Practice Makes Perfect.

That was when I was small. That was when I actually had a life. That was when my dad was alive. I now live in Pittsburgh in a small 2 bedroom apartment. I live about five minutes away from the Consol Energy Center, where my favorite team of all time plays. Hockey is my passion. It's my life. But ever since my dad died, my mom practically banned hockey from my life. I got to keep my skates, because my mother put me in skate lessons for figure skating. I hate it so much. I can't stand the stupid leotards that ride up my butt, or the stupid, tiny, short dress I have to wear. But the worse is the make up. Every day I would have to endure the pounds of foundation, lip gloss and glitter caked onto my face. Only to have to wipe it off after practice. It was a waste.
What happened to my dad? He was coming back from the adult league practice when a drunken driver had slammed into the driver's side of the vehicle. Even though the man was arrested and was placed in jail, it wasn't justice. My dad died on impact. My hero had just died. And a part of my had died away.
My mother sold all of his equipment except for his jersey and socks, on Ebay. Cool, right? That's when things got awful in life. We moved to Pittsburgh to get away from things. My mother not being bright. When getting away from things, to her it meant getting away from hockey. She didn't really realize that moving to Pittsburgh would put us in more hockey. But I don't mind. It's nice here, and I enjoy the hockey spirit buzzing around town and all.
I'm home schooled, taking online classes of such. I'm still in figure skating. Much to my distaste. But my mother is spending fortunes on this non-existing career for me. I found some kids down the blocks in the apartments that play hockey. That was my escape. I would tell my mom I was going to hang with the kids at the park. She would smile and agree. But she didn't know that instead of hanging out, we were playing hockey. Street hockey that is, but it was still hockey. I would hide my equipment in the community garage, and sneak it out and run to the park with the boys. Yes, she didn't know all my friends were boys.
Five months past, and my mother knew something was up. The way I would always ask to go to the park every other day to hang with a group of boys. Unexpectedly, the group of boys were at our apartment door, gear in hand and rung the door bell. My mom answered and raised her eyebrow at the sight of them. She questioned them on why they were here, they answered to pick me up and play. I was in the garage getting my stuff when I thought I was in the clear. That was, until I saw her, on the walkway with the boys, narrowing her eyes at me. She asked me what I was doing, and I boldly told her, I was going out to play with the guys. She told the boys to leave. Once they were out of ear range, she yelled at me.
She pulled the "girls aren't suppose to play" card on me. Along with other insults and screams of anger. That's when I told her I didn't care, That I was going to play, whether she liked it or not. I walked down the small paved driveway, gear in hand, when she told me that "If you take another step, your grounded." I stopped, turned and looked at her, and said, "If that's what it takes to play, then I'm still going." I continued my journey to the park and played hard and late that day. I got home around 8pm and as soon as I got into the house. My mother took my stuff and put them in her room in her closet. She grounded me from friends for four weeks, and wasn't allowed to leave the house for three weeks. It was miserable.
After the three weeks was over, I would tell my mom I'm going for a walk through town, tell her my every route and direction. Occasionally taking pictures on my phone and sending them to her to verify where I was. That's were I found the arena.
Since watching practices were free of charge, I would watch the Penguins practice for and hour and a half. Sitting near the back, if anyone that knew my mom would notice me, wouldn't find me. Practices were around 8am to 11am. My mom got off work at 12 am, giving me enough time to walk home without giving away where I was. If I wasn't allowed to play, I would watch physically. Watching the players in real life, was a lot better then seeing it on TV. You get to see every motion each player makes. The screams, the calls, the sweat dripping even clearer. Since mother had banned hockey, that meant even watching it on TV. She blocked any channel that had anything that was hockey related. Or had something that was spotted with hockey.
What she didn't know, when she took my stuff. I still had my stick, skates, and one puck that I found under my bed. I practiced small puck handling drills in the garage when mom was gone for work. Shooting at the bucket I placed on a box across the garage. I would buy small bottles of white paint, to cover the black marks from when I missed the bucket. I made sure I hid my stick under my bed, against the wall far in the back and covered it with blankets that I would squish under it too. I put the puck in a box in my closet. I then would pretend nothing happened when she was gone, and lived a boring life when she was around.
When I was able to hang with my friends, I would just sit and watch them play on the court. I would sit on top of the wooden bench and make up plays in my head. Since there was parents around that knew my mother well and my habit for hockey, they watched my like a hawk. I knew the looks from the guys give me, they wanted me out there. I gave them a look back notifying so did I.
Sometimes I did believe in miracles. Most of the time, I didn't. No miracle ever happened for me. It wasn't a miracle to lose my dad, or to move, or to lose my passion. This was a nightmare, I could never leave. I wish my dad was here. He made everything better. But, nothing is perfect.