern schools. By my junior year we’d finally made a foray into the NY State playoffs, but that was pretty short-lived; we were ousted in the first round by some “Iona Prep School,” I think, just happy to have made an appearance. I think that’s where my first scout showed up, and they weren’t terribly impressed.

 

When senior year rolled around, I was applying broadly, with assistance. Colleges eat up stories about growing up poor and having decent grades, and though I wasn’t a superstar academically, it was enough for state schools to take me in – and that was enough. I made my way to Indiana to attend Notre Dame for a degree in biology, in hopes of studying tundra wildlife, working with a small athletic scholarship to help assuage my student loan pains. Notre Dame had a good hockey program – but I would probably ride the pine for most of the year.

 

I spent most of my freshman and sophomore years alternately practicing with the hockey team, engrossed in books, or in the lab – but as I spent more and more time with the hockey team, the more it became apparent that I could make it big. I had breakout performances against Michigan Tech and Providence in my sophomore year, with a few highlight hits and trigger-finger shot blocks that drew a couple, then suddenly a dozen different professional scouts. My confidence grew, but with a quiet game against Michigan and a nagging injury, all hype fell quiet. In the national championship against Minnesota, I was in the game for a single period and hadn’t performed well.

 

Maybe it was over. Maybe it’d be better this way – after all, lab work payed acceptably, I could be respected by my peers if I published a couple of papers, maybe discover a couple of new species in the arctic – who knew?

 

A few weeks later, I got a call from a stranger.

 

“I’m the Assistant GM of the expansion Houston Bu—"

 

The VHLM? Was this a joke?

 

 

Suddenly, a second – “Saskatoon is looking for def—"

 

I asked the two of them to give me a night or two to think about it, hung up, and immediately realized I hadn’t asked for details. Over the next couple of days, I excitedly called my family but had an inkling of doubt; what if this was a scam? Was it a prank played by one of my friends?

 

No – it was the real deal.

 

“$1.5 million,” both teams said.

 

I could be nearly set for life. Give back to my parents, the guys back home. It would be more than I would make in ten years as a lead researcher – and that’d be assuming I took the time to get a Ph.D.

 

I called Dad, and got the contract; the addresses matched, the names of the general managers matched. This really, really was it.

 

For now, I play for the Saskatoon Wild, blessed to have been given an opportunity to play the sport I love in some of the same arenas that my uncle did twenty years ago. I gave about a third of my contract money to my parents – thanks for all they’d done, and sorry for picking such a volatile, high-risk career. Another third went to the boys in Ithaca for a rink.

 

I still keep the pads Mom and Dad bought me when I was eight, a reminder of humble origins and an opportunity that nearly slipped me by.

[leafssteen 50]

Review: Very well written bio and I found it quite interesting. I also enjoy the addition of photos, however I feel some titles or color could make this bio even better.

Overall, great job and good luck with your career! 

 

[Blawn 20]

Review: Great background for Apollo! I especially liked his growth from "bully for the sake of being a bully" to putting all that energy into hockey. Your writing is very strong and I didn't find many grammatical errors. Go Notre Dame!