My dad’s hall-of-fame run as a sports dad, and the sports dad I want to be.
County rinks in Minnesota resemble oversized garden sheds. Concrete floors, pitched aluminium roofs, little-to-no insulation. They are cold, the ice is fantastically hard, and voices carry, including my dad’s on occasion.
“Pass the damn puck!”
His voice thundered off the cinder block walls and ice, overwhelming the click-clack of sticks.
Like all dads, mine had a different tone of voice kept in reserve. That ‘enough…
