Take note: from this day forward this column will be an official fee-free zone.
No matter how tough things get for me, NML readers will not be required to pay service fees, late fees, user fees, or ink fees.*
It is not that I’m an especially caring guy; it’s just that I am hoping for a little reciprocity. I scratch your back, you lay off the fees.
It used to be just the government that required fees, but when businesses saw how a few fees here and there could improve their bottom line, they got on board, big time. You can owe five cents to the shoe repairmen but if you are late paying, he adds a $25 fee. You can have six bucks in your checking account but when they take out your seven dollar monthly fee you’re overdrawn, so they add on a 25-dollar fee.
It’s easy to see how lucrative the fee business is, and easy to understand how everybody wants to get their share.
My friend Dan is a real hospitable guy. You can drop by his house any time of the day or night and he’ll be slapping you on the back, offering you a beer and a slice of cold pizza. I used to drop by quite often too, until he instituted his hospitality fee.
“Don’t worry about it,” he assured me when I called the other week, concerned: “you’re always welcome in our house. It’s just that having a relaxed attitude and an open door has its costs, and we need to recoup some of those costs.”
To his credit, Dan was up front about his new fees, or at least as up front as anyone is when it comes to fees. He pointed out to me that on the same door mat that you step on as you enter his front door, right under the big bold embroidered “Welcome”, is a hand-stitched, single-thread of red that spells out his new fees.
The kid who used to mow my lawn has gotten in to the act too. He used to charge me $35 to cut my grass once a month. But when I got his last bill he had added a $5 fee to cover the cost of dumping the grass, a fee of $5 per hour for pollution control, a $5 surcharge for accidental death or dismemberment insurance, and a gasoline usage fee of $12.75.
Then, when I balked at the bill, he added a late fee.
That used to be my biggest gripe about fees – that they were a dishonest way of adding to the stated costs of products and services. I like to know the price of things, up front, so when mysterious fees and surcharges start showing up, it irks me.
But it’s gotten to the point where there are so many additional fees and hidden charges that it’s no longer an issue of fairness – now it’s about real money.
In Plymouth alone you pay fees to swim, to burn, and for your children to take the bus to school. Then you pay a fee to park, to ride, and to take your trash to the dump.
You want to build a deck –there’s a fee.
Want to tear it down and try again, pay a fee.
Want to hire someone who knows what they’re doing: pay another fee.
You pay the state a fee to register your car, a fee for a license plate, an excise tax (oh my Lord, what honesty, they call it a tax!) on the same car, and a fee for satellite radio so that when you’re burning up that expensive gas you are not commercially interrupted.
Now there’s a fee I am willing to pay. When I’m whining out loud in my car the last thing I want is to have to listen to someone else’s whining.
So where was I? Oh, whining about fees..
You pay fees if you’re late. You pay fees if you’re early.
You pay fees if you’re local, and fees if you’re from out of state.
If there’s anything you enjoy that you get for free, don’t blink because when you open your eyes again you’ll have to pay a fee.
Remember when television was free?
Remember when you could just drive to the beach and swim, for free?
Even things that are supposedly free are not free of fees.
Today the dictionary definition of free should be, ‘Free with Purchase’, or ‘Free with Fee’, or ‘Free after Rebate’.
*Oh, by the way: you can read this for free, and feel free to make copies (feel free but remember there’s a fee for each one).
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Sunday, October 09, 2005
The Secrets of Youth Hockey, Revealed!
I was passing by Armstrong Rink on Long Pond Road the other day and for some reason was compelled to look over at its entrance, just as an unsuspecting young family was going in.
I watched, with dread, as the father opened the glass door and a jet of cold rink air shot out, mixed with the warm air of the waning summer afternoon, and enveloped his entire family in a thick, impenetrable fog.
And when it had cleared, they were all gone!
16 years ago, this month, my wife Mary and I stood at that same door: young, naïve, not so much interested in hockey as in the opportunity for our four year old son Bobby to learn to skate, improve his coordination, and maybe make a few friends; you know, the usual reasons that parents venture out into the unknown.
