Not a Bucket List: Just Things I’d Still Like to Say Yes To

There comes a point in life where “bucket list” starts to sound a little too dramatic.

Like I’m standing on a cliff somewhere staring at a sunset, whispering life lessons into the wind.

That’s not really my style.

This isn’t a bucket list.

These are just things I’d still like to do.

Some of them are old dreams.

Some are probably leftovers from spending too much time around big-time sports and entertainment.

Some are ridiculous.

Some are oddly specific.

And some are the kind of things that made perfect sense when I was twenty-five and somehow still make sense now that I’m closer to fifty and make noises every time I stand up.

None of them involve climbing Everest.

I’ve already jumped out of a plane once. I’m good.

At this point in life, I’m less interested in proving I’m fearless and more interested in finding places with no cell service, good coffee, and a chair facing water.

But there are still a few things that call your name.

Not because they make sense.

Because they feel like you.

So here they are.

In no particular order… although apparently my brain prefers baseball, motorcycles, and peanut butter.

Season Tickets and a Short Walk to the Ballpark

I would love to have season tickets somewhere and go to every home game.

Not casually.

Not “we should go sometime.”

I mean fully committed.

Local.

Routine.

Downtown apartment.

Short walk to the ballpark.

Grab a bag of peanuts, a scorecard, maybe a program, find my seat, and disappear into the rhythm of a baseball season.

That sounds like peace.

Dream list? Wrigley. Fenway. Yankee Stadium.

If we stay a little closer to home, Seattle, San Francisco, and San Diego all feel like cities I could happily get lost in.

I think what I love most is the idea of becoming part of the place.

Not a tourist.

A regular.

The guy the usher nods at because he’s seen you 47 times this summer.

There is something romantic about baseball like that.

Maybe it’s Ray Kinsella.

Maybe it’s Billy Chapel.

Maybe it’s Ricky Vaughn or Crash Davis.

Maybe it’s just the idea that baseball still feels like storytelling.

Either way, I want in.

Ride a Harley Across Canada

If Highway 1 runs from the Pacific to the Atlantic, I feel like at some point in life a man should probably ride it.

Preferably on a Harley.

Ocean to ocean.

Province by province.

Summer road trip.

No rush.

Just gas stations, roadside diners, questionable motel coffee, and the kind of conversations you only have somewhere around hour six of staring at open road.

I’ve spent plenty of time in Western Canada, but I have never really explored Eastern Canada or the Maritimes the way I’d want to.

And if I’m going to do it, I’d rather do it on a two-wheeled stallion than from seat 17C on a WestJet flight.

There is something honest about seeing a country from the road.

No shortcuts.

No fast-forward.

Just the long way.

That feels right.

Learn to Fly Fish

Fly fishing has always felt like part sport, part magic trick, and part therapy.

I have admired it from afar for years.

Since moving to Idaho, it has only pulled harder.

There is something about it that feels different than regular fishing.

Maybe it’s the detail.

Maybe it’s the patience.

Maybe it’s the excuse to stand in a river where your phone doesn’t work and nobody can ask you to answer one more email.

That sounds healthy.

I’ve been salmon fishing off the coast of B.C. with my dad and pulled fish out of the ocean that looked like they belonged in folklore.

Seeing orcas breaking the surface of the Pacific while hauling in salmon bigger than you thought existed—that sticks with you.

But fly fishing feels different.

Quieter.

More personal.

Like part of the reward is becoming the kind of person who is patient enough to be good at it.

And being able to do that with my kids someday, standing in some Montana river with no cell service and bad sandwiches in a cooler, sounds like the kind of memory worth chasing.

Play Augusta With My Old Man

When I played in Columbia, South Carolina, Augusta had an ECHL team.

We would drive there to play the Lynx and pass Augusta National on the way.

You’d see those famous trees standing there like giant green security guards and look at the place like peasants staring across a moat at a castle.

You knew something special was behind those gates.

Watching The Masters on TV and seeing the detail, the beauty, and the perfection of that course only made it worse.

I’ve always wanted to play it.

But more than that, I’d want to play it with my dad.

That would be the whole point.

If we’re building a dream foursome, I’m taking Michael Jordan and Wayne Gretzky.

No hesitation.

My two biggest idols growing up.

Sharing a cigar with MJ, talking shop with Gretz, and betting a couple bucks on closest to the pin at Golden Bell-the famous par-3 12th at Augusta, feels like a pretty strong use of a Thursday.

I don’t even care what I shoot.

Actually, that’s a lie.

I care deeply.

But still.

That day would be hard to top.

Run a Full Marathon

I’ve done three half marathons.

Vancouver.

San Diego.

Boise.

I completed them, survived them, and learned that “runner’s high” is apparently reserved for other people.

No magical life-changing moment.

No spiritual awakening.

Just sweat, regret, and a strong desire to find the nearest chair.

I enjoyed it.

Being in a race is cool.

The energy is awesome.

But I never crossed the finish line thinking, I need more of this.

I was more in the neighborhood of, I’m glad that’s over and please bring me fries.

That said, I would like to run a full marathon.

Mostly because I think it should be crossed off the list.

Would I put a 26.2 sticker on the back of my vehicle?

Absolutely not.

