I’ve Never Felt More Ashamed as a Father, But It Could’ve Been Much Worse

The Least Proud Moment of My Adult Life

It happened during a spring hockey tournament.
One of those early-season events where teams get a few reps in before fall.

Our team was up 6–1 in the third.
The team from Pickering realized they weren’t going to win, so they started trying to hurt our players. Dirty hits. Cheap shots.

And the worst part? Their parents were cheering for it.

One guy in particular, loud, smug, celebrating every injury like it was a goal, was the walking definition of what’s wrong with youth sports.

I was the trainer on my son Zac’s team. My primary responsibility was player safety.
But I was also just four months out from losing my daughter, Maddie.

When You’ve Lost a Child, You Don’t Parent the Same

You love harder. You worry more. You imagine worst-case scenarios without even trying.

I still ask my boys to text when they head up to or leave the cottage. Every time.
Call it overprotective. I call it survival.

So when I saw that game start to turn violent, I felt something shift in me.
I asked the ref to keep an eye on the hits, especially since the game was out of hand. Not something I’d normally do. But I wasn’t just a trainer. I was a dad running on grief and fear.

The Hit That Crossed the Line

Late in the third, the puck was dumped into our zone.
Should’ve been icing. The ref waved it off.
Zac, playing defence, chased it down and got there first.

The opposing winger never let up.

He boarded Zac head-first into the glass.
Full speed. No hesitation. There was no doubt, there was intent to injure.

Zac had suffered a concussion the year before.
I was on the ice instantly, praying:
“Please God, not again.”

As I got closer, the kid who hit him skated past me, and smirked.
Not out of awkwardness. It was smug. Proud.

And I snapped.

I looked at him and said,
“You fucking punk.”

He was 14.

Zac’s Second Concussion and the Fallout

Zac was in rough shape. He missed a few weeks of school and about a month off the ice.

Another concussion.

I never take brain injuries lightly. Ever.
And that one came with fear, anger, and flashbacks I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

After getting Zac into the dressing room, I told the head coach exactly what I’d said. I owned it.

And then word spread. Fast.

Turns out, the kid I swore at? His dad was the loudmouth in the stands.
When he found out, he tried storming the dressing room. The assistants held him back. It could’ve gotten ugly.

And I’ll be honest, part of me wanted it to.

I’d imagined punching him more than once that game. My fear, I wouldn’t stop punching once I started.
I’m not proud of that. I’m not violent by nature. I’m usually the calm one.
But that night? The rage was real. Boiling over.

Then I pictured the aftermath:
I get arrested. Zac’s mom has to fly home from Europe. My boys see me lose everything for one second of misplaced anger. It would’ve led to a lifetime of regret.

So I didn’t swing. I disengaged. I walked away.

Suspended. Ashamed. Still Standing.

I was given a 3-game suspension and asked to issue a formal apology.
And I did both.
It should have been more. But I think they understood the whole story.

Still, I’m not proud of what I said.

But I’m proud of what I didn’t do.

To Anyone Coaching, Parenting, or Leading Youth:

This story isn’t about a bad kid or even a bad parent.
It’s about how close grief, fear, and rage can push a person to the edge.
And how one decision can either make things worse or keep your integrity intact.

Zac healed. But not without pain.
And that moment taught me something I’ll never forget:

We don't always get to control what happens. But we always get to choose how we respond.

Even when it’s hard.
Especially when it’s hard.