In the summer of 1999, I am eagerly awaiting my freshman year, and long before I ever step foot in Portsmouth High School, I try out for the soccer team. The Portsmouth High School Patriots are a strong team and have produced several All-State and All-American athletes. The coach rarely ever picks freshmen for the varsity team, and the last freshman who made the team was a legend who had long since graduated. I don’t have high expectations, but I have been training hard, and my plan is to outwork everyone.

After several days of tryouts, we drive up to the soccer complex, where they have posted the 1999 Portsmouth Patriots roster on a piece of paper stapled to a tree. To my surprise, I am one of two freshmen who make the varsity soccer team, but deep down, I don’t think I’m good enough. The next day starts the grueling weeks of double sessions, where we spend the rest of our summer in the Rhode Island heat coming together as a team. Once school finally starts, the seniors take me under their wing and let me sit at their lunch table with the rest of the soccer team. One of the upperclass girls even offers to give me rides to school so I don’t need to take the bus.

High school is going way better than I ever could have imagined, but I am still mourning Bertie Boy, and there is a storm building inside of me.

Before the soccer season even ends, I have to try out for the ice hockey team. Ever since my grandfather passed away, I have played with BHT written on the blade of my hockey stick, an ever-present reminder of Bertrand Hart Thompson. When the tryout happens, I am ready to work. I remember my promise, and every drill, every time I touch the puck, every shift, will be for Bertie Boy.

Going from the Newport Whalers to high school hockey is a big jump. The players are no longer my age and size, and it is immediately apparent that I am the smallest and least skilled player there. Most of the players have been skating their entire lives, and I was only Mad Maxing a couple of years prior. I see Ralph Plumb and Bill Foley. They are athletic royalty at Portsmouth High School. The season prior, Ralph Plumb scored 44 goals in the regular season, a Portsmouth record that still stands today. He also still holds the record for most career goals and most career points. Bill Foley holds the record for most career assists.

Ralph Plumb is over six feet tall and 200 pounds, and I am all of 135 pounds soaking wet. I am intimidated, but I know I can outwork anyone. I also have one other thing in my favor.

I am fast.

My speed is not because I have good technique. Not at all. It is pure willpower and grit. On ice skates, you can push off against the ice and use your momentum to glide and coast. I do not glide, and I do not coast. I am moving my legs as fast and as hard as I can at all times. Throughout this entire tryout, I am skating like my life depends on it. I am attacking seniors who are twice my size, fighting in the corners, and becoming an absolute menace to any opponent who touches the puck. During the conditioning drills, I am skating at the front of the pack, and my legs are burning, but I have something inside me that drives me past any pain.

Toward the end of the tryout, while everyone is catching their breath between sprints, the coach skates up to me. Coach Brian O’Neil is a monster of a man. He towers over me, and I look up at him, trying not to show my suffering.

“George, it’s obvious how hard you are working out here. This is the kind of effort I want from everyone, and as long as you can keep that up, you have a place on this team.”

I try not to get emotional and utter, “Yes, Coach,” while desperately trying to breathe and get some much-needed oxygen to my brain.

Not only do I make the team, but I somehow move to the starting line and I know that I have to keep my promise to Bertie Boy and now to Coach O’Neil. There is no letting off the gas. I am on the starting line with Ralph Plumb and Bill Foley, and I do not belong in the same rink as them, let alone on the same line.

I am given a very specific role, and it is not based on talent. If I touch the puck, I am to immediately get it to Ralph Plumb. If Ralph Plumb is not available, I am to dump the puck into the corner and be prepared to go to war in that corner to get the puck, then give it to Ralph Plumb. If the puck is in the offensive zone, my only job is to stand in front of the goalie and create a screen so Ralph Plumb can score.

In ice hockey, the area in front of the goalie is hallowed ground. By taking a position there, one agrees to engage in combat. I am attacked by the goalie and defensemen whenever I am in that position and am constantly knocked down, beaten with sticks, and totally abused. Every part of my body that isn’t protected by pads is bruised and battered. This job is not glamorous, but by being in the trenches, it helps my team. I have one other job that I am not proud of. If the other team has a star player, I will shadow him. By shadow, I mean I will be as physical as possible every time he is on the ice in an effort to make him scared to touch the puck.

From the outside, I probably look like a kid trying to be tough. I play with passion and rage. I hit everything that moves, and I want everyone to think I am fearless. Underneath all of that, I am just a boy who misses his grandfather and needs somewhere for that pain to go.

Over the next four years, we make it to the championship three times, winning it in 2001. But what I am most proud of is that I pour my entire heart out on that ice. I could not have played with more passion or determination.

I also learn that when life gets tough, sports and physical activity are my savior.

It is a lesson I will keep coming back to.