We arrive at the pool for our game against Italy. As usual, we stretch on the second level deck and look for the Italian team. Nowhere to be found. We finish and march down the stairs to the locker room and they're already in there. We take the opposite side of the locker room and everyone sizes each other up. The coach comes over and shakes my hand and wishes us good luck. I like him immediately. Sincere smile and the guy is young and his body is slim and cut.
The officials tell us there's an eight minute backup. Two teams, coaches, managers, standing side by side in a cramped locker room and we can't leave. The boys are antsy. They have their game face on. I've put them in a mean mood all afternoon and they want to go.
Finally, we march out. USA goes first. After five days of marching, we have it down. I lead, as required since I have to sign the roster sheet to identify the players who are sitting out. We continue single file, bags shouldered and walk into our designated staging area. We look up into the stands and see the crowds. The screaming cheers, buzzers and gongs blaring, the sound is deafening. My ears ache but there is no escape.
We're ready to slip into our warmup lanes and after a few laps, the Ref walks up for a gear check. I tell the team to stop and every player hops out sits on the deck and has his glove, stick, snorkel and fins checked. Everyone is wearing the exact same snorkel but he checks each one anyway. Raymond's stick fails inspection."Exposed and frayed wood". Team Manager Samuel Sr. supplies a backup Elite stick but Raymond prefers his wooden stick. Can you play with it? Ok he says. Sticks are an immensely personal choice, but you get used to any stick if you use it long enough.
We bring it in. I'm in the water for this game so I join the circle and link arms with the boys. "This is it. We can do this." "Play it clean and hard", I look each player in the eye to gauge their intensity. Only Che looks away. "I want the whole pool to hear us!" "Tristan are you ready?" TEAM! USA!!! TEAM! USA!!! TEAM! USA!!! It echoes and is as loud as we have ever cheered. We're ready. Buzzer, strike, furious play, foul, warning, furious play. John Meisenheimer sprains his ankle pushing off the wall. He's hurt and out for the game. We're now playing nine against ten
The game is intensely fought. It goes back and forth until a breakaway gives Italy the first score. Just before the half ends, the refs give Italy a penalty shot. They score and I can see the disappointment in Tristan's eyes from his failed defense. The Italian cheering section goes wild. It's 2-0 Italy and in the second half, they score again. The boys don't give up. They fight and power their way through and Che Shimizu Castellanos scores for the USA.
We get close to their goal again and as we approach, the buzzer sounds. I look up. Deck ref signals a tee. The game is over. USA 1 ITALY 3. I shout "3 cheers for the Italians. Hip, Hip, Hooray! It's the cheer my hockey mentor started using in 1967 and continues to this day. Few people know how the hip hip hooray started. Now you do.
We shake hands and on deck, we give the Italians pins and patch souvenirs. They apologize that they don't have anything to return the favor but I say it's ok. The Italian coach shakes my hand again, then pulls me close and wraps his arms around me. He feels my pain as much as I feel his joy. He tells me how much he respects our team and how amazing the young kids are. Everyone knows about our kids.
I hug our boys and we bring it in for a final team cheer. They see my sadness and try to cheer me up. It's the boys that are lifting me up now and I love them for it. We march out with our heads up but my heart aches.
Just before we get to the locker room, Pieter van der Woude who reffed our game stops me and tells me: "We let your boys play". I tell him "I know". "Thank you". He goes on, "there were quite a few stick fouls that we could have called and didn't". He explains what the refs are looking for and I make a mental note. The Italians won the game because tonight, they were just a little better. I have no issues. They let us play and the best team won. I still like the Italians and I still hurt.
Australia and France tomorrow.
The officials tell us there's an eight minute backup. Two teams, coaches, managers, standing side by side in a cramped locker room and we can't leave. The boys are antsy. They have their game face on. I've put them in a mean mood all afternoon and they want to go.
Finally, we march out. USA goes first. After five days of marching, we have it down. I lead, as required since I have to sign the roster sheet to identify the players who are sitting out. We continue single file, bags shouldered and walk into our designated staging area. We look up into the stands and see the crowds. The screaming cheers, buzzers and gongs blaring, the sound is deafening. My ears ache but there is no escape.
We're ready to slip into our warmup lanes and after a few laps, the Ref walks up for a gear check. I tell the team to stop and every player hops out sits on the deck and has his glove, stick, snorkel and fins checked. Everyone is wearing the exact same snorkel but he checks each one anyway. Raymond's stick fails inspection."Exposed and frayed wood". Team Manager Samuel Sr. supplies a backup Elite stick but Raymond prefers his wooden stick. Can you play with it? Ok he says. Sticks are an immensely personal choice, but you get used to any stick if you use it long enough.
We bring it in. I'm in the water for this game so I join the circle and link arms with the boys. "This is it. We can do this." "Play it clean and hard", I look each player in the eye to gauge their intensity. Only Che looks away. "I want the whole pool to hear us!" "Tristan are you ready?" TEAM! USA!!! TEAM! USA!!! TEAM! USA!!! It echoes and is as loud as we have ever cheered. We're ready. Buzzer, strike, furious play, foul, warning, furious play. John Meisenheimer sprains his ankle pushing off the wall. He's hurt and out for the game. We're now playing nine against ten
The game is intensely fought. It goes back and forth until a breakaway gives Italy the first score. Just before the half ends, the refs give Italy a penalty shot. They score and I can see the disappointment in Tristan's eyes from his failed defense. The Italian cheering section goes wild. It's 2-0 Italy and in the second half, they score again. The boys don't give up. They fight and power their way through and Che Shimizu Castellanos scores for the USA.
We get close to their goal again and as we approach, the buzzer sounds. I look up. Deck ref signals a tee. The game is over. USA 1 ITALY 3. I shout "3 cheers for the Italians. Hip, Hip, Hooray! It's the cheer my hockey mentor started using in 1967 and continues to this day. Few people know how the hip hip hooray started. Now you do.
We shake hands and on deck, we give the Italians pins and patch souvenirs. They apologize that they don't have anything to return the favor but I say it's ok. The Italian coach shakes my hand again, then pulls me close and wraps his arms around me. He feels my pain as much as I feel his joy. He tells me how much he respects our team and how amazing the young kids are. Everyone knows about our kids.
I hug our boys and we bring it in for a final team cheer. They see my sadness and try to cheer me up. It's the boys that are lifting me up now and I love them for it. We march out with our heads up but my heart aches.
Just before we get to the locker room, Pieter van der Woude who reffed our game stops me and tells me: "We let your boys play". I tell him "I know". "Thank you". He goes on, "there were quite a few stick fouls that we could have called and didn't". He explains what the refs are looking for and I make a mental note. The Italians won the game because tonight, they were just a little better. I have no issues. They let us play and the best team won. I still like the Italians and I still hurt.
Australia and France tomorrow.