Again.
The worst word you can hear after finishing a suicide.
If you didn't wince, you should have.
I come home from dinner with Rob (third mention) to find my parents watching Miracle. As badly as I want to retreat upstairs and read more Harry Potter, I can't move. My eyes transfixed on the television, I find my usual seat on the wrap-around couch. It is at the most horrific part of the movie and I can't wait.
The coach says, "get a whistle" to the assistant coach. My dad says, "why?". A small smile forms on my face. "You'll see."
I'm back in Colorado, sitting next to my fellow teammates at the movie theater. A feeling of dread spreads through our stomachs. We know what's about to happen because it happened to us the last time we played. We watch as team USA lines up on the goal line. Some of us shift uncomfortably in our seats. There's a nervous cough. There's an uneasy laugh. One of us says, "there's Adam."
Blue line, back. Red line, back. Blue line, back. Goal line, back.
The end of our practice mantra. Or sometimes, the middle of our practice mantra if we're really screwing around. Sure, there are a select few on the team who are unfazed by sprints. They could do them all day. But for the most part, the majority of us have trouble with three, let alone the ten we are being forced to do. The first one is always a piece of cake. You go pretty hard and beat most of the others back to the goal line. You feel pretty good about yourself for skating so fast. Then you hear it. "Again." You go hard once more but by the fifth time you are stopping on a line and starting up again, you're not feeling as hot as you were before. On your way back to the goal line, you gulp the air, hoping there's only one more set. You finish the third set. The coach talks to you. You put your stick across your knees and you're slowly getting your heart back to a normal pace. He stops talking. "Again."
I tell my dad that I don't miss it. But I do. I can feel their exhaustion. Their pain. My chest aches and I can close my eyes and envision the rink. I'm lightheaded and out of breath. Actually, I have no breath. It's more like jagged wheezes that sound like retching to the person next to me. I'm blinking hard so I don't tear. All I hear is heavy breathing from the entire team and my own heart pounding in my ears. I'm so hot, I feel like I'm on fire. All I want to do is sink to my knees and place my head on the ice. My legs feel like jello and my back is throbbing. I just want to cry out because everything hurts so much it's going numb. I'm on four hours of sleep from the past two days. I've got three campaigns due in the next two days and I have class in the morning that I haven't prepared for yet. "Again."
I can smell the rink. I can smell the familiar scent of old Fritos and vomit coming from my gloves. I can hear KC mumble a slew of curses as we skate another one. I can feel the sweat roll down my back and into my pelvic protector. I already can see the steam coming off my body. My head is hanging because I'm too tired to keep it up.
The scene finally ends. I have to go upstairs now because all I want to do is go outside and drag my pucks out of the shed and lace up my rollerblades. I try and convince myself that I don't miss it; it's a chapter of my life that's over. I will always look back on it fondly and remember all of the fun times I shared with some of the best girls I will ever meet. Of course there were times I didn't want to go to practice or I wanted to ski rather than play yet another hockey game. But there is something about ice hockey that gives me an adrenaline rush when I just think about it. It's one of the most exciting sports I have ever played and definitely the most work. I'm not sure if I will ever play again. I am thankful my father put my black and silver Vapor bag in my mom's office. I'm glad I don't have to see it everyday in the garage. I think it would make it worse. I'm not going to lie; sometimes I run my hands over my jerseys hanging in my closet when I'm sifting for a sexy outfit. I miss pulling them on. I miss wearing my assorted doo rags my mom purchased for me in Walmart. I miss my friends. I miss riding behind the zamboni when Christine's driving. I miss getting run over by KP in practice even though we tell her "it's just practice!" I'm so happy I got those four years to play. It’s a shame I can’t get four more.
Again.
If you didn't wince, you should have.
I come home from dinner with Rob (third mention) to find my parents watching Miracle. As badly as I want to retreat upstairs and read more Harry Potter, I can't move. My eyes transfixed on the television, I find my usual seat on the wrap-around couch. It is at the most horrific part of the movie and I can't wait.
The coach says, "get a whistle" to the assistant coach. My dad says, "why?". A small smile forms on my face. "You'll see."
I'm back in Colorado, sitting next to my fellow teammates at the movie theater. A feeling of dread spreads through our stomachs. We know what's about to happen because it happened to us the last time we played. We watch as team USA lines up on the goal line. Some of us shift uncomfortably in our seats. There's a nervous cough. There's an uneasy laugh. One of us says, "there's Adam."
Blue line, back. Red line, back. Blue line, back. Goal line, back.
The end of our practice mantra. Or sometimes, the middle of our practice mantra if we're really screwing around. Sure, there are a select few on the team who are unfazed by sprints. They could do them all day. But for the most part, the majority of us have trouble with three, let alone the ten we are being forced to do. The first one is always a piece of cake. You go pretty hard and beat most of the others back to the goal line. You feel pretty good about yourself for skating so fast. Then you hear it. "Again." You go hard once more but by the fifth time you are stopping on a line and starting up again, you're not feeling as hot as you were before. On your way back to the goal line, you gulp the air, hoping there's only one more set. You finish the third set. The coach talks to you. You put your stick across your knees and you're slowly getting your heart back to a normal pace. He stops talking. "Again."
I tell my dad that I don't miss it. But I do. I can feel their exhaustion. Their pain. My chest aches and I can close my eyes and envision the rink. I'm lightheaded and out of breath. Actually, I have no breath. It's more like jagged wheezes that sound like retching to the person next to me. I'm blinking hard so I don't tear. All I hear is heavy breathing from the entire team and my own heart pounding in my ears. I'm so hot, I feel like I'm on fire. All I want to do is sink to my knees and place my head on the ice. My legs feel like jello and my back is throbbing. I just want to cry out because everything hurts so much it's going numb. I'm on four hours of sleep from the past two days. I've got three campaigns due in the next two days and I have class in the morning that I haven't prepared for yet. "Again."
I can smell the rink. I can smell the familiar scent of old Fritos and vomit coming from my gloves. I can hear KC mumble a slew of curses as we skate another one. I can feel the sweat roll down my back and into my pelvic protector. I already can see the steam coming off my body. My head is hanging because I'm too tired to keep it up.
The scene finally ends. I have to go upstairs now because all I want to do is go outside and drag my pucks out of the shed and lace up my rollerblades. I try and convince myself that I don't miss it; it's a chapter of my life that's over. I will always look back on it fondly and remember all of the fun times I shared with some of the best girls I will ever meet. Of course there were times I didn't want to go to practice or I wanted to ski rather than play yet another hockey game. But there is something about ice hockey that gives me an adrenaline rush when I just think about it. It's one of the most exciting sports I have ever played and definitely the most work. I'm not sure if I will ever play again. I am thankful my father put my black and silver Vapor bag in my mom's office. I'm glad I don't have to see it everyday in the garage. I think it would make it worse. I'm not going to lie; sometimes I run my hands over my jerseys hanging in my closet when I'm sifting for a sexy outfit. I miss pulling them on. I miss wearing my assorted doo rags my mom purchased for me in Walmart. I miss my friends. I miss riding behind the zamboni when Christine's driving. I miss getting run over by KP in practice even though we tell her "it's just practice!" I'm so happy I got those four years to play. It’s a shame I can’t get four more.
Again.