Why I Keep Coming Back: Haley Dervinis' Masters Journey
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by Haley Dervinis (U.S. O-45 Women's Masters Assistant Coach)
Over the years, I’ve experienced Masters as a player, captain, committee member, manager, and coach. Each role has changed how I see this community and reinforced something I believe more strongly every year: the quality of Masters depends on whether people feel seen, supported, and able to contribute.
What follows is my story of why I keep coming back.
My first year in Masters, the World Cup was cancelled because of COVID. At the time, I wasn't even sure what I was getting myself into. After I stopped coaching, I hadn't played in years, but my college best friend (Go Owls!) urged me to go to tryouts after a woman in her league insisted she’d love it.
The pandemic ended, and another cycle opened. This time, I went to tryouts having aged up and with a recent hamstring injury. As fresh-faced youth took notes on clipboards, I felt confident, but uneasy. Surely they'd notice the things I could still do, and understand the things I couldn't because of the injury.
The team was named. I wasn't on it.
Before the disappointment had fully worn off, I was promoted to alternate and then asked to travel. A record number of players declined their spots, making way for an injured newbie like me. But this chance wasn't earned; it was given. I arrived knowing I had something to prove.
Over the next three tours, I rose from alternate to captain, earned nearly all 60 minutes on the field, and even found the back of the net a few times. It felt validating, but it still wasn't what mattered most.
I couldn't tell you how we finished in that first tournament—or any of the tournaments since, for that matter. That's surprising, because I remember almost everything else.
For those of you thinking, Winning is what makes it fun, I don't disagree. But for me, that's just not what makes it worth it.
What has been most valuable is that I've walked away from every Masters tour humbled.
Humbled by my teammates, who sacrifice so much to be there and push themselves to their limits. Humbled by my body, which is constantly changing and keeps me guessing about what it needs and when. Humbled by my competition who I assume has been practicing way more often than us, even though that’s not always true. Humbled by our U.S. staff, who give so much of their time, energy, and expertise to prepare, educate, and support us. And humbled by Master's hockey itself: its ability to bring together a community through fair competition and endless opportunities for connection.
This past go-round, injury found me again. This time, it was a big one: a torn ACL and a torn meniscus. In the middle of that grief, I volunteered to help within my age group.
Every physical therapy milestone seemed to come with another Masters responsibility. I went from non-traveling manager to traveling manager, planning practices and sending more WhatsApp messages than I can count. Then, days before the tournament began, I unexpectedly stepped into one more role: head coach.
My fear wasn't the X's and O's. It was letting my peers down.
I volunteered because I wanted to help create an experience worthy of the sacrifice every player was making to wear that USA jersey. I created a pressure cooker for myself, but my peers met me with open minds and open hearts. I became focused on creating the conditions that would allow every player to be their best.
With a team of support, a borrowed dry-erase board, and a vocabulary of curse words, we persisted.
Coaching builds a different kind of trust than being a player or even a captain. Within that trust, players sometimes gift you moments of vulnerability. Those conversations have become some of my most treasured memories.
When I first showed up to Masters, I thought we were all trying to prove something. Now I think we're all just hoping to belong.
Across all the roles I've held in Masters, my biggest takeaway is how competition reveals just how similar we are. We all want to feel included, acknowledged, and encouraged and those things profoundly affect performance. We're all the same as we were on our first day of preseason, hoping to be seen for who we are and what we can contribute. We all just want a chance.
Where I fit into Masters moving forward remains up in the air because I've finally realized why I keep coming back.
It's not to represent my country (although that's pretty cool).
It's not so my mom can log in, watch my games, and feel proud of me (although helping her figure out the livestream may always be a necessary evil).
And it's not because I can tell people where we finished.
I keep returning because of you.
Every tournament introduces me to another person's hero story, and many leave me inspired. I leave with just the right number of dramatic tales, tears cried, and laughs shared. I leave frustrated with, and deeply appreciative of, my body for carrying me through another intense ten days. And maybe most importantly, I leave closer to my teammates and more appreciative of the families who support them.
All in all, I walk away whole.