Would I casually work it into the Hay family Christmas card like it was no big deal?

Without question.

That feels like the right level of marathon guy.

Learn to Play an Instrument

I have less than zero musical talent.

That is not false humility.

That is a public safety announcement.

But I have always admired music and the people who can play it.

A guitar around a campfire.

Someone sitting down at an old piano and making it look effortless.

That feels like magic to me.

I remember someone asking once: if you could either speak every language or play every instrument, which would you choose?

I picked instruments.

Still would.

There is something incredible about creating something that people feel.

Having a crowd sing back one of your songs while you stand there pretending you totally meant to hit that note?

That would be epic.

I sing Friends in Low Places by Garth Brooks anytime I find myself trapped in a karaoke situation, and I stand by that decision.

And after watching Bradley Cooper in A Star Is Born, I’ve decided that if he can do it, I probably can too.

This is likely false.

But I choose optimism.

Host Saturday Night Live

Ever since I was a kid, staying up late on Saturdays to watch Saturday Night Live felt like part of growing up.

Hearing those words—

“Live from New York, it’s Saturday night…”

—that was the soundtrack of sneaking into adolescence.

I always wanted to be the one saying it.

I realize those hosting gigs are usually reserved for Derek Jeter, Travis Kelce, Peyton Manning, and people who have done significantly more famous things than coaching youth hockey.

I understand the odds.

Still.

Growing up in the Will Ferrell era ruined me in the best way.

Celebrity Jeopardy.

More Cowbell.

The Spartan Cheerleaders.

Harry Caray asking if the moon was made of ribs.

That was comedy gold.

“I got a fever… and the only prescription… is more cowbell.”

That line made Blue Öyster Cult basically unlistenable in the best possible way.

All I hear is cowbell.

And if you can watch Celebrity Jeopardy without laughing at Sean Connery destroying Alex Trebek for ten straight minutes, I’m not sure we can be friends.

The fact that Will Ferrell is a huge hockey fan and a season ticket holder for the Los Angeles Kings somehow makes it feel even cooler.

Probably not realistic.

But possible.

And if I get to pick the musical guest?

It’s Blink-182, taking me straight back to 1999 and summers with my buddies in Brocklehurst.

No notes.

Perfect episode.

Walk Out With Morgan Wallen

I would also like to do one of those big concert walkouts with Morgan Wallen.

I saw Nick Saban do it in Tuscaloosa.

Joe Montana did it in San Francisco.

And I thought, yes… obviously that should be me next.

I realize I would probably need to do something significantly more important in the next little while to get that phone call.

I’m aware.

Still, walking out at Rogers Arena or BC Place in Vancouver while Morgan is about to light the place on fire would be absolute chaos in the best way.

His music has found its way into my playlist more than I expected.

That East Tennessee twang when he sings 98 Braves makes me think of my own days.

If I had any musical ability, I’d probably be writing a song called 86 Oilers. IFYKYK.

If you don't know, this was the first time I ever had my heart broken.

So instead, I’ll just settle for walking out dramatically like I’m somebody important.

That feels achievable.

Open a Food Truck — PB & Hays

I love food.

I love peanut butter.

Naturally, the only logical conclusion is opening a food truck called PB & Hays.

I will hear no criticism.

Everything would somehow involve peanut butter.

Burgers.

Desserts.

Sauces.

Sandwiches.

Possibly things peanut butter has no business being involved in.

Innovation requires courage.

I’m pretty sure I survived my rookie year in Tri-City almost entirely on Skippy peanut butter because I was such a picky eater.

That stuff was basically a food group.

There is something about food trucks I love.

Simple.

Creative.

People happy because you handed them something fried.

That feels like honest work.

And if I can do that while occasionally pretending I’m some kind of peanut butter culinary genius, even better.

PB & Hays has legs.

I believe in it.

Breed Dogs Somewhere in Montana

One of my kryptonites is puppies.

Absolutely no emotional defense against them.

We have two doodles and they are basically furry therapists with no respect for personal space.

They are family.

To be able to bring people the kind of joy dogs bring me would be pretty special.

So yes, somewhere in the back of my mind lives the idea of breeding dogs.

Probably in Montana.

Probably by a river.

Probably near wherever I finally learned how to fly fish.

There would be mountains.

Books I should have read twenty years earlier.

Coffee.

Dogs.

Maybe a motorcycle parked outside.

Maybe I finally ran that marathon and only mention it occasionally.

Maybe I’m still trying to learn three chords on a guitar.

That version of life sounds pretty good.

Honestly, maybe getting older is not about crossing things off a list.

Maybe it is about learning what kind of life actually sounds good to you.

And for me, it probably looks like a dog, a river, a baseball stadium, and entirely too much peanut butter.

That sounds about right. 🏒

About the Author

Darrell Hay has learned that behind every hockey player is usually a person dreaming about something completely different—owning a food truck, buying season tickets, learning guitar, breeding dogs in Montana, or finally figuring out how to fly fish without looking like you’re fighting the river. Hockey gave him a career, a purpose, and most of his best life lessons, but it also taught him that identity should be bigger than the rink. Somewhere between the game, the people, and the places life takes you, you start figuring out what really feels like home—and sometimes it looks a lot like a dog, a river, and entirely too much peanut butter.