The Time When I Couldn’t Wait to Apologize

There are moments in hockey that stay with you not because of what happened on the scoreboard, but because of what they revealed about you. Not about your systems, your record, your resume, or your philosophy - about your character. About the gap between the person you believe yourself to be and the person you briefly became. Those moments don’t always announce themselves loudly. Sometimes they arrive disguised as something small, something fleeting, something that would barely register to anyone else in the rink. But you know. And once you know, you can’t unknow it.

This wasn’t years ago. This wasn’t when I was young, reactive, or still pretending I had everything figured out. This was recent. And that’s what makes it harder to write about. I had already built a career around reflection, around teaching, around talking about values and leadership and modeling behaviour for players, parents, and coaches. I had already written about composure. I had already said all the right things.

And then I didn’t live up to them.

There was a disputed call. Nothing historic. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those moments that happen in every rink, in every league, at every level. A bang-bang play. A judgment call. A disagreement. The kind of thing that should roll off you if you really believe what you say you believe.

Instead, I took off my glasses and held them up to the referee.

It was a gesture. A visual jab. A sarcastic statement.

And the second I did it, I felt sick.

Not later. Not when I got home. Immediately.

I knew what I had done. I didn’t need time to process it. I didn’t need perspective. I didn’t need someone else to tell me I was wrong. I knew. And then the spiral started. I deserve to be tossed. I deserve a penalty. I deserve a fine. I deserve a suspension. Not because the call was right or wrong, but because what I did crossed a line. Arguing a call is one thing.

Showing up an official with a gesture like that is something else entirely.

And what made it worse - much worse - was the thought of what I might have just done to my team.

What if we’re shorthanded now?

What if I’ve put my players at a disadvantage because I couldn’t keep myself in check?

What if I’ve just modeled the exact behaviour I tell them not to show?

That’s when the real shame set in. Not fear of punishment. Shame. Because I knew better.

The referee looked at me. Long. Hard. Stern.

And then… nothing.

No arm in the air. No skate to the box. No ejection. Just a look. A wave of admonishment. A silent warning that said, “Don’t do that again.”

Maybe he was shocked. Maybe he could sense it. Maybe he just didn’t want to escalate it. Maybe he had mercy. Maybe he had bigger things to worry about.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that from that moment until the final buzzer, I didn’t stop thinking about the game. I thought about the score, the next shift, the adjustments, the matchups—because that’s what you’re wired to do. But every one of those thoughts was haunted by the same quiet, unshakable urge, heavy in my chest, impossible to ignore: I need to apologize.

Not to get out of anything. Not to soften consequences. Not to protect my image. But because I had stepped well over the line, and I wanted him to know that I knew it.

That mattered to me.

When the game ended, I didn’t go down the tunnel. I didn’t immediately do the post-game routine. I stood by the boards at our bench and waited. I felt ridiculous. I felt small. I felt like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office.

When he skated past, I gave a small wave. Not confident. Not casual. Sheepish. Awkward. Honest.

He came over cautiously, wary, on high alert for another confrontation. And I said it.

“I’m sorry. I want to apologize for what I did with my glasses. It was wrong. I’m embarrassed by my actions. It has no place in the game.”

That was it. No explanations. No justification. No “but.” No “you have to understand.” Just: I was wrong.

And then something happened that surprised me.

Relief washed over his face.

Not defensiveness. Not irritation. Relief.

As if what he had been bracing for - another conflict, another complaint, another attack - had been replaced with something he probably doesn’t get often enough: contrition.

He thanked me.

I told him again that I understood he had every right to penalize me, that I was lucky he didn’t, and that I was genuinely embarrassed by what I’d done. And then we went our separate ways.

I didn’t feel better. I didn’t feel lighter. I didn’t feel proud of myself.

I felt exposed.

I lost a lot of sleep that night.

Not because I was worried about repercussions, but because I couldn’t stop replaying it. The gesture. The look. The moment. The realization that I—someone who writes about this game, speaks about this game, teaches about this game—had done something I openly criticize.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: I don’t think I’m special for this. I think this happens to more of us than we want to admit.

Players. Parents. Coaches.

We all have a version of this moment. The comment we wish we could pull back. The tone we shouldn’t have used. The look we gave. The thing we said in front of kids. The example we set without meaning to.

And the reason this one stuck with me so hard is because it reminded me of something I try to live by but sometimes forget: values aren’t proven when it’s easy. They’re proven in the exact moments you mess up.

Anyone can talk about respect. Anyone can preach about sportsmanship. Anyone can post about “the right way to play the game.” But what do you do when you violate your own standard? Do you justify it? Do you minimize it? Do you pretend it didn’t matter? Do you blame someone else?

Or do you own it?

Officials are not perfect. They miss calls. They make mistakes. They have bad nights. So do we. But whether a call is right or wrong has nothing to do with whether your behavior is right or wrong. Those are separate questions. And too often, we pretend they’re the same.

I lost sleep that night because I didn’t like what I saw in myself. And that’s not comfortable. But it’s necessary. Growth doesn’t come from the moments you’re proud of. It comes from the moments that make you cringe.

If you’re a player reading this, understand this: your reactions matter more than the calls.

If you’re a parent reading this, understand this: your kids are watching how you handle frustration, not just whether you’re right.

If you’re a coach reading this, understand this: your culture is built in your worst moments, not your best ones.

I can’t undo that gesture. But I can own it. And sometimes, that’s the only real option we have.

I lost a lot of sleep that night not because I was afraid of consequences, but because I couldn’t stop replaying what it revealed about me. I had always believed leadership was about consistency—that who you are in calm moments should match who you are in emotional ones. That night reminded me how fragile that consistency actually is.

We talk a lot in hockey about leadership, but we usually frame it in big, dramatic ways—speeches, bold decisions, public stances. But most real leadership happens quietly, away from the crowd, without applause. It happens when no one is forcing you to do the right thing. When there is no benefit to it. When there is nothing to gain except alignment with who you want to be.

Apologizing didn’t undo what I did. It didn’t erase it. It didn’t make it noble. But it mattered. It mattered because I refused to pretend it was nothing. It mattered because I didn’t protect my ego. It mattered because I didn’t look for a loophole that would let me feel justified. And it mattered because I want the people who look to me to understand something that took me far too long to learn: your values are not proven when it’s easy to live them. They’re proven when it costs you something.

And I want to be clear about something, because this matters to me: I am not sharing this story because I think it makes me look good. I’m sharing it because I don’t want to pretend I’m better than I am. I want to be better, and I hope that counts for something. I hope that striving to do what I know is right, even when I fail, is redeeming in its own way. I hope that showing this vulnerability makes it clear that I am nowhere near perfect, even if I spend a lot of time talking about values, leadership, and accountability.

No one would have known this story. Not really. A handful of people saw the moment, but no one knew what was going on inside me afterward. No one would have known about the shame, the replaying, the lost sleep, the weight of it. I could have carried on and never said a word. My reputation wouldn’t have suffered. My standing wouldn’t have changed. It would have been easy to keep this to myself.

But growth doesn’t come from what’s easy.

For me, part of being accountable is not just apologizing in private—it’s refusing to hide the parts of myself that still need work. It’s admitting that I mess up. That I fall short. That I sometimes become the very thing I caution others against. And that I am still responsible for who I am in those moments.

If this story does anything, I hope it shows that leadership isn’t about being flawless. It’s about being honest. It’s about not pretending. It’s about choosing humility over image, even when no one is forcing you to.

And if this helps even one player pause before reacting, one parent take a breath, or one coach choose humility over ego, then it’s worth it.

Because I don’t want to be perfect.

I want to be better.

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.