The Impact of a ‘Normal Life’

Giving out the Glenn Peterson Assistant Coach of the Year Award

The Copper Country Junior Hockey Association (CCJHA) has a small banquet at the end of each season to honor the coaches, teams, and volunteers who sacrifice hours and hours every week to make the league what it is. One of the awards they give out is named after my father: The Glenn Peterson Assistant Coach of the Year Award. 

Usually, my mother attends the ceremony on behalf of our family and hands a small plaque to the winner. This year, however, she was out of town. My brother who lives locally was working, and the rest of our four siblings are scattered across the country and planet. I’m here, spending most of my days on the computer or procrastinating before I sit down at the computer. So, my mother asked if I’d go to the awards banquet in her place. I had no excuse not to—although I tried my best to think of one. 

I reluctantly accepted and was put in contact with one of the organizers, who told me where and when to show up and reassured me that I didn’t have to read anything or give a speech and simply had to stand on stage, hold the award, give it to the winner, and then pose for a picture—easy enough.

So on a Monday evening in late April, I made my way to the Houghton High School, entered the dimly-lit auditorium, and found my liaison, who sat me in the front and told me my Dad’s award was the second one given out and I didn’t need to feel obligated to stay for the whole ceremony.

I was a little bit early and sitting on the left side in the front row by myself, occasionally glancing back at the kids excitedly coming in, thinking about how many of these end-of-season banquets I attended as a youngster. 

A speaker got on the mic, everyone quieted down, they gave some opening remarks, and then handed out the first award. Like my father’s, it was in honor of a local community member—I wish I had taken notes and remembered whom the award was named after. 

I then went on stage, was given a plaque, and stood toward the back while the speaker talked about the Glenn Peterson Assistant Coach of the Year Award, how it’s named after a man who always went the extra mile and kept things positive. And how “This year’s award winner is someone who always showed up to practice prepared and ready to coach all the kids. He’s very passionate about the game and wants all kids to enjoy it. He always led by example by staying calm and respectful to players, coaches, and officials.”

The winner was my Uncle Jamey. 

I knew he had won because the organizer whispered to me when I arrived how cool it was that I’d be giving the award to my own uncle. 

But I was surprised by how impactful the moment actually was. 

I shook Uncle Jamey’s hand and handed him the plaque. We took a poorly lit photo, and then we left the stage. Jamey went back to his seat. I walked down the stairs, through the aisle, out of the auditorium, out of the school, through the parking lot, and into my car. 

I returned to a table with my laptop, thoughts of the banquet on my mind, very glad I went. 

At first, I was thinking it was just an award for an assistant coach of a rural Michigan youth hockey league. Why even go? But after handing it out, and hearing the speaker say things like, “Glenn’s legacy will always be cherished for the many lives he touched while involved with our hockey community,” I couldn’t help but think about the impact of a simple life.

My father’s life was not extraordinary by most conventional metrics. He was far from famous, didn’t make a million dollars, cure a disease, or discover a new species. 

He worked for the FAA at the airport, had a wife and six kids, and loved golf. He rushed out the door every morning, clocked in, and then came home to take care of his family.

And he only lived to be thirty-eight years old. 

But there was a six-hour continuous line at his funeral. 

And people I don’t even know tell me they remember where they were when they heard the news. 

His death didn’t just hit our immediate family, it brought our entire extended family to its knees, and it rippled through our whole community. 

A young father of six unexpectedly passing will always be a tragedy, but I keep wondering how and why people I don’t even know tell me they remember where they were when they heard the news. 

I don’t know if I have a clear answer to that question. 

But I do know he was a stand-up guy. He kept things positive, treated people with respect, and didn’t lie, cheat, or steal. 

His life was lived in service of his family and the community. 

And his simple life impacted thousands of people. 

And that’s beautiful. 

The more I learn about my father, the more I appreciate that.

The more I hang out with my uncles, the more I appreciate that. 

It’s enough: just simply being a good person. 

Showing up to work, volunteering at the concession stand, helping a neighbor shovel the drive, playing in the softball league, buying strawberries from the kids on the side of the road, attending parent-teacher conferences, bringing children to a birthday party, sitting around a fire with fellow campers, and helping coach the youth hockey team: it’s enough.

It has an immeasurable impact.

I’m honored to have handed out the award. I’m honored to have handed it to my Uncle Jamey who personifies those values, as all of my uncles do. 

Thanks for reading.

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P.S. I’ll hopefully have an Uncle Jamey blog coming soon… and the final four to follow.

Time flies.

Thanks for following the journey.