Breathe
Breathe
Hockey is a game for all of the senses. A player doesn’t just rely on sight to put the puck in the net. It’s so much more.
It’s the feeling of the crowd completely surrounding you, their screams the only thing you can hear besides the goal horn after you score. It’s feeling your heart pound in your chest, your breathing almost painful as you frantically try to draw air into your lungs. It’s your muscles screaming in protest as you force them to play just one more shift, or force them to race you down the ice to block a shot from that one guy who you hate more than seems quite rational.
It’s the sound of sharp metal cutting deep into the surface of a flat sheet of ice by sixteen pairs of skates resonating through the air, or the bangs and cracks from people being checked into the boards, masking the shouts of the players swirling around you. It’s the bitter taste of defeat, and pouring your entire being into your next practice, wanting nothing more than to never lose again.
It’s seeing that big red light flash above your net during a home game and knowing that, if only for an instant, you’re the biggest hero in the city. It’s getting into a fight, praying to the gods that you win—not because you’re scared of getting hurt, but because a victory could inspire your team to play harder. It’s the bond between brothers—the love that you feel for the men you call teammates. It’s the team rivalries, the road trips and foreign hotels, and the distinctive aroma of the locker room that you call home.
Hockey is air. Hockey is water. Hockey is life.
I never thought I would have to live without it.
I barely remember the hit that ended my career. I didn’t even have the puck, so I’m still not entirely sure why PK Subban chose to slam into me on that fateful January night. Maybe he was feeling particularly vindictive that day. Maybe he was angry that Matt Cooke had blatantly refused to fight him, and he was looking for an outlet for his rage. But the next thing I knew, I was lying on the ice, unable to move.
That’s not to say I didn’t try. I used every ounce of my will, attempting to turn my head or merely wiggle my fingers. It was a futile effort, which I would later know was the result of both a neck and spine injury that should have left my entire body paralyzed.
I didn’t know how to function without hockey in my life. I had been playing it for as long as I had memories, after all. I could even remember playing as a mini-mite, barely able to even skate, but wanting desperately to score. I had wanted to make my parents proud. I had wanted to make my teammates like me.
More than anything else, I had wanted to be accepted by everyone around me.
Soon after I started playing, I began to dream of lifting the Stanley Cup. It consumed my free thoughts, driving me to play my best with every shift on the ice. I worked for endless hours at the rink, trying desperately to become good enough to achieve my greatest desire. But I suppose that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, your best just isn’t good enough.
My career was over. I would never get to lift that impossible goal of mine.
An overwhelming depression consumed me when I realized this fact—a depression that easily eclipsed my hollowness from being unable to play in general. My entire life had literally been spent working towards that damn metal trophy. What was left? What could I do now?
I tried to avoid the television whenever possible, the pain of seeing my team playing too devastating to comprehend. I was even forced to move away from Pittsburgh, the sight of the Penguins logo enough to make me feel physically sick. But when I finally caved and inevitably went online again, I couldn’t stop myself from googling my own name, curious to see what the results would be.
I wish I hadn’t.
When I played for New Jersey, I knew I was unwanted by the city. I saw the comments and posts on the forums; they were particularly bad when I left for Pittsburgh. But when I arrived in Pittsburgh, hoping for acceptance and change, the insults from my new city were a million times worse.
Pittsburgh is a passionate city, without a doubt. But the passion can run in two separate ways—adoration and detestation. Unfortunately, I somehow managed to get grouped in the second category, and I couldn’t help but long for the days when my biggest insult was, “You look like an alpaca.”
In Pittsburgh, they had wanted me gone. For months before my injury, people had been calling for a trade, begging for me to leave. Despite the sting the occasional comment could cause, I quickly learned to tune it out. I couldn’t let what they said affect my game. All I could do was try to play my best.
But that doesn’t mean I was entirely immune. I couldn’t ignore the fact that no stores called me to schedule autograph signings, my allure to the fans so insignificantly small that the stores feared making no revenue. I couldn’t tune out the snide comments I, as well as my friends and family, overheard while doing everyday tasks like grocery shopping. I couldn’t avoid the overwhelming, almost oppressive feeling of being unwanted every time I took the ice.
After my injury though, comment after comment of relief that I was gone flooded my computer screen, and I couldn’t restrain a solitary tear from escaping the corner of my eye. Sure, none of the comments said that the people were happy that I was injured, and I gave Pittsburgh fans credit for that small fact. But the unanimous decision was that our team was better off now that I was gone.
Angrily, I raised one hand to wipe at my face. What was I doing, crying? These were complete strangers. What did it matter what they said? What did it matter what they thought? They were wrong. My team would miss me. I was worthwhile. I was needed.
I was wrong.
