Something Called Southern Hockey
One and Done
Southern hockey – that’s an oxymoron, right? A contradiction – it shouldn’t exist. I don’t believe that, but some people seem to.
I’m not even from Raleigh, North Carolina, home of the Carolina Hurricanes (I’m Canadian), but I might as well be. I absolutely love this city. I was drafted out of high school and, without even starting college, became one of the youngest players in the NHL at eighteen. If that isn’t a huge accomplishment, what is?
And there I was, smack dab right in the middle of the talk – that rookie, Skinner. The “experts” talked as if I was the next Crosby, or at least some of them did. I sat in a huge pile of expectations, day in and day out, constantly.
Honestly, what did they see in me? I mean, I’m still just a kid – I admit it. Just because I can score a bunch of goals every season – that somehow makes me the next superstar? I have my weaknesses, just like everyone else. Like skating – my entire family is figure skaters, including me, but I’m more delicate on skates than I should be for hockey. I fall over loads of times.
Maybe that’s why I fit in with that whole “Southern hockey” nonsense – that hockey doesn’t belong in the south because we’re all too delicate and will never make it big. Carolina has a Stanley Cup to its name – Buffalo doesn’t.
Speaking of Buffalo, that’s the reason we don’t have as many fans in the Raleigh area as we should. So many people in Raleigh are originally from Buffalo it’s crazy. And they brought their hockey team with them. The sheer number of Sabres fans in North Carolina is scary.
That alone was enough to divide Raleigh between “Northern hockey” and “Southern hockey.” The rivalry made lots of bitter hockey fans and one bitter hockey player who was sick of the fighting between the fans – me. To be honest, I just wanted to be cheered on by everyone I knew, or everyone I saw around Raleigh, when the Sabres – or any team – came down to the RBC Center to play against us. Was that too much to ask?
“And another goal for Jeff Skinner,” I said to no one in particular. “That’s number thirty on the season, and there are still twenty games left to play for Carolina…” As I said the words, I shot a puck into the net that stood resolutely in front of me.
It was somewhat of a habit, coming down here to the RBC to shoot at the net for an hour or so. It gave me time to think on my own and relax, to take a break from my daily stress.
I had several pucks lined up at the blue line for me to shoot at the unoccupied net. I shot one quickly, and it hit the post, the pinging sound reverberating around me.
“Damn,” I muttered, shaking my head. I took a second to pause, and imagined what it would be like if that had happened in a game, my shot hitting the post instead of going in the net.
The crowd would have given a collective groan, I surmised, a small frown on my own face. I could just picture thousands of people witnessing that, disappointment clear on every face. No voice would have to announce that the piece of flying, black rubber hadn’t made it to its destination.
I inched over to the next puck, and before I let my shot go, I pictured myself in Ottawa, where our next game would take place. I was celebrating, shouting incoherently under the noise of the cheering Hurricanes fans.
The puck went flying, landing with a thud in the middle of the net before I could even blink. It slid around for a second before stopping, and I smiled as I watched it in a self-satisfied fashion.
“Now that is something I like to call Southern hockey,” I said in what I supposed would be a drawl. “Anything goes.” I truly belonged with this team, in North Carolina, but there was no way I was going to ever have that so-called “Southern accent.” No amount of hockey down here would fix that, not that I really wanted the accent. I was here for the hockey, and the hockey only.
I’m not even from Raleigh, North Carolina, home of the Carolina Hurricanes (I’m Canadian), but I might as well be. I absolutely love this city. I was drafted out of high school and, without even starting college, became one of the youngest players in the NHL at eighteen. If that isn’t a huge accomplishment, what is?
And there I was, smack dab right in the middle of the talk – that rookie, Skinner. The “experts” talked as if I was the next Crosby, or at least some of them did. I sat in a huge pile of expectations, day in and day out, constantly.
Honestly, what did they see in me? I mean, I’m still just a kid – I admit it. Just because I can score a bunch of goals every season – that somehow makes me the next superstar? I have my weaknesses, just like everyone else. Like skating – my entire family is figure skaters, including me, but I’m more delicate on skates than I should be for hockey. I fall over loads of times.
Maybe that’s why I fit in with that whole “Southern hockey” nonsense – that hockey doesn’t belong in the south because we’re all too delicate and will never make it big. Carolina has a Stanley Cup to its name – Buffalo doesn’t.
Speaking of Buffalo, that’s the reason we don’t have as many fans in the Raleigh area as we should. So many people in Raleigh are originally from Buffalo it’s crazy. And they brought their hockey team with them. The sheer number of Sabres fans in North Carolina is scary.
That alone was enough to divide Raleigh between “Northern hockey” and “Southern hockey.” The rivalry made lots of bitter hockey fans and one bitter hockey player who was sick of the fighting between the fans – me. To be honest, I just wanted to be cheered on by everyone I knew, or everyone I saw around Raleigh, when the Sabres – or any team – came down to the RBC Center to play against us. Was that too much to ask?
“And another goal for Jeff Skinner,” I said to no one in particular. “That’s number thirty on the season, and there are still twenty games left to play for Carolina…” As I said the words, I shot a puck into the net that stood resolutely in front of me.
It was somewhat of a habit, coming down here to the RBC to shoot at the net for an hour or so. It gave me time to think on my own and relax, to take a break from my daily stress.
I had several pucks lined up at the blue line for me to shoot at the unoccupied net. I shot one quickly, and it hit the post, the pinging sound reverberating around me.
“Damn,” I muttered, shaking my head. I took a second to pause, and imagined what it would be like if that had happened in a game, my shot hitting the post instead of going in the net.
The crowd would have given a collective groan, I surmised, a small frown on my own face. I could just picture thousands of people witnessing that, disappointment clear on every face. No voice would have to announce that the piece of flying, black rubber hadn’t made it to its destination.
I inched over to the next puck, and before I let my shot go, I pictured myself in Ottawa, where our next game would take place. I was celebrating, shouting incoherently under the noise of the cheering Hurricanes fans.
The puck went flying, landing with a thud in the middle of the net before I could even blink. It slid around for a second before stopping, and I smiled as I watched it in a self-satisfied fashion.
“Now that is something I like to call Southern hockey,” I said in what I supposed would be a drawl. “Anything goes.” I truly belonged with this team, in North Carolina, but there was no way I was going to ever have that so-called “Southern accent.” No amount of hockey down here would fix that, not that I really wanted the accent. I was here for the hockey, and the hockey only.