"Goalie" Response
It was the same everyday. Go to practice. Come home. Practice again. I didn't mind practicing but when it came to the games It really got to me. No matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough. Even if we did win, It didn't feel like it was enough. Everyday I practiced. I usually came home my hands cold and sore from holding the stick for so long. My clothes dripping in sweat and my shoulder sore from carrying the bag full of hockey equipment. My dad watched from afar as I threw the heavy equipment into the laundry room. I don't even know why he even bothered watching me practice and coming to my games. It was all the same anyways. I looked up from the equipment scattered around the floor. i looked past my dad who was just standing there. I glared at my surroundings. Every little thing bothered me. I'm not sure why. I walk past my dad and into the garage. I grab my equipment I kept in there and started practicing. The puck flies in every direction. With every miss I hit the puck harder and harder. My dad once again comes in and this time he sits down. When I miss one more time I give up.
"Do you enjoy it?" he asks. "Do you enjoy the game at least? Do you like playing?"
I shrug. "I love it." I reply.
The day continues on. I continue practicing.
Before i know it, it's morning and the day of the big game. My legs are sore and my body is in pain from yesterday's practice. Time passes and it's time for the game. I look at my equipment layed neatly across the floor. I think of how much it cost. Forty dollars for sticks. Glove for one hundred and twenty. And thirteen hundred dollars for leg pads. Thirty minutes left. I put on the equipment and its game time.
I step onto the ice, skating over to the goalie net, not bothering to greet my teammates. Before I know it, the scoreboard lights up and the puck drops. I do the best I can. Blocking shots with my stick, moving to cut the angle, anything that can keep the puck from coming into the net. Shouts and cheering fills the arena. I smile to myself knowing that some of these people are cheering for me. The whistle blows to indicate the game is over. We lost. Again. Soon everyone starts to file out, except me. I slowly skate around the ice with a blank expression. My parents shout my name but I ignore them. I eventually get off the ice. I limp all the way home angry with my bag dragging behind me. I throw my bag into the laundry room, not bothering to take the equipment out, and go straight to the kitchen. My dad takes a seat next to me. I look down at my swollen hands. My arms and legs are covered in bruises and my shirt is covered in sweat. I ask myself why do I do it? Why do I do this to myself? This was not how it was when I was 6 years old in my backyard standing in a ragged net, wearing a parka and a baseball glove, holding my stick. It's different now. Then I finally realize why I do it. What other choice do I have? What else have I ever wanted to do?