Five months after my injury, Pittsburgh lifted the cup without me.
It’s the feeling of the crowd completely surrounding you, their screams the only thing you can hear besides the goal horn after you score. It’s feeling your heart pound in your chest, your breathing almost painful as you frantically try to draw air into your lungs. It’s your muscles screaming in protest as you force them to play just one more shift, or force them to race you down the ice to block a shot from that one guy who you hate more than seems quite rational.
It’s the sound of sharp metal cutting deep into the surface of a flat sheet of ice by sixteen pairs of skates resonating through the air, or the bangs and cracks from people being checked into the boards, masking the shouts of the players swirling around you. It’s the bitter taste of defeat, and pouring your entire being into your next practice, wanting nothing more than to never lose again.
It’s seeing that big red light flash above your net during a home game and knowing that, if only for an instant, you’re the biggest hero in the city. It’s getting into a fight, praying to the gods that you win—not because you’re scared of getting hurt, but because a victory could inspire your team to play harder. It’s the bond between brothers—the love that you feel for the men you call teammates. It’s the team rivalries, the road trips and foreign hotels, and the distinctive aroma of the locker room that you call home.
Hockey is air. Hockey is water. Hockey is life.
I never thought I would have to live without it.
I barely remember the hit that ended my career. I didn’t even have the puck, so I’m still not entirely sure why PK Subban chose to slam into me on that fateful January night. Maybe he was feeling particularly vindictive that day. Maybe he was angry that Matt Cooke had blatantly refused to fight him, and he was looking for an outlet for his rage. But the next thing I knew, I was lying on the ice, unable to move.
That’s not to say I didn’t try. I used every ounce of my will, attempting to turn my head or merely wiggle my fingers. It was a futile effort, which I would later know was the result of both a neck and spine injury that should have left my entire body paralyzed.
I didn’t know how to function without hockey in my life. I had been playing it for as long as I had memories, after all. I could even remember playing as a mini-mite, barely able to even skate, but wanting desperately to score. I had wanted to make my parents proud. I had wanted to make my teammates like me.
More than anything else, I had wanted to be accepted by everyone around me.
Soon after I started playing, I began to dream of lifting the Stanley Cup. It consumed my free thoughts, driving me to play my best with every shift on the ice. I worked for endless hours at the rink, trying desperately to become good enough to achieve my greatest desire. But I suppose that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, your best just isn’t good enough.
My career was over. I would never get to lift that impossible goal of mine.
An overwhelming depression consumed me when I realized this fact—a depression that easily eclipsed my hollowness from being unable to play in general. My entire life had literally been spent working towards that damn metal trophy. What was left? What could I do now?
I tried to avoid the television whenever possible, the pain of seeing my team playing too devastating to comprehend. I was even forced to move away from Pittsburgh, the sight of the Penguins logo enough to make me feel physically sick. But when I finally caved and inevitably went online again, I couldn’t stop myself from googling my own name, curious to see what the results would be.
I wish I hadn’t.
When I played for New Jersey, I knew I was unwanted by the city. I saw the comments and posts on the forums; they were particularly bad when I left for Pittsburgh. But when I arrived in Pittsburgh, hoping for acceptance and change, the insults from my new city were a million times worse.
Pittsburgh is a passionate city, without a doubt. But the passion can run in two separate ways—adoration and detestation. Unfortunately, I somehow managed to get grouped in the second category, and I couldn’t help but long for the days when my biggest insult was, “You look like an alpaca.”
In Pittsburgh, they had wanted me gone. For months before my injury, people had been calling for a trade, begging for me to leave. Despite the sting the occasional comment could cause, I quickly learned to tune it out. I couldn’t let what they said affect my game. All I could do was try to play my best.
But that doesn’t mean I was entirely immune. I couldn’t ignore the fact that no stores called me to schedule autograph signings, my allure to the fans so insignificantly small that the stores feared making no revenue. I couldn’t tune out the snide comments I, as well as my friends and family, overheard while doing everyday tasks like grocery shopping. I couldn’t avoid the overwhelming, almost oppressive feeling of being unwanted every time I took the ice.
After my injury though, comment after comment of relief that I was gone flooded my computer screen, and I couldn’t restrain a solitary tear from escaping the corner of my eye. Sure, none of the comments said that the people were happy that I was injured, and I gave Pittsburgh fans credit for that small fact. But the unanimous decision was that our team was better off now that I was gone.
Angrily, I raised one hand to wipe at my face. What was I doing, crying? These were complete strangers. What did it matter what they said? What did it matter what they thought? They were wrong. My team would miss me. I was worthwhile. I was needed.
I was wrong.
Five months after my injury, Pittsburgh lifted the cup without me.