Aiming for the Moon, Landing Among the Stars

When I was a kid working my way up through minor hockey, then junior, then into pro, I had one plan: be a starting goaltender in the NHL. That was the goal. Not "make the NHL." Not "have a long career." Start. Be the guy.

It didn't happen that way.

I played 12 years in the NHL. And for the vast majority of that career, I was a backup.

For a long time, if you'd asked me how I felt about that, I would've told you I fell short. I had a plan, and reality didn't match it.

The Question I Had to Sit With

Was that a failure? Or was it success, just not the version I'd drawn up in my head?

That question isn't rhetorical. It's one I actually had to work through, over years, not in one tidy realization. And I think it's the exact question a lot of goaltenders — and honestly, a lot of people outside hockey too — need to ask themselves at some point, because almost nobody's career or life ends up matching the plan exactly.

Here's what I've landed on: it wasn't failure. It was success redefined.

Aim for the Moon

There's an old line — aim for the moon, and even if you miss, you'll land among the stars. I used to hear that as a kind of consolation prize. Like, "well, at least you got something." Now I hear it differently. I think the point isn't that missing the moon is disappointing. The point is that you needed the moon as your aim in the first place — the size of that goal is what pulled you far enough to land somewhere real.

If I'd set out at 18 years old with the goal of "have a solid pro career, mostly as a backup, and win a couple championships," I don't think I make it. That goal isn't big enough to survive the setbacks. It's not big enough to get you through the years of grinding in the minors, the demotions, the nights you don't play. You need something bigger than what's reasonable to aim at, because the size of the aim is what generates the work.

The plan was never wrong to have. The plan was the engine. It just wasn't the destination.

What "Success Redefined" Actually Means

This isn't about lowering the bar after the fact so you can feel better. That's a different thing, and goaltenders can smell that kind of self-talk from a mile away — it doesn't hold up under pressure.

Redefining success means actually looking at what you built, honestly, instead of only measuring it against the blueprint you drew before you knew anything about how this would go.

When I look at 12 years, two Cups, almost 250 games — that's not the plan I had at 18. But the 18-year-old version of me didn't know enough yet to draw up a better plan. He didn't know what a backup role could actually mean on a good team. He didn't know what winning felt like, or that it might matter more than the label on his role. He was drawing up a plan with the information he had at the time, which was limited, because he hadn't lived any of it yet.

The plan you make at the start of something is always drawn by the least experienced version of you that will ever work on that goal. That's worth remembering next time you're disappointed that reality didn't match it.

Why This Matters for the Goaltenders I Work With

I see this play out constantly with the goalies I coach. A kid has a plan — Division I, then pro, then NHL, on a specific timeline, in a specific role. When the path bends — a demotion, a slow year, a coach who doesn't play them, a level that doesn't come as fast as expected — a lot of them read that as the plan failing. And once you've decided the plan failed, it's easy to decide you failed.

That's the part I try to get in front of early. Have the plan. Aim big — bigger than feels reasonable, because that's what it's for. But build in, from the start, the understanding that the plan is a direction, not a contract. Life — and certainly a hockey career — is going to negotiate the terms with you along the way. That's not the plan breaking down. That's just what actually having a career looks like, for everyone who's ever had one.

The goaltenders who last are the ones who can hold both things at once: real ambition, and the flexibility to let the shape of that ambition change without deciding they've lost.

The Uncomfortable Middle

I won't pretend the in-between years were easy. There's a real period — and it can last a while — where you know the original plan isn't happening the way you drew it, but you haven't yet built the new frame for what this actually means. That middle stretch is uncomfortable. You're not failing, but it doesn't feel like winning yet either.

I don't have a shortcut through that part. I think you just have to keep showing up, keep doing the work, and let time and results build you a new picture. Mine got built by wins, by teammates, by two Cup runs that taught me things no amount of "starter" games would have. But it took the full 12 years to see the shape of it clearly.

The Takeaway

Have the plan. Aim high enough that it scares you a little — that's the size of goal that pulls the best out of you over the long run.

But hold the plan loosely enough that when life redirects you, you don't mistake the redirection for a verdict on your worth or your work.

I aimed to be a starting NHL goaltender. I became something I couldn't have designed at 18: a 12-year NHL goaltender, a two-time champion, and eventually someone who gets to help the next generation of goalies navigate the exact same gap between the plan and the path.

Missing the moon was never the problem. The stars were always the point.