Fuckin' Suck
Hunter Rockwell
With eight games left in our season, we were running out of time. Our team, the Blizzard, sat in 9thplace in the West—one spot shy of a playoff berth. From this point on, weneedto win the rest of our games if we want to sneak into the playoffs.
Florida, our opponent for the night, was on the tail-end of a long road trip. We knewthey'd be tired and likely wear out half-way through the game. All we had to do was work hard and grind them down. This was exactly the kind of game we couldn't afford to lose.
But for whatever reason, like way too many nights this year, we lacked something. Some spark. Some missing ingredient. Some chemistry, or grit, or jam. Whatever the fuck you wanna call it—we didn't have it. We were letting a team with tired legs out work us.
Sitting on the bench and waiting for my next shift, I took a look up at the scoreboard: Florida 3, Colorado 2. A minute and a half left in the game.
I shook my head in disgust.Fuckin' sad.
“C'mon, boys! Just need one,” I roared, banging my stick into the bench, hoping to fire my teammates up. But all I got back from them was an ominous silence and defeated expressions.
Ugh.
Get a hockey fan to take a look at the names on this roster, and they'd agree: weshouldbe a good team. But take a look at our record, and you'd see that we arenota good team. We're not bad, either. We're mediocre, which might beworsethan being bad.
A mediocre team will win two, three games in a row. You feel like you've finally worked out your problems. Your team's got all the pieces in place and you're making progress. But then the pendulum swings back the other way, and you drop three, four games in a row. And you're back at square one: realizing you suck, and you don't know why.
Something was wrong with this team. Something was wrong here and nobody knew what it was. Not me, not any of my teammates, not the fans or the coach or the general manager, either.
Nobody.
And if we didn't figure out what the fuck it was real fast, we knew that we'd miss the playoffs. And then heads were going to roll. Starting with mine: the captain that couldn't lead his team to glory.
With less than a minute left in the game, I jumped off the bench and joined the play on the ice. Our defense managed to trap Florida along the boards and worked the puck free. Seeing my opportunity, I bolted for Florida's end, yelling for the puck the whole way.
“Middle middle middle!” I hollered, letting my defense know exactly where I wanted the puck.
The Colorado fans saw me streaking down center ice and knew,knew,that this was going to be it: the game tying goal with seconds left on the clock. The arena thundered as thousands of fans jumped to their feet with an eager roar.
Over my shoulder, I saw the puck come flying up-ice towards me.
There's my pass.
It was a hard pass—but I caught it on my backhand, cradled it, slowed it, controlled it.
The crowd's roar grew louder. They knew I was off for a break away.
Skating harder, pushing the puck ahead of me, I took one last peek at the scoreboard: 3.4 seconds left.
Shit. Gotta hurry.
Florida's goalie came out to the top of his crease. I slowed as I neared, working the puck left and right, trying to make him move, knowing I didn't have much time left.
I faked to the left—and the goalie bit, sliding in direction he thought I'd go.
But I pulled the puck to the right, on my backhand, instead.
Desperate, the goalie kicked a leg across his crease. His leg was the only thing that stood between me and the twine. All I had to do was lift the puck six inches over his leg.
I shoveled the puck backhand, trying to raise the puck …
… and watched in horror, as our nightmare season continued.
Thump.The dull thud of hard rubber thumping against leg-pads.
