Part II: A bittersweet goodbye

All the way across the ball fields, three little blond boys ran at full tilt, past the swings and the basketball courts, toward the picnic tables heaped with brats and potato salad, looking for Nick Mattson.

"Do you think those are the Schmunks?" asked Nick's dad, Kevin, watching them run. Then he answered his own question. "I bet they are."

The Mattsons knew Jamie and Kristie Schmunk only from their e-mails, phone calls and photos. But in three days, Kevin and his wife, Julie, would be leaving 15-year-old Nick in the Schmunks' care for the next seven months.

When Nick joined USA Hockey's national team development program in Ann Arbor, Mich., his parents took a leap of faith, allowing him to move away from his family and his Chanhassen home to seek his hockey destiny.

Now, at this August picnic on the second day of the team's orientation weekend, Kevin and Julie Mattson were coming face to face with the reality that their only son was about to leave the nest.

The night before, Nick and his mother heard details of the program. In the grand ballroom of the Holiday Inn-Ann Arbor, hockey players in cargo shorts and flip-flops chatted about their summer breaks while Nick chewed gum nervously, feeling a little alone.

He was the only Minnesotan on the under-17 team, and most of the other kids knew each other.

Everyone received a copy of the Blue Book, which governs everything from dress codes to academics to NCAA statutes.

Nick and the others would attend Pioneer High, a sprawling 3,000-student campus right across the street from Michigan Stadium. The hockey players would be expected to sit in the front of the classroom.

If any one of them had to miss school -- and that should only happen if he were violently ill, they were told -- he was expected to call an assistant coach and let him know. Personally. No host families calling for them.

There were other rules, too.

A nutritionist would calculate their body-fat percentage and scrutinize their diets. Coaches would call host parents randomly to enforce curfews, and players would be required to give 24 hours notice if they weren't eating a meal at home. Breaking a rule could mean an extra workout, suspension or dismissal.

"There will be bumps in the road," housing coordinator Julie Weintraub told them. "The chicken and the meatloaf won't taste like they do at home. Just be patient. Buddy up with each other. And give it time."

Nick wasn't surprised by the long list of regulations. "I don't drink pop, and I'm not really a junk-food guy," he said. "You've got to be responsible for yourself. You have to be mentally tough and develop good habits."

His parents were happy to learn how strictly the staff monitored the players; that made it easier to let him go.

Still, Julie felt a lump in her throat when the staff laid out guardianship papers for her to sign. For out-of-state players to attend public high school in Michigan, their parents had to sign legal documents granting limited guardianship to the host families. Julie had known this was coming, but that didn't make it any less difficult.

She swallowed hard, and picked up the pen.

Nick got his first look at the school the next morning, when he and his teammates set up housekeeping in their Pioneer High homeroom. The room, with two microwave ovens and refrigerator amid the lockers and desks, would be the team's crash pad, where players gathered for lunch and study halls. Some parents had already made a grocery run to stock it with bottled water, sports drinks and healthful snacks.

With their 60-game schedule, three international trips and hours of practice, the players would have no time to hang out with other students. This homeroom gave them a place of their own.

Nick and a few teammates wandered the labyrinthine corridors of the school, hunting down their lockers and locating their classrooms. His old school, Chaska High, was about half the size; this was going to take some getting used to.

As he wandered past yet another row of identical maroon lockers, Nick looked confused. "I got lost already," he said.

"I don't know what I'm doing," said forward Kenny Ryan.

Over the next couple of months, that thought would enter their minds more times than they would care to admit.

Reining in expectations

In the basement of the Ann Arbor Ice Cube, the players lined up to have their official photos taken: one with a jersey, one with a shirt and tie.

"Anyone know how to tie this thing?" one player asked, holding out a red, white and blue necktie. The other players just looked at him.

So a team administrator stepped up and knotted it for him -- for everyone. When it was Nick's turn, he did what each of his teammates had done: he pulled the tie loop down over his head, smiled at the camera, and then pulled the tie off gingerly and handed it to the next player in line.

Upstairs, coaches were preparing parents for the inevitable crises of confidence their sons would face. All of the boys had been stars with their previous teams. Here, they would be playing in a league full of older, bigger, stronger and faster players.

Head coach Ron Rolston -- brother of Minnesota Wild forward Brian Rolston -- stood at the front of the room, which overlooked the rink. Records and points weren't important, he told the parents. Success would be measured by the players' willingness to improve and pursue their full potential.

As gently as he could, he let them know he had no intention of discussing playing issues with moms or dads.

"We don't guarantee your son will play in the NHL or get a college scholarship," Rolston said. "The most important thing in this program is to help these kids get better on a daily basis."

That evening, at the picnic, as the boys put away the food and bagged the garbage, Deb Schroeder introduced herself to Julie. Schroeder lived in Lakeville, and her son, Jordan, played with the under-18 squad. She was a veteran; this was Jordan's second year.

"So, you doing OK?" she asked.

"Yeah," Julie said. "But it's hard."

"The first two months are the toughest," Schroeder told her. "You'll walk by his bedroom, and he's not there. But they're in good hands here. It's really been good for Jordan."

Saying goodbye

On Sunday afternoon, Nick and his parents moved his clothes and gear to the Schmunks' house, in the tony neighborhood called the Polo Fields.

Kevin Mattson looked in awe at the luxurious lower-level digs that would be Nick's home for the next seven months. "He will never want to come home," he said.

Cooper, at 9 the oldest of the three Schmunk boys, had helped choose the carpet and bedspread for Nick's room. Through one door lay a rec room with a bar, game tables and a big-screen TV; through the other door lay an unfinished area that had been rigged up as a floor-hockey rink. It had dasher boards and goal nets atop its smooth concrete.

"We should just put down a deposit on that window now,'' said Julie, eyeing the glass just above one of the goals.

While Nick played video games with the boys, Julie and Kevin set up his computer, unpacked bags of school supplies and put away his socks and T-shirts.

"You all moved in, Nick?" Jamie Schmunk asked later.

"Am I?" Nick replied, looking at his mom.

The goodbyes came the next afternoon, delayed as long as Kevin and Julie could manage. But finally, in the late afternoon, after straightening up Nick's new room ("Last chance to have Mom do that," Kevin joked), they walked slowly toward their rented SUV.

"Thanks again," Kevin Mattson said to Jamie Schmunk, shaking his hand. "I know he'll have a lot of fun here."

"Well, are we ready?" Julie said, sounding a little uncertain. Their youngest, Ellie, ran around the expansive green lawn and giggled. At her mother's urging, she finally joined her parents and brother for a group hug.

"Have fun," Kevin told his son, his face tight with emotion.

"Love you," Julie said. "We'll see you at the end of the month."

Ellie waved as she climbed into the car. Her parents looked straight ahead, trying to suppress their sadness as they pulled away. And Nick ambled back up the driveway, taking his first steps into his new life.

Coming Tuesday: Homesickness engulfs Nick, and his hockey playing falters.

Rachel Blount • 612-673-4389