THE PASSION NEVER LEFT

By Jim Tamburino

  This isn’t really about hockey. It’s about what hockey gave us back.

There’s a moment when you first walk into the locker room that week for the MIHWA (Masters Inline Hockey World Association) World Cup in the host city of Garmisch, Germany. Not the first day. Not even the first practice. The moment. The one where it finally hits you.

The white helmets sit neatly on the top shelves, each one dressed in fresh USA decals. A large American flag hangs from the ceiling in the center of the room. Water bottles line the shelves. Bananas. Protein packets. Potassium supplements. Extra tape. Helmet stickers. Dri-fit shirts. Hockey sticks stand shoulder-to-shoulder by the doorway like soldiers waiting for battle. The Team Trainer and his table, waiting for the next player and body part to be worked on.  

Equipment hangs, drying after practices and games. And somehow, for the first time in years, it all feels familiar again.

Home. For one week, all three USA men’s inline hockey teams (38 & Over, 45 & Over, 50 & Over teams) shared that room. One room. One country. One purpose. Just a three-minute walk from the hotel to the arena, but every day it felt like stepping into another world.

Most people probably wouldn’t understand it. Showing up ninety minutes before a game. Sometimes two hours. But some of us could have spent the entire day there. Because it’s never been just about the game. It’s the details. The preparation. The routine. The feeling. The walk down the hallway. The distant echoes of fans from other countries chanting for their teams from inside the arena as you prep for your next game. The opening of the locker room door. The walk to your stall. That brief glance at your USA jersey and pants hanging there beside your towel. And the reminder.

I’m here. I’m almost 45 years old. And I’m representing my country, playing the sport I’ve been playing for the past 40.

For many of us, we thought those days were long gone. But there we were. Changing into our dri-fit shirts. Pulling up the long socks. Lacing sneakers or sliding into those shower flip-flops. Grabbing a roll of tape. Taking our sticks down the hallway. Finding our quiet corner. Retaping the blade one more time. Stretching. Stretching a little longer than we used to. Visualizing. Preparing. Thinking. Trying to calm the nerves. Trying to slow down time. Trying to soak up every second. Because somewhere deep down, every one of us knew this wasn’t guaranteed. Maybe that’s why it meant so much.

At some point, life replaces hockey. Careers. Mortgages. Rent. Kids. Responsibilities. The game slowly becomes something you used to do. Something you talk about. Something you remember. Until suddenly, for one incredible week, you’re somehow an athlete again.

You arrive and settle in at the immaculate hotel. You walk around this beautiful, peaceful clean city. Fresh mountain air and views. Cafes and gelato shops on every corner. Restaurants. Stores. Cobblestone streets. People from all over the world. It’s a certain buzz. A certain feeling. Posters and banners promoting the hockey event hung right there on those city streets. We’re here, stepping forward amongst it all, about to rep our country with a chance to win a gold medal. 

Back to the room. You lace up. You pull on that jersey. You step onto the rink beside your teammates. Beside your brothers - some you’ve known for years and others you’ve just met for the first time. The crowd chants. The horns echo through the building with that unmistakable European sound. You line up across from another country. You stand to salute them, and for the national anthem. And as the music plays and players and fans sing along, you realize this is far from a rec league game. This isn’t a tournament back home.

This is Team USA. And no matter the age, the pressure is real. The nerves are real. The fear of making a mistake and letting your teammates down is real. But so is the pride. The enormous pride that comes when a teammate scores a huge goal. When you throw your arms around him. When you skate down the bench exchanging fist bumps. When the crowd erupts with chants of “USA!” When you think of the people sitting thousands of miles back home cheering for you as they watch it unfold on YouTube.

I missed that. I never got to experience the “USA” chants before as a player. Only as a coach. But God, I missed all of those other details. And maybe that’s why the ending hurts so much.

Because eventually every tournament ends. The final buzzer sounds. The handshakes happen. The jerseys come off. Not right away though. Because you don’t know if it’s the last time you’ll ever wear those colors again. The equipment gets packed away. And suddenly you’re left alone with your thoughts.

