| Starring: Kota Cesarz - A hockey player, desperately wanting to lead his team to victory and succeed in his own personal triumph. |
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| The zamboni glides across the ice, spilling the heated water onto the surface and reintroducing the frozen water to the next team of hockey players. The fans anxiously wait in the stands, smelling the fresh ice soar into their noses. The bitter chill of the arena heightens the excitement of all who attend. Restless twelve-year-olds linger, clad in their hockey equipment, waiting for the moment when the glass door will open and the launch them toward the world of competition.
He stands in the midst of his teammates, clutching his hockey stick in his gloved hand. He longs to feel the freedom of ice beneath his skates, to experience the joy of cutting winds in the flesh of his face, the weight of the puck on his Intermediate Flex blue Vector hockey stick. The door opens, lifting the barrier between the slightly warmer air and the chillier, iced climate. He glides out, joining the ranks as his team bangs their sticks, riling up the fans. He loves playing for the cheers, the support he receives. The processional around the rink ends and he begins his before game warm up. His bright, inquisitive emerald eyes dash around, staring at his teammates. They are just as nervous as he is about the upcoming battle, but just as excited. He feels that this is his game, his chance to conquer and control. It�s his game. His red, dazzling helmet bounces back and forth against his head unnoticed. The first puck that comes to his stick leaps eagerly, as if it too feels that it is his game. He watches it with a passionate intensity, the same intensity he is going to use when he is on the ice, ready to score that first goal. Carefully he chews on his yellow mouth guard, the thing that gives him security during his anger and rage when the men in stripes screw up a call. However, he does not feel that way right now. He is in high spirits, optimistic about the upcoming periods. In the mean time, he chomps on the piece of sunny plastic for comfort. The resounding tone rings in his ears, indicating that the game is soon to begin. His heart pounds in his chest like the hammering of his blade on the ice at the prospect of beginning the game. The coach gives them his speech, kick some butt here, play strong there. It doesn�t matter. He doesn�t listen. All he is focused on is his goal. They yell, �Let�s go Jackson!� and skate to the center ice to shake hands with the opposing team. He stares each of them down as he skates by, knowing that each and every player is going to wish they had never laid eyes on number twelve. He skates back over to the bench, ready to sit down and strategize. Before he has a chance, he vaguely hears the coach through his focus, yelling that he is going to start as center. All he can do is chomp on his mouth guard, hoping against all hopes that he gets his chance. He squats in the center against the opposing player, challenging him with his piercing green eyes. He can sense the fear emanating from the other, the sweat increasing on his brow. He knows that he�s about to get it. Number twelve is on the move. The man in stripes drops the puck between the two sticks, and for him, it happens all in slow motion. The puck touches the stick and he quickly shoots it over to his left wing. His focus is on getting to that puck, touching that puck, setting it up, getting the goal. It is his game; number twelve is going to vanquish the competition. He pushes through the other competitors, anxious to steal that puck away. It is now in their zone, their goalie fighting hard to keep it away. The defenders work hard to keep opposite offenders away, but number twelve needs that puck. He craves it. It belongs to him. Victory is his. If only he can get his stick on that puck. Two minutes goes by with no line changes, and number twelve still needs that puck. He has yet to watch the black disc of rubber slide along with the dirty, white athletic tape of his blade. His frustration rises and he chomps spitefully on his mouth guard. The man in stripes throws his arm up and blows the incredibly shrill whistle as his team�s number sixteen takes the puck into the zone behind him. He slams his stick angrily. It was his fault they were called for offsides. He only shakes his sweaty head inside of his hockey helmet as he skates toward the bench, angry with himself for being so stupid. Especially since it was supposed to be his game. He sits down on the bench, listening to the lecture the coach has to offer. Instead, he watches the next line work hard for their goal. But no goal will suffice. It has to be his goal. Number fifteen leans over and says harshly, �You all right?