I shouldn't really be here.

My earliest memory is looking up at my father, his eyes full of hope for what his only son could become. I couldn't have been more than three or four at the time. It was the morning of my first football practice - my first step into the world my father loved with his entire being. You see, he was a footballer. A good one. Famous around the local clubs and adored by everyone in our neighbourhood. If I had to guess, this was the happiest day of his life. He finally got to pass the torch down to me. I would have big shoes to fill, whether I knew it or not.

Growing up in a football family was quite the experience. Football was (and still is) everything in Europe, and it was no different for Ireland – especially in my family. Weeknights were spent at the park, running around, kicking the ball back and forth. My dad desperate to pass down every tip and trick he could think of. Weekends were for club matches. I remember watching my dad from the sidelines – in awe of how good he was, hoping one day I would grow up and make him proud. He played striker. A bloody good one at that. They say the striker gets all the glory, all the fame. My dad was no different, and he lived for it.

By the time I was seven or eight, I had already picked up most of the game. Basic tactics, ball control. I was always a step ahead of my teammates (thanks to my father). Unlike him though, I didn't want the fame and glory. I preferred to be versatile, a team player - a jack-of-all trades if you will. Midfield seemed to suit me better, even though my father wasn't happy about it. I was able to join the rush, or sit back and help the back line. It didn't come with as much fame or glory, but it gave me satisfaction and that's all that mattered.

Should I really be here?

Time passed and I got more involved with the game. Unfortunately, my father's career came to a screeching halt. I can still remember it now. He was flying down the wing. Game tied nil-nil. 90th minute, well into injury time. He made quick work of the last defender and charged for the 18-yard box. The cup on the line. Knowing my father's skill, and desperate to save the game, the keeper came out to challenge – clipping my father in the leg, causing him to fall and roll over. His leg bent outwards, and that was enough. With a loud snap, my father's career ended. The doctor's say his MCL was torn completely through, and he was never able to fully return to form.

The next few years were rough. Losing your livelihood, and more importantly, your passion, is tough on any man. Even though I thought my father was superman, he wasn't. To help cope with things, he started coaching club teams, offering his knowledge, and living vicariously through other players of the game. Eventually, he started gaining recognition for his tactics. It started regionally in Ireland, and slowly my father worked his way up the ranks – gaining reputation across the pond, in Canada. At the time I didn't really know anything about Canada, and I would have had no way of knowing how important that country would end up being to me.

I remember my 12th birthday. The candles equally spaced on my cake. My father standing behind me, gesturing me to make a wish. I wished that one day I could make my father proud. To this day, I still hope that wish came true.

A few weeks later, my father received a call. It was from the regional head of football operations in a province called Ontario. I barely knew anything about Canada, let alone one of its regions. All I knew is that he was offered a job and the pay was great. Enough to live much more comfortably than we were used to. Since it was just him and I, there was nothing holding him down. Much of his family had perished in the Troubles, and my mother left when I was young. He sat me down, and told me about Canada, about their customs, their culture. But what stood out to me the most, was how important hockey was to them. It was like football in Ireland, and it made me hopeful that I would be able to adjust to a new life there. We had common ground, a shared ritual around sport. Whether it was the same one or not didn't really matter.

I can still feel the first gust of frigid air I felt as we exited the plane, walking down to the tarmac. It was a mid-November night, and I couldn't believe how cold it was. It's something I wasn't used to – at least not to this degree. Bags in hand, we headed for the airport exit, and flagged a cab. We were finally here – in Canada. I couldn't wait to see what was in store for us.

What was I doing here?

The first couple weeks were rough for me. Partly due to the fact I was 13, and awkward. Partly because I knew nothing about hockey. Soccer (as they called it), wasn't nearly as popular here as back home, and it seemed like everyone knew at least something about hockey. It wasn't until I met a boy named Jack Verneau that I started to feel more comfortable. Jack spent time teaching me how to play hockey. He used to bring me out to his family cottage and we would skate on the lake there. I was terrible at first, but within a couple weeks, I was skating circles around him. Who would have thought that the Irish kid would have been a good skater?

Now, skating isn't the only part of hockey. There's passing, shooting, defense. There's so much more going on than football. I didn't know how everyone managed to follow along. I begged my dad to enroll me in one of the community leagues so I could learn more. The more I learned, the more I loved it. I started to spend less and less time on football, and devoted all my extra time to practicing the game we all love.

By the time I was 14, I knew all the terms, all the tactics, the great players, moments, and franchises. I had really grown on the ice. I lead the league in scoring, and was looking for my next challenge. To continue pushing myself. Jack suggested that I should try out for my local rep team. It was a traveling team, and I thought at the very least, I would get to see more of Canada. The tryouts were held over two days. Whoever made the cut on the first day, was invited back for the second.

