Why is it always the little things from youth that stand out in our memory in the seemingly most pivotal moments in life? Like the gas station hot chocolate that burnt my tongue on the way to the 10U hockey tournament as a kid. It stung for the entire tournament while I skated with players who’s skill far surpassed mine. I can’t recall what happened in the games, if I scored any goals, or who exactly I played with but the photos and descriptions of the games answer those questions for me. I vaguely remember the rink, and the empty parking lot from being the first ones to arrive. But its the mundane moment of burning my tongue on a cup of hot chocolate that was too hot to drink that stuck out the most.

Years later, sitting in the Philadelphia Forge locker room before a game, is where I actually gain perspective and see the larger picture of those formative years. What I didn’t see then was the coffee my dad got from the same gas station to give him the energy to traverse the dark snowy highways in the twilight hours of the morning. I see now his dedication to get me to a tournament where I just put up one assist in three games. I see how he was focused on the future while I was only focused on the present.

It’s the end of my fourth season playing the game of hockey professionally. I’ve put up the highest point totals of my career this season. I’ve successfully adjusted to the pace of the professional game, seamlessly fitting in with the rest of the professional hockey players. But yet I feel that I am at a turning point in my career, halfway to the end and halfway from my youth where everything was still ahead of me.

Is there anything in life as final as the buzzer at the end of a hockey game? It is the universal signal that tells us, 'we're done here'. The players head for the locker room, get undressed, shower and go home. The fans head for the exit signs, find their car, and drive back to their cozy homes, talking about the game the whole way.

All that is left is the cold sheet of ice, scraped up from the players skates. The plastic cups and kernels of popcorn on the concrete floors beneath seats in the stands. The t-shirt giveaway stuck in the rafters launched from a too powerful t-shirt cannon. The line charts still taped up to the glass behind the bench. All the remnants of the excitement that no longer occupies that space. The arena staff cleans up the garbage. A Zamboni is ran one more time to give the ice a clean sheet of ice before turning off the lights, leaving the arena to itself.

The next night, the equipment manager was again sharpening all of the skates for the 23 players on the team. One by one, he took hold of each boot with the blade facing the machine, sparks flying as the two meet.

We're always sharpening something. Working on our edges until they are a straight sharp edge. We do this again and again until our sharp edge is too dull for the coach. In our place, someone with even sharper edges take our place. And he’s got that same fire in his eyes that you used to have, eager to fight for a spot on the team.

There will come a night when you ask that equipment manager, "hey bud, don't sharpen mine. Just hang ‘em up. I'm done." It will be a willful surrender after a long career, if you’re lucky enough to make that decision on your own.

But most of us tape up our sticks all on our own. And we each do it in our own peculiar way too. Some use as little tape as possible, sometimes as little as a single strip across the blade. Other times, players use almost the entire roll of tape, taping up the stick like it is a mummy. But no matter how a stick is taped, it is our ritual as a player. It gives us a sense of control and comfort against the unpredictable and unknown. The tactile feel of the tape allows us to grip and possess everything within our reach. We hold on to that for as long as we can, at least until we have to re-tape our stick again.

A dark shadowy hooded figure lurks in the corners of all our defensive zone. When I skate by, he lifts his CCM branded scythe, pointing it directly at my sweater as if he’s insisting it is now my time.

Would you give in its touch of death? Would you bend over with your stick rested on your knees, exhausted as the rest of your team skates into the offensive zone? Or will you turn away from that darkened shadow of a creature, crash the net and fight for a glimmer of a loose puck among the mass of bodies in the crease? Will that frantic search for the puck stave off the deliverance of the alumni plaque of retirement followed by the unmistakable irrelevancy of taking your seat to watch your former team play on? Or the muttering from the fan at the ceremonial puck drop, "oh hey, I remember that guy."

Before regression sets in, and the weighted feeling of time bears down on your tired legs. Before the burning dull ache of your wrists from taking too many slashes from your opponent's stick render your hands useless. Before you lose your step above the opponent, that sharp edge. Will you be able to say you've done enough with the talent and opportunities most others don't get? Will you be proud of how much you've accomplished and fight towards how far you've yet to go?

For there is no cure for the march of time. There is no rehabbing it as if it were a sore shoulder. There are no poke checks to keep it away. But time will twist and crumple you up as if you crashed into the boards. Other times, time can be gentle and make you feel like you're gliding into the zone on a breakaway with the crowd roaring.

There is no stopping the inevitable retirement. Will that hooded creature take you swiftly into the corners with his scythe and never let you out? Or will retirement be along delicate dance of dodging all the things that could bring you down.

And is retiring the same as losing? And is losing the same as giving in? Well I’m tired of losing. I'm tired of giving in. I'm tired of being tired and being told I cant win.

This New Year, I quit the losing side. I stomp out the voices telling me to give in. I no longer doubt myself. I no longer let the rubble of my past haunt me. Where there is death, I grieve, but most importantly, I live on. I resolve to make my chaos external as I fight for glory and for my way into the history books.

Words: 1201

Love your writing style my dude. Sadly that regression demon comes for us all!