This past week, I saw grown men cry. Men from all over the world. Men who have built businesses. Raised families. Buried parents. Survived divorces. Fought through injuries. Men who thought they had already experienced every emotion this game had to offer. Not a few tears. Real tears.

I saw them sitting alone in locker rooms. In hallways. In arena seats. In parking lots. Away from everyone else. I saw wives embracing husbands. I saw teammates embracing teammates. And I understood exactly why. Heck, I was one of them. Prior to the 50 & Over Division Gold Medal Game - the day after our team was eliminated by Canada, 3-2 in the quarterfinals, I found myself sitting in the empty arena seats. Alone. Silent. Not a single person in there. And it just hit me. Staring down at the empty blue surface and yellow arena seats, reflecting, and the eyes watered up.  

Because it wasn’t just about a medal. It wasn’t just about a final score. It was grief. The grief that comes when something beautiful ends. The grief that comes when you discover a piece of yourself you thought was gone forever. A piece you assumed life had already taken. And then have to say goodbye to it again.

I miss being an athlete.

We replay the games. The shifts. The missed chances. The mistakes. The plays we wish we had back. We wish we had done more. Scored more. Blocked more. Contributed more. Not for ourselves though. For our teammates. For our brothers. For the dream we spent months imagining. Of course, we all wanted gold. Every one of us. But somewhere along the way, something bigger happened. We arrived as teammates. We left as brothers. And that’s the part not everybody tells you about wearing a USA jersey at this age. You come for the competition. You leave with relationships that will last the rest of your life.

The real gift was sitting beside each other in that locker room. The real gift was sharing stories with players from other countries in hotel lobbies and elevators. Trading jerseys. Trading hats. Signing autographs. Giving away sticks, skates, equipment, pieces of ourselves. All united by the same game. The same passion. The same language. The same love.

People love to say, “It’s just a game.”

But they’re wrong. They’re completely wrong. Because it’s never been just a game. It’s forty+ years of memories. It’s childhood dreams. It’s neighborhood streets, parking lots, backyard and local courts and hundreds and hundreds of roller hockey rinks. It’s parents driving us to practices, games and tournaments. It’s friendships. It’s heartbreak. It’s victories. It’s sacrifice. It’s identity. It’s who we became.

And for one unforgettable week in Germany, we got to live it all again. We got to train again. Compete again. Prepare again. Belong again. We got to sit in a locker room beside a new group of brothers and get ready for battle. We got to tap the teammate next to us on the leg and say, “Let’s go,” without saying a single word at all.

I get the absolute chills and tear up just thinking about that. 

We got to be athletes again. We got to represent the United States of America. And none of us did it alone. We carried our families with us. Our wives. Our children. Our parents. Our siblings. Our friends. The people who watched online. The people who followed every score. The people who understood exactly why this mattered.

I thought about my wife, who supported this experience. My two young daughters, who I had to leave behind for eleven days. My in-laws, who stepped in to help for the week. My parents in Florida, who didn’t want to miss a single game on their Smart TV that they somehow figured out how to use. My siblings. My childhood memories. My friends who grew up on skates beside me. Friends who love this game as deeply as I do. Friends who would have cherished this same opportunity.

And I thought about my brother. Standing at a stall beside me, in another USA jersey for his team. Living the same emotions. Feeling the same pride. Winning a Silver medal, but experiencing the same heartbreak. And the same gratitude. Two young boys who grew up living for this game, somehow finding their way back to it together all these years later. 

Years from now, the scores and stats will fade. Even the medals will collect dust. But I don’t think any of us will ever forget that locker room. The helmets on the shelves. The flag hanging from the ceiling. The sticks lined by the door. We’ll remember the walk down the hallway. The anthem. The chants. The hugs. The post-game beers and laughs. The tears. And the feeling. The feeling that after all these years, after everything life has thrown our way, the game somehow found us again. Not to make us younger. Not to let us relive the past. But to remind us that the passion never left. It was there all along. Waiting. And for one incredible week in Germany, we got to feel it again. Every shift. Every chant. Every hug. Every tear. And every second wearing the red, white, and blue.