I was nervous before stepping on the ice that I could barely hold my stick. Arms shaking, breathing rapid. Jack came along:

"You okay man? You don't look so good".

I took a moment to gather myself: 

"Yeah, I'll be fine, just a little nervous is all. I'll see you out there". 

Jack gave me a fist bump as he headed onto the ice.

I looked up and noticed my dad in the stands. Thumbs up, massive grin on his face. "Go get 'em buddy"! It seems like that's all it took for me to wake up and get in the zone. It was at that moment I realized that my dad would always be proud of me, and I used that as my motivation.

The next hour was a blur. I remember stepping onto the ice, and then being in the dressing room after. We had to wait while the coach brought each of us an envelope. Inside was one of two things – an invitation for the next day, or a poorly worded "Thanks for doing your best".  I couldn't bring myself to open it in the dressing room, so I took it with me, clutched in my hand the entire drive home.

Finally, I worked up the nerve to carefully open the envelope, and unfold the letter:

"Congratulations, you've been selected to the final day of selection camp. Rest up and see you out there tomorrow".

I couldn't believe it. After only one year, I was good enough to make the cut! I jumped into bed and closed my eyes, trying to bring morning just a little faster.

Maybe I should be here?

Morning came swiftly. I hopped in the car, filled to the prim with excitement. Imagine me? A hockey player? Never in a million years would I have thought this would be possible.
I got to the rink and was all business; checked in at the front desk, went to the dressing room, and got dressed. Blinders on, I was in the zone. There was nothing that could stop me from making this team. I gave Jack a fist bump, and hopped onto the ice. This time it wasn't a blur. I was on fire. It was as if time had slowed down around me. I can remember every pass, shot, check, deke – all of it.

The final whistle blew:

"Alright boys, that's it. We'll be waiting in the lobby with our decisions".

I sprinted off the ice and tore my equipment off. I was the first one in line. Eye-to-eye with my first coach. There was no doubt in my mind that I made the team, but it was such a relief when he reached out and shook my hand:

"Congratulations Kiko, you've made the team. You really impressed all of us out there. My name is Mike Chapman, and I'll be your coach for this season – we can't wait to see what you can do".

I think I should be here.

My first season was a success in my mind. I started off on the third pairing, playing sheltered minutes. By the end of the season I was on the second pairing and was given more responsibility on the special teams. I was finally starting to get into a rhythm, and my development started to take off.

By the second season, I was on the first line – paired with Jack. We had a real chemistry together. Friendships off the ice, often make great partnerships on the ice. We led our team to the league championship that year. I'll never forget the feeling of hoisting that trophy. A season's worth of hard work coming to an end. As always, my father in the stands cheering me on.

At this point in time, I was about 16, going on 17. I was approached by the coach of a midget AAA team (the highest I could possibly play in Ontario) and he offered me a spot on the team. Without hesitation, I accepted. Finally, I'd have a chance to make it into the SMJHL. I trained all summer, so that I would be ready for my biggest challenge yet.

I deserve to be here.

I've never worked harder in my life. The first couple weeks of the season were brutal. I was small for my age and needed to beef up. Everyone was faster, stronger, and smarter than I was used to. Most people would have given up – but I didn't. I wasn't going to stop now, so close to my dream. I doubled-down and worked myself into the ground. I didn't stop training until my body ached and it hurt to move. By the end of the season I caught up - tied for the league scoring title.

It came down to one final game. It was against the first-place team – The Wolves. I was one point away from becoming the youngest player to win the league scoring title.
2-2 tie. 27 seconds left in the third. Tempers flaring, the game getting chippier by the second. 26. 25... Wolves dump the puck into our end. I glide behind our goalie and pick it up. I send a pass up to Gabe Johnson, he blazes through the neutral zone and carries it into their zone. 17. 16... Brings it down low, tries to get the cycle going. He feeds it back and forth between his wingers a few times, looking for an opening. 10. 9...

I came screaming into the offensive zone and give Gabe the beaver tap: "I'm open"! 8... Gabe sauces the puck over the defender's stick, landing crisply on my stick in the slot. 7. 6... I don't have an open lane so I drag the puck, pulling it into my wheelhouse, winding up for the shot. 5... A lifetime of memories across my eyes. Ireland, Canada, my first game, "Go get 'em buddy". 4. 3... I follow through with the shot and time freezes. 2. 1... The shot beats the goalie glove side. Buzzer ringing, crowd going wild. I look up to my dad – a tear falls from my eye.

I belong here.