Hockey may be a sport invented by frozen people willing to do just about anything to warm up. But ever since I was knee-high to a referee, I've been in love with that glorious game. I wanted nothing more than to play in the Olympics, to score a goal no one would forget.

By Grade 10, I had spent a zillion hours on the ice—practising, practising, practising. My solitary pursuit in life was that memorable goal talked about around the world. It would be so big that I would forget three broken noses, a hundred stitches and the uh ... uh ... oh yes, the times I hit my head.

Overtime Embarrassment
That year, my dream looked as if it might come true. On a Saturday night in late March, the crowd packed our small arena. Though I hadn't yet played for my country, I was playing for my town. We had made it to the championship game. I had the distinct feeling that this would be my night. The night of the big goal. The years of practice were about to pay off.

As the clock ran down to the final minute, I took a pass from the corner and rifled the puck past a sprawling goalie. The red light flashed. Girls in the audience went wild. The game was tied. I was a hero. The only thing that could top it was an overtime goal.

I knew destiny was on my side. And, sure enough, five minutes into overtime, as the puck slid toward an open net, I dove, trying desperately to forge its destination. As the crowd lunged to its feet, I swatted the puck across the goal line. The red light flashed. The girls went wild. But they weren't cheering my name.

I had just scored the championship goal in my own net.

The Very Best Thing
I don't remember much about the next 10 or 12 years of my life. I do remember making a beeline for the locker room where I sat in shame, a white towel over my head. And I recall the comments: “Don't worry about it. Anyone coulda done that ... if he was totally unco-ordinated.”

Through the muffled laughter, I hung up my skates. For good.

I walked home alone that night. No one gave me a ride. My dad was waiting for me. A bad case of the flu had kept him from the game.

“How did it go?” he asked. Without a word, I slunk past him and into my room.

Dad tapped on the door and entered. There was a minute of silence, and I started to talk. I didn't dare look at his face, but I told him everything.

When I finished, he was silent for a minute. Then he started to laugh.

And you know what? I joined him.

It was the last thing either of us expected.
It was the very best thing.

Unfailing Love
You see, Dad was letting me know that my worth was in no way associated with winning a game. His message was crystal clear: “No matter what happens, I love you.”

Wise is the parent who knows that life's biggest victories are never posted on Olympic scoreboards. And that shaping a life is more important than winning a game.

That was the night I learned for absolute sure that no matter what I've done, no matter where I've been, I have a Father who loves me. Isaiah said it best when he wrote:
“ 'For the mountains may move and the hills disappear, but even then My faithful love for you will remain. My covenant of blessing will never be broken,' says the Lord, who has mercy on you” (Isaiah 54:10 NLT).

Almost 30 years have passed. I never played in the Olympics, though I would have enjoyed that immensely. But I did learn something that is solid gold to me. The biggest victories can be found in the ruins of defeat, when we remember our Father's unfailing love.

By the way, that night I determined to skate again. In fact, I'm still skating. I've even scored a few goals
over the years—in the right net.

Photo: Phil Callaway, front row centre. This photo was taken in Three Hills, Alta., in 1966 when he was five

Visit popular author and speaker Phil Callaway online at www.laughagain.org