Just the other day, before one of our games, we were preparing to face the top team in the league, a powerhouse squad that had just dropped its first loss of the year earlier that morning. For us, this whole season has been a first-year experiment. New program. Short bench. Injuries earlier in the day. Young culture. A whole lot of teaching moments and adversity. The kind of “battle” season that’s tough, but the good kind of tough.

 

As I’m grabbing lunch, their coach pulls me aside to proudly share with me he’ll run his weaker players most of the game, while his so-called elite “AAA-level” players, who skate 24 mph and weigh 180 lbs, as he made sure to mention, would barely see rhe ice. It wasn’t said as a courtesy or out of respect. It landed like a putdown. In that moment, it didn’t feel like two coaches talking hockey; it felt like he was telling me and my team, that we weren't worthy.

 

I told him straight: “Give me your best.” Adjust along the way if you have to.”

 

But it didn’t land. Instead, with some ego and condescension I wasn’t expecting. The implication was clear: we weren’t worth his best. And then came the kicker: he warned that if our team “played rough,” he’d unleash his top players to “go after us.” (Just to be clear, we are not a "dirty" team. If you mess witht one of use, yes you'll have the pac to deal with.)

 

I’m standing there, holding a cafeteria burger, wondering what to even say to this guy. Not in a competitive sense, in a values sense. Hockey is a competitive sport, yes. But it’s also a sport built on respect. On giving your best. On acknowledging the hard work other teams are putting in, and the mutual respect.

 

We wrapped up that conversation and went our separate ways. He went back to his dressing room and proceeded to dress his backup goalie as a skater, a move that, in my opinion, sends a message that we aren't good enough. Not just a message to his players, but to ours: we’re so good we can treat this like a joke.

 

Coaches, if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of that kind of gesture, you know how it feels. It’s not about the scoreboard. It’s about dignity. About the idea that your team isn’t worth real competition.

 

So we prepared for the game with a clear plan. Structure first. A 1-2-2 neutral zone forecheck and a disciplined D-zone, funneling everything to the outside and refusing to open up the middle. Which is something we have been working on in practice and done lots of video on with Hudl Assist and Hudl Instat, so it wasn't a suprise for our players. We knew we’d spend long stretches without the puck, but we also knew we didn’t have to make it easy.

 

And you know what? After one period, it was 1-0 for them. Eighteen and a half minutes, almost entirely in our end, but disciplined. Composed. Smart hockey is what I told our team over and over again.

 

Then something interesting happened.

 

Midway through the second, my assistant coach nudged me and said, “Their bench is losing it.” Sure enough, the tone had shifted. Coaches yelling at players, they were suddenly playing their so-called “AAA player who skates 24 MPH” regularly.

 

We finished the second trailing 3-0. Respectable by any measure, given the talent gap, the depth difference, and the game script. But the real moment wasn’t the score. It was during intermission, when I entered the bathroom in which our dressing rooms shared to get some water. Their head coach was screaming, not coaching, not correcting, not teaching, but tearing into his players with insults that carried through the entire break.

 

And here’s what floored me, the anger didn’t come from the scoreboard. It came from his own choices. From underestimating an opponent and the value of teamwork verus his team's individual skill. From taking the game and his players for granted. From disrespect.

 

We ended up losing 5-0. No trophies for moral victories, but I’d argue we walked out with something better: identity. Pride. A sense that we earned their attention and pushed them out of their comfort zone without sacrificing our standards.

 

Meanwhile, as our players headed to the showers, their coach was still screaming. Still blaming. Still unloading. As if his own ego was the victim.

 

Coaches, here are the two takeaways I hope are loud and clear:

 

1. Respect the opposition by giving your best.
Whether you’re in first place or last place, whether you’re blowing a team out or getting blown out, whether the gap is size, skill, or depth, if you are in the same league, hockey deserves your best effort. Anything less isn’t just disrespectful to your opponent, it’s disrespectful to the game itself. Yes, there’s an unwritten code when the score gets lopsided: pull back on the drive-bys, move the puck twice before shooting, and tone down the celebrations. But you don’t get to enforce that code before the puck even drops. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.

 

2. Don’t punish your players for the consequences of your own ego.
When you approach a game like it’s beneath you, your players feel it. Kids aren’t dumb, and they mirror the tone set by adults. If you treat the game like a joke, they will too. And when that mindset creates adversity, don’t turn around and scream at them for not caring enough. That’s not development. That’s insecurity.

 

The scoreboard didn’t define that game. Character did. And the character I saw from our group, a young, thin roster in a brand-new program, is the kind of character that gets you places over time.

Winning is great. Developing players is better. But respecting opponents, teammates, and the game itself, that’s the highest standard we can set as coaches.