season in the Major Juniors, I played on the ice, but I got my fair share of play off the ice, too. After I was drafted, I had more pussy thrown my way than I knew what to do with. There were times I could have had at least four or five girls a night and the same thing the next night, only with different girls. It was insane.
That gets old, though. After a while you realize they were only there because of your status. It had absolutely nothing to do with them really liking you.
We went straight from Nashville back to Chicago to play them again, this time on home ice.
When we got to the airport, I contemplated heading to the hospital. I knew visiting hours were long gone, and even if I did see her, the images would only piss me off.
Game 38 – Nashville Predators
Sunday, December 27, 2009
(Home Game)
The boys and I were tired during the morning skate. We skated around, passing pucks between ourselves, ignoring O'Brien in the corner. Every so often he'd shout something at us, but we would ignore him just for the hell of it. We liked to piss him off sometimes. Coming off a win last night, we tested our luck. Had we lost, there would have been a different mood on the ice.
Finally, O'Brien blew the whistle and our unwanted drills began. We skated to the cadence of his relentless chatter, sprinting in between the blue lines, coasting through the corners, and then sprinting again; it continued for several minutes. We practiced more than we played, but doing so we worked toward one goal: becoming a team. We focused on power plays, face-offs, fore-checking, breakout putters, practicing, and conditioning. We never enjoyed it, but we understood where it led us.
The whistle blew again, followed by more words of instructions, and then we teamed up by our jersey color into line rushes: two-on-ones and one-on-ones.
We couldn't control our energy from the win, Remy and Leo especially. Each bad play became more entertaining and amusing than the last. When Ryan's pass to Leo crashed against the underside of a seat, five rows into the stands, O'Brien blew his whistle and called for a scrimmage.
Leo got in line. "I wanna shove that fucking whistle up his ass," he remarked, skating by.
I chuckled, the thought not far from my mind either.
Scrimmage didn't go any better. At first, he stopped the play with each mistake he saw, but eventually he gave up. It turned into a game of us messing around, breakaways, and countless goals. We celebrated in a suggestively vulgar manner we were unable to do when twenty thousand fans were watching.
After practice, Leo and Remy were hunting. They found a Gatorade Ryan left in his locker while he was in the shower, so they unscrewed the cap and taped his shoes together. Leo left and I checked my phone, looking for any indication the hospital might have called to tell me Ami was awake. Maybe then I'd stop thinking about her. I had it in my head that if she would wake up, I'd know that she would be fine and could finally move on.
Ryan came back from his shower and turned on the television and then took a seat next to me. He lifted the Gatorade to put it in his bag. A wash of red liquid went all over his clean pants.
"Fucking Leo!"
Laughter broke out in the shower.
Most of the time I would leave right after the morning skate, but sometimes I lingered around the players' lounge a little longer before we ate lunch. Comfortable around my boys, I found it a place to unwind and think about what the night would bring. The players' lounge became our refuge. When restaurants, streets, and basically any public place were no longer options, when the team plane, buses, and even the locker room were cluttered with press, we had this room. For an hour and half before the games, there were no coaches, no press, no friends, no fans, and no family. It was just us boys, the Chicago Blackhawks, uniting, getting along, and turning the team into a family.
Resting my head against the side of my cubby, one
That gets old, though. After a while you realize they were only there because of your status. It had absolutely nothing to do with them really liking you.
We went straight from Nashville back to Chicago to play them again, this time on home ice.
When we got to the airport, I contemplated heading to the hospital. I knew visiting hours were long gone, and even if I did see her, the images would only piss me off.
Game 38 – Nashville Predators
Sunday, December 27, 2009
(Home Game)
The boys and I were tired during the morning skate. We skated around, passing pucks between ourselves, ignoring O'Brien in the corner. Every so often he'd shout something at us, but we would ignore him just for the hell of it. We liked to piss him off sometimes. Coming off a win last night, we tested our luck. Had we lost, there would have been a different mood on the ice.
Finally, O'Brien blew the whistle and our unwanted drills began. We skated to the cadence of his relentless chatter, sprinting in between the blue lines, coasting through the corners, and then sprinting again; it continued for several minutes. We practiced more than we played, but doing so we worked toward one goal: becoming a team. We focused on power plays, face-offs, fore-checking, breakout putters, practicing, and conditioning. We never enjoyed it, but we understood where it led us.
The whistle blew again, followed by more words of instructions, and then we teamed up by our jersey color into line rushes: two-on-ones and one-on-ones.
We couldn't control our energy from the win, Remy and Leo especially. Each bad play became more entertaining and amusing than the last. When Ryan's pass to Leo crashed against the underside of a seat, five rows into the stands, O'Brien blew his whistle and called for a scrimmage.
Leo got in line. "I wanna shove that fucking whistle up his ass," he remarked, skating by.
I chuckled, the thought not far from my mind either.
Scrimmage didn't go any better. At first, he stopped the play with each mistake he saw, but eventually he gave up. It turned into a game of us messing around, breakaways, and countless goals. We celebrated in a suggestively vulgar manner we were unable to do when twenty thousand fans were watching.
After practice, Leo and Remy were hunting. They found a Gatorade Ryan left in his locker while he was in the shower, so they unscrewed the cap and taped his shoes together. Leo left and I checked my phone, looking for any indication the hospital might have called to tell me Ami was awake. Maybe then I'd stop thinking about her. I had it in my head that if she would wake up, I'd know that she would be fine and could finally move on.
Ryan came back from his shower and turned on the television and then took a seat next to me. He lifted the Gatorade to put it in his bag. A wash of red liquid went all over his clean pants.
"Fucking Leo!"
Laughter broke out in the shower.
Most of the time I would leave right after the morning skate, but sometimes I lingered around the players' lounge a little longer before we ate lunch. Comfortable around my boys, I found it a place to unwind and think about what the night would bring. The players' lounge became our refuge. When restaurants, streets, and basically any public place were no longer options, when the team plane, buses, and even the locker room were cluttered with press, we had this room. For an hour and half before the games, there were no coaches, no press, no friends, no fans, and no family. It was just us boys, the Chicago Blackhawks, uniting, getting along, and turning the team into a family.
Resting my head against the side of my cubby, one
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