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My older son is legendary among local figure-skating
fans. Not for his double-loop jump or his flying camel or his back sit
spin, because, in truth, those skills have gone the way of his adorably
squeaky voice, his addiction to cinnamon toast, and his cheerful
willingness to wear multicolored socks: into the fond-memory bin. No, my
offspring is legendary for the day he killed Paul McCartney.
Milo was just 9, as I recall, and participating in
his first skating show. Like most of the kids, he was cast in several
different numbers, and if I were a better mom I’d have a scrapbook
that would remind me whether that was the year he was an orphan, a gambler,
and a cowboy or the year he was an Indian, Snoopy, and Winthrop Paroo.
Alas, all I remember is McCartney. It was a medley of Beatles tunes that featured four
boys skating in black suits and shaggy wigs. Milo got tagged as McCartney
because he was the most animated of the bunch. I was stationed way up in the bleachers, running
spotlight No. 7 and thinking how much fun I was having and how strange it
was that only dads volunteered to manhandle a spotlight. All the other moms
were working on the ground, in or near the locker rooms, helping their
little darlings change costumes. When the Beatles medley played, I found
out why: John, George, and Ringo appeared, but no Paul. Oh, Milo skidded out there toward the end of the
number, but his giant mental lapse was clear to all 597-or-so skating fans
packed into the Nelson Center for the Saturday matinee. What I later
discovered was that Milo had sneaked his Game Boy into the locker room,
zoned out, and missed his cue. I also discovered that the boys had passed their time
between numbers soaking paper towels in water and pelting each other with
giant spitwads. Costumes had been left on the floor, boot covers were
strewn willy-nilly, and the guest skater had brought in a giant bottle of
blue Gatorade that, had it spilled, would surely have ruined something.
In other words, the place was a mess. Why? Because there was no adult supervision. As my
6-year-old would say: “Duh!”
I flashed back on this episode last week, when I was
contacted by Marc Elliott, a Virden sports fan who is still upset about a
high-school football-team “hazing incident” that took place
more than a month ago. Published reports indicate that the hazing involved
two freshman boys, four seniors, and possibly some lewd or sexual conduct.
In the aftermath of this trauma, much discussion has
been focused on what constitutes hazing, school policies regarding hazing,
what constitutes sexual assault. To Elliott, those conversations miss the
point: Why was there no adult present in the locker room?
Elliott is a former coach, not of football but of
hockey. He led Sacred Heart-Griffin’s hockey team for three seasons,
and before that he spent 10 seasons in Minnesota coaching teams ranging in
age from 4 to 20, everything from “mini-mites” to juniors in
USA Hockey and Minnesota Amateur Hockey Association leagues. “We had a rule that suggests there should
always be an adult present in any locker room situation,” Elliott
says. “The theory is, if there’s an adult present, 90 to 95
percent of the crap that goes on could be prevented. If something does
happen. . . .”
And I believe he says the word
“liability,” but, being more mom than litigious animal,
I’m just thinking, wow, that’s genius! Have an adult present at
all times. “Duh!”
So how does it work? Do you miss out on other
coaching duties? Does it make the players uncomfortable? Elliott says he
never had any problem hanging out with the guys; he just threw on or off
his pads, laced or unlaced his skates with them.
“I made a practice of taking my gear off as
slowly as possible. I’d time it so that I’d walk out with the
last kid,” he says. “I did it just for the camaraderie and to
keep an eye on ’em.”
I called the Illinois High School Association to see
whether schools like Virden are bound by such a rule and found out, nope,
IHSA has no such policy. Unattended locker rooms are apparently hunky-dory
here. When I e-mailed this news to Elliott, he was
surprised but not swayed. “The lack of such a policy doesn’t and
shouldn’t lessen the coaches’ or schools’ responsibility
to provide a safe, supervised dressing room for players to prepare for
their practices and games,” he wrote back. “I always felt like,
as a coach, nothing happens to kids under my charge. I’d be cringing
if something like this had happened on a team of mine.”
Everything’s relative. Compared with what
transpired in Virden, my son’s bad Beatles experience is downright
funny. Still, he left the rink crying that day. He knew he had disappointed
his friends, his coach, his mom, and, most of all, John, George and Ringo.
The thing is: Neither incident had to happen. Contact Dusty Rhodes at drhodes@illinoistimes.com.
This article appears in Oct 18-24, 2007.
