This reflection isn’t about regret, it’s about responsibility. About understanding that coaching isn’t just about drills and game plans, but about the impact we have on kids when we step behind the bench. Too often, we assume experience as a player translates to leadership as a coach. It doesn’t. Coaching is its own craft, one that demands preparation, patience, and purpose.
The first time I stood behind the bench, I thought I was ready. I had played the game my whole life, lived it, breathed it. I took the required Hockey Canada course, checked the box, and figured that was enough.
It wasn’t.
My practices weren’t structured. My drills didn’t connect to anything. There were no goals, no development plan for the team or the players. We skated hard, but we weren’t building anything. I cared deeply, but I confused effort with preparation. And in the end, I failed as a coach. Not because I didn’t want the kids to succeed, but because I didn’t prepare myself to lead them. I underestimated what coaching really is. It’s not just showing up with a whistle, it’s showing up with purpose.
Looking back now, I see how different it could have been. If I ever coach again, I wouldn’t start with systems or drills. I’d start with a plan. I’d ask myself: What do I want these kids to learn this season? Not just on the ice, but off it. What values do I want to build? What kind of environment do I want them to feel every time they walk into the rink?
I would design every practice with intent, clear progressions, measurable goals, and a balance of skill, competition, and fun. I would make sure every player knew where they stood, what they were working toward, and that their effort mattered more than their position on the depth chart.
I would talk to parents early and often, not to justify decisions, but to create trust. I’d remind them, and myself, that we’re all on the same side: we want their kids to grow, love the game, and leave the rink a little better each time.
And above all, I would coach with empathy. I’d remember what it feels like to be ten years old and miss the open net, or to take a bad penalty and see disappointment on a coach’s face. I’d remind myself that every word I say, every tone, every look, carries more weight than I realize.
Because coaching, especially at the single-letter levels, isn’t about producing elite players. It’s about producing confident kids. Kids who learn resilience, teamwork, and joy through the game.
The right person to coach single-letter hockey isn’t the one who knows the most about forechecks or breakouts. It’s the one who understands how to teach, how to communicate, and how to care. It’s the person who realizes that the job isn’t about prestige, it’s about stewardship.
I didn’t understand that the first time. But I do now. And maybe that’s enough, to learn from failure, to understand what I would do differently, and to hope that others stepping behind the bench take it seriously enough to prepare. Because what happens in those rinks matters.
The best coaches don’t just build players. They build people.
Now, My evenings and weekends are still spent at different arenas. My oldest son has long outgrown my coaching abilities, he’s surrounded by professionals now. And for other reasons, mostly personal, I’ve chosen not to coach my younger son. He’s at the age where his success no longer includes me, and that’s exactly how it should be.
Still, coaching makes me happy.
Being in the arena every day, not only because I have to, but because I want to, reminds me how much I love it. I can’t stop coaching in my head. I watch shifts and think about what I’d say, what I’d change, what I’d praise.
Every so often, I’ll walk up to a parent I know and ask if it’s okay to pass along a pointer or two to their child. Always with respect, always asking first. When I do, it’s never about criticism. I start by praising what they did well, what’s improved, and then I show them one small thing that could make them even better. Always with a smile on my face, always speaking to them, never at them. I make sure they understand the “why” because understanding builds confidence, and confidence builds love for the game.
And maybe that’s the kind of coach I was always meant to be, not the one behind the bench, but the one quietly behind the glass, helping in small ways, reminding kids that hockey is still a game, and that they’re getting better every single day.
Part of me wants to jump back into coaching, not to bark instructions or call line changes, but to stand quietly behind the bench and show them everything they did right. To help them see the good before the correction. To whisper, not yell. Because sometimes the best coaching isn’t about being heard. It’s about being understood.
Author: Geremy Miller