The Time I Resigned After an Organization’s Most Successful Season in 28 Years

Prologue

Before I begin, it’s worth clarifying the timeline.

This story was written recently, but it describes something that happened more than a decade ago. I didn’t write it at the time. I carried it with me instead.

Not because it was dramatic, or unresolved, or unfinished - but because it quietly shaped how I understand leadership, trust, and professional boundaries in this game. It became one of those experiences that doesn’t announce its importance right away, but slowly reveals itself in how you make decisions later.

I share it now not as a reaction, not as an explanation of anything current, and not as a template for how every departure should be handled publicly - but as context. It explains why certain lines matter to me. Why I respond the way I do when authority and responsibility drift out of alignment. Why I believe success does not excuse the erosion of trust.

Over the years, I’ve learned that integrity doesn’t always look like public disclosure. Sometimes it looks like restraint. Sometimes it looks like protecting others from unnecessary noise. Sometimes it looks like telling the full story - long after the moment has passed - so that its lesson can be understood without collateral damage.

This piece belongs to that last category.

What I believed then is still what I believe now. What has changed is not the principle, but my understanding of when, how, and for whom certain stories should be told.

The Time I Resigned After an Organization’s Most Successful Season in 28 Years

We finished first in our division.

We won a playoff round for the first time in recent franchise memory.

We made it all the way to the finals for the first time in 28 years.

And we lost in five games to the four-time defending champions.

Objectively, it was the most successful season the team had experienced in 28 years. In games won and playoff success, the organization hasn't matched it in the time since.

And I had already decided, months earlier, that I would not be returning.

That sentence confuses people when they hear it.

Why would you leave after that kind of season?

Why walk away when things are finally working?

Why not run it back?

Those are fair questions. And they’re usually asked by people who believe success is measured only in wins and losses.

But that season taught me something that has stayed with me for the rest of my career:

Success doesn’t excuse broken trust.

And it doesn’t compensate for a lack of professional integrity.

The Roles We Play and What They’re Supposed to Mean

At the time, I was both a coach and the Director of Hockey Operations.

That wasn’t just a title. It came with clearly defined responsibilities: roster construction, player recruitment, evaluations, and long-term planning. I wasn’t supposed to be a spectator in those areas. I was hired specifically because of my experience and previous demonstrable success in the league.

This wasn’t my first rodeo.

I was brought in to do the job.

And I took that responsibility seriously.

Which is why what happened bothered me as deeply as it did.

Not because I disagreed with the decisions. I did.

But because I wasn’t consulted at all.

Twice.

The First Move: Trading a Goaltender

Midseason, the general manager traded one of our goalies.

No conversation.

No heads up.

No discussion.

Just a done deal.

Now, I want to be clear: disagreements happen. That’s normal. Hockey people disagree all the time. That’s healthy when it’s handled correctly.

But that wasn’t the issue.

The issue was that I wasn’t even part of the conversation.

My philosophy, especially in that league, is simple: you don’t carry a starter and a backup. You carry the two best goaltenders you can possibly have.

Goalies get hurt.

Goalies get tired.

Goalies go cold.

Goalies steal games.

And goalies can save your season.

We had two very good ones. Both were more than capable of carrying the load for almost any team in the league.

So when one was moved without my knowledge, it wasn’t just a hockey decision I disagreed with. It was a professional boundary that was crossed.

Still, I told myself, Alright. We adapt. We adjust. We move forward.

That’s the job.

The Second Move: The One That Cemented the Decision

Because the goalie was traded without another already in place, something I didn’t agree with and would have planned for differently had I been involved, we needed a replacement.

I was explicitly tasked with finding one.

So I did what I always do.

I worked my network.

I made calls.

I did my research.

I evaluated eligibility.

I found an available young goaltender who could serve as a true 1B, someone who could push our now de facto starter, not just hold a clipboard.

And there was an added bonus: his father was the head coach of a Major Junior team.

That’s not nothing.

That’s not a throwaway detail.

That’s a meaningful relationship, one built on trust, shared values, and mutual respect. The kind of connection that can benefit players, programs, and organizations.

I spoke with the family.

I negotiated.

I reached an agreement.

I gave my word.

And then, after all of that, I was informed:

Another goaltender had already been signed.

Without my knowledge or input.

Again.

Which meant I had to make one of the most uncomfortable phone calls of my career.

I had to call that family back.

I had to call a Major Junior head coach.

And I had to tell them that the commitment I had made, in good faith, could not be honoured.

Not because I had changed my mind.

Not because I had misled them.

But because decisions were being made over my head that directly undermined my role.

That moment changed everything.

Why That Moment Mattered

Hockey people talk a lot about culture.

About accountability.

About standards.