And it all seemed so innocent, at first, even amusing.
For several weeks we watched Bobby awkwardly maneuvering his way over the ice, clutching an orange cone tightly to his chest. He never really progressed much beyond that during this first autumn at the rink, so we were surprised when we were encouraged to enroll him in the next phase.
“But he’s really not a very good skater,” Mary told the eager youth hockey administrator, “do you think he’s really ready for hockey?”
“Oh sure,” Mr. Deval said, “by next Christmas he’ll be able to skate, to shoot, and even score!” As he said the word ‘score’ a loud air horn went off, a jet black Zamboni went careening by, and a naked bulb in a metal fixture overhead exploded, showering us with confetti-sized shards of glass.
That was 1990.
Ten years later Mary and I were jerked back to consciousness by the unmistakable pong of a sweat-soaked hockey bag simmering somewhere nearby.
For a moment we were unsure where we were, and then we recognized the all too familiar décor of the Holiday Inn in Tyngsboro, Massachusetts.
Another hockey tournament.
A knock on our door was followed immediately by the door opening, and that same eager hockey administrator –a bit grayer in the temples, stuck his grinning face into our room to announce that we should probably start thinking about heading over to the rink.
“It’s too late for that,” Mary said, “we had our chance, and we blew it.”
Hockey is a great sport, and the children that devote themselves to it are often rewarded with exciting competition, physical strength, and enduring friendships. It’s a tempting alternative to many of the passive recreations that our children gravitate to today: the video games and online activities that leave them mentally wired and physically flabby.
But beware the fine print.
Part of the problem is the youth of the participants: the parents, not the kids. With good intentions young parents involve themselves in a variety of activities, without really knowing what they are getting themselves into.
Here are the important numbers:
9 months every year. With try-outs, practices, games and a variety of post-season skill camps, youth hockey players often put in more time on the ice than the pros.
32 thermoses. The average youth hockey family goes through 32 insulated coffee thermoses from the time their little darling first embraces the orange cones of learn-to-skate month, to their final tournament in Tyngsboro. Some of these thermoses are lost, some are stolen, but most are knocked over by fist-pumping mothers celebrating a vicious check or a winning goal.
7 Caribbean Cruises. These aren’t cruises you take, rather they are the cruises you missed, the cruises you could have taken had you not been obligated to spend every February or April school vacation for a decade at a youth hockey tournament in Tyngsboro, or Marlboro, or any of a dozen frozen boros with their own rink and a nearby Holiday Inn.
Then there are the 13 pairs of skates, over 10 years, ranging in price from $60 a pair when they are cute and clutching cones, to the $250 pair they demand when they are pimply, hormonal adolescents.
Not to mention the neck pads you buy twice a year so your child isn’t beheaded, or the $75 leather gloves so they keep all their digits, or the Hartford Whalers official NHL replica jersey so they look good in practice, or the forest of imported, fire-treated, Mark Messier-approved hockey sticks that they turn to kindling playing street hockey.
And if the worse should happen - if some well-intentioned coach decides your child is a natural born goalie, the cost of goalie pads and mask are only exceeded by the cost of family therapy sessions for the foreseeable future.
But it’s not just the cost, in cold cash or lost time, it’s the life you give up.
The world turns, Presidents are elected, WMDS are lost and found and lost again, but you never know because all your free time is spent in a place where the seasons never change, the scenery never varies, the lakes are always frozen.
Youth hockey in Massachusetts isn’t a sport, it’s a cult!
Yes, it’s that time of the year again, when hordes of cute little young parents head over to the rink, cameras in hand, to record their children’s first moments on the ice.
It’s so cute. It’s so sweet. It’s so hard to resist.
Don’t say you weren’t warned.
I watched, with dread, as the father opened the glass door and a jet of cold rink air shot out, mixed with the warm air of the waning summer afternoon, and enveloped his entire family in a thick, impenetrable fog.