But those words are meaningless if they don’t apply to the adults in the room.

I realized something in that moment:

My name was now attached to promises I couldn’t keep.

My credibility was now dependent on decisions I wasn’t allowed to influence.

My reputation, built and cultivated over years of painstakingly going the extra mile to ensure my word was gospel, was being compromised by other people’s overreach.

That’s not a hockey problem.

That’s a character problem.

And I knew, with total clarity, that no amount of winning could make that okay.

So I made a decision.

I would finish the season.

I would honour my commitment to the players.

I would coach the hell out of that group.

And I would leave when it was over.

No matter what.

The Hardest Part of Walking Away

Walking away wasn’t hard because of the results.

It was hard because of the people.

The players.

The other coaches.

The staff I respected.

The joy of building something together.

The fun.

The belief.

That group did something special.

And leaving them after the team’s most successful season in 28 years felt, emotionally, like betrayal.

But staying would have meant betraying myself.

And sometimes, those are the choices you’re given.

Why I Tell This Story

I’ve shared this story privately for years.

With friends.

With colleagues.

In interviews.

Not as a threat.

Not as a dramatic flourish.

But as a description of who I am.

What I value.

And where my lines are.

I tell it because I want people to understand something very clearly:

If you ask me to give my word, I will.

If you ask me to represent your organization, I will do it honestly.

If you ask me to make commitments to players and families, I will honour them.

But I will not stay in a situation where my word is made meaningless.

Where my responsibilities exist only on paper.

Where excuses (including success) are used as a shield for unethical behaviour.

And where trust is treated as optional.

I tell this story in interviews with teams not as a warning, but as a clarity statement.

This is what I expect.

This is what I will not accept.

And this is what will cause me to walk away, even if things look successful on the surface.

What Time Changed and What It Didn’t

It’s also important to say this: I’ve had a good working relationship with members of that organization’s management staff in the years since I left.

About a year after my departure, lines of communication reopened. Time did what time often does. It softened edges, created perspective, and allowed for more honest conversations.

Years later, I was even invited back as a guest of honour for the team’s 40th anniversary and was part of the ceremonial face-off before a game celebrating the occasion.

I went.

Gratefully.

That invitation meant something to me. It told me that even when professional paths diverge, respect can remain. My decision to leave was never about holding onto resentment. It was about honouring my own standards at a moment when I felt they mattered most.

It also matters to me that I’ve maintained relationships with many of the players from that season. Not all, of course, but enough to remind me that what we build in a locker room can outlast standings and banners. Some of those players still check in. Some I still mentor. One went on to become a police officer, and I wrote about him here: The Time a Police Officer Came to the Bench I Was Coaching On — In the Middle of the Game. Those relationships were not dependent on wins. They were built on honesty, mutual respect, and shared experiences. And in many ways, they are the real measure of whether a season mattered.

You can leave a situation without disliking the people in it.

You can stand firm without burning bridges.

And you can believe that relationships matter, while still believing that principles matter more.

What Coaches, Players, and Parents Should Take From This

To coaches:

Wins do not justify everything. If you are being asked to sacrifice your integrity for success, the cost will come later, and it will be higher than you think.

To players:

Pay attention to how organizations treat the people who work for them. That’s how they’ll treat you when things get complicated.

To parents:

Ask questions. Not just about ice time or development, but about values, communication, and accountability.

Because banners fade.

Records fall.

But reputations stick.

And trust, once broken, doesn’t come back easily.

Why I’m Still at Peace With the Decision

That season is still one of the proudest of my career.

And walking away from it is still one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made.

But it’s also one of the ones I’m most at peace with.

Not because it was dramatic.

Not because it made a point.

But because it aligned my actions with my values.

Success is temporary.

Perspective grows.

Relationships evolve.

But integrity, that’s the part you have to live with long after the standings are forgotten.

And I can live with that.

Ed Garinger is a seasoned hockey coach, mentor, and educator with over two decades of experience. A native of the Bruce Peninsula, he played minor and junior hockey before earning his BA and BEd from Nipissing University, where he also competed in varsity volleyball and extramural hockey.

Coaching since age 14, Ed has balanced his teaching career with an extensive coaching and development portfolio, working with players at all levels. He has coached in the Provincial Junior Hockey League, led youth and high school teams, and served as a learning facilitator for the OMHA. His experience includes elite programs like the OHL/OHF U15 and U16 camps, U17 Regional Camps, and Hockey Canada’s Skills Academy.

A Hockey Canada HP1-certified coach, USA Hockey-certified coach, and Chartered Professional Coach (ChPC), Ed is committed to ongoing professional development and continually seeks to expand his knowledge to better serve players and coaches. Now based in Orillia, he enjoys passing on his passion for hockey to the next generation.