And when it had cleared, they were all gone!
16 years ago, this month, my wife Mary and I stood at that same door: young, naïve, not so much interested in hockey as in the opportunity for our four year old son Bobby to learn to skate, improve his coordination, and maybe make a few friends; you know, the usual reasons that parents venture out into the unknown.
And it all seemed so innocent, at first, even amusing.
For several weeks we watched Bobby awkwardly maneuvering his way over the ice, clutching an orange cone tightly to his chest. He never really progressed much beyond that during this first autumn at the rink, so we were surprised when we were encouraged to enroll him in the next phase.
“But he’s really not a very good skater,” Mary told the eager youth hockey administrator, “do you think he’s really ready for hockey?”
“Oh sure,” Mr. Deval said, “by next Christmas he’ll be able to skate, to shoot, and even score!” As he said the word ‘score’ a loud air horn went off, a jet black Zamboni went careening by, and a naked bulb in a metal fixture overhead exploded, showering us with confetti-sized shards of glass.
That was 1990.
Ten years later Mary and I were jerked back to consciousness by the unmistakable pong of a sweat-soaked hockey bag simmering somewhere nearby.
For a moment we were unsure where we were, and then we recognized the all too familiar décor of the Holiday Inn in Tyngsboro, Massachusetts.
Another hockey tournament.
A knock on our door was followed immediately by the door opening, and that same eager hockey administrator –a bit grayer in the temples, stuck his grinning face into our room to announce that we should probably start thinking about heading over to the rink.
“It’s too late for that,” Mary said, “we had our chance, and we blew it.”
Hockey is a great sport, and the children that devote themselves to it are often rewarded with exciting competition, physical strength, and enduring friendships. It’s a tempting alternative to many of the passive recreations that our children gravitate to today: the video games and online activities that leave them mentally wired and physically flabby.
But beware the fine print.
Part of the problem is the youth of the participants: the parents, not the kids. With good intentions young parents involve themselves in a variety of activities, without really knowing what they are getting themselves into.
Here are the important numbers:
9 months every year. With try-outs, practices, games and a variety of post-season skill camps, youth hockey players often put in more time on the ice than the pros.
32 thermoses. The average youth hockey family goes through 32 insulated coffee thermoses from the time their little darling first embraces the orange cones of learn-to-skate month, to their final tournament in Tyngsboro. Some of these thermoses are lost, some are stolen, but most are knocked over by fist-pumping mothers celebrating a vicious check or a winning goal.
7 Caribbean Cruises. These aren’t cruises you take, rather they are the cruises you missed, the cruises you could have taken had you not been obligated to spend every February or April school vacation for a decade at a youth hockey tournament in Tyngsboro, or Marlboro, or any of a dozen frozen boros with their own rink and a nearby Holiday Inn.
Then there are the 13 pairs of skates, over 10 years, ranging in price from $60 a pair when they are cute and clutching cones, to the $250 pair they demand when they are pimply, hormonal adolescents.
Not to mention the neck pads you buy twice a year so your child isn’t beheaded, or the $75 leather gloves so they keep all their digits, or the Hartford Whalers official NHL replica jersey so they look good in practice, or the forest of imported, fire-treated, Mark Messier-approved hockey sticks that they turn to kindling playing street hockey.
And if the worse should happen - if some well-intentioned coach decides your child is a natural born goalie, the cost of goalie pads and mask are only exceeded by the cost of family therapy sessions for the foreseeable future.
But it’s not just the cost, in cold cash or lost time, it’s the life you give up.
The world turns, Presidents are elected, WMDS are lost and found and lost again, but you never know because all your free time is spent in a place where the seasons never change, the scenery never varies, the lakes are always frozen.
Youth hockey in Massachusetts isn’t a sport, it’s a cult!
Yes, it’s that time of the year again, when hordes of cute little young parents head over to the rink, cameras in hand, to record their children’s first moments on the ice.
It’s so cute. It’s so sweet. It’s so hard to resist.
Don’t say you weren’t warned.
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