� All he does is shake his head offhandedly, not paying attention to anything but the play. His friend gets the point, pulling away and watching as well. The men in stripes blow their whistles for icing, and the line changes once again. Number twelve waits for his time to get back out there and work for that goal. The tension in his legs mount as he recognizes the delayed call from the man in stripes. One of his teammates has a penalty. After all, would the man in stripes call it for anyone else? Number forty touches the puck, and the whistle is blown. The referee indicates with his fist against open palm that their number seventeen has committed boarding. Number twelve rolls his eyes as he watches them take his miniscule teammate to the box, where number twelve�s dad sits. He opens the door for Daniel, patting him on the back reassuringly. �CODY!� screams the coach. He is brought back to his senses, grabbing his stick and eagerly jumping back onto the ice. He plays center shorthanded, which means it is now his moment. He is going to get this. The puck slides down in front of him in slow motion. The chance to show his all has come, and he takes it with a full passion, a passion he has not shown yet in this game. He grabs the puck with the tip of his blade, whipping it over to right winger, number five. Seventeen takes his chance with the puck, handling it as he dashes up the length of the ice. An opposing player checks the winger hard against the boards, but not before he has a chance to ice it back to his goalie. Number twelve sees his opportunity slip past him, but he does not lose hope. One of his defensemen retrieves the puck and shoots it back up to number seventeen. His opportunity comes back. He flies right outside the offensive zone, slamming his stick eagerly on the ice. He can hear the eager chants in the stands: �KOTA! KOTA! KOTA!� This means he must not disappoint the fans. He has to come through for them. Seventeen sees the opening and shoots up to number twelve. He feels the weight of the puck on his stick and revels in the glory he suddenly feels shooting through his veins. Opposing defenseman come after him, glaring through their cages faces. He only gives them an infamous lopsided smirk, hurls the puck with all his might at the goal, and watches in complete triumph as it sails over the top of the goalie�s helmet and into the net. The crowd goes completely nuts. His teammates attack him on all sides, thrusting their gloved hands around his neck, screaming his victorious shorthanded goal. He slams his stick on the ice and hoots and hollers for his triumphant accomplishment. His game has begun Coach instructs him to come back to the bench and he does so. After all, they are still shorthanded and he has just proven to his teammates, coaches, fans, and most importantly, himself, that he has achieved what he set out to do. He watches his teammates change it up and go to center ice for a face off. He gladly looks up toward the scoreboard. Home: 1 Visitors: 0. He swells with pride, knowing it was he that set the score up that way. The man in stripes drops the puck and his team�s number ninety-nine slaps it away before the opposing center can do so. His green eyes light up in anticipation as the puck goes to and fro, being passed between the players. He stands up, getting a fresh whiff of the ice as an approaching official sprays it up toward him. He leans over and opens his mouth to yell at his teammate. His voice is loud and can carry all the way to the fans watching in the bleachers. �ICE IT!� he yells, glancing back at the clock. There is still ten seconds left on the penalty clock, and icing it would be the best way to go. The puck slides down just as he instructed and before number twelve knew it, the announcer declares that they are at full strength. �CODY! Get in there!� Coach yells. Obviously, he had not noticed that number ninety-nine was back and several other players were back out. �Sorry, Coach,� he says, chomping on his mouth guard, clutching his stick, and leaping over the bench. He races down the ice toward the puck, allowing himself to become a completely different person. Number twelve was not messing around, and he was going to get that piece of rubber. It didn�t matter what he did to get to it. Twelve grabs the opposing player, letting his temper get the best of him and taking a swing. He touches the puck and before he can even pass it, the whistle blows. �Number twelve, white, two minutes rough!� the man in stripes calls. �AW MAN!� he screams, following the official to the box where his dad is. He makes no fuss, as he knows this can only do more bad than good. He sits down on the seat provided as his dad shuts the door. His eyes redden and the hot tears emerging blur his vision. He throws his stick to his right, angry at everything and not believing that he allowed his temper to get the best of him. His dad turns toward him, smiling sympathetically. �Don�t let this get you down.� �I�m not, Dad,� he says defiantly. �Yes you are, Cody, I know how you are. Just because you let a punch slip out doesn�t mean you can�t still go for that hat trick. All you need is two more goals.� �But, Dad!� Twelve exclaims. �That was so stupid! I didn�t mean to punch him!� �But you did! Don�t you owe your teammates, your fans� yourself more than to blame everything on the officials and let your anger get away with you? Think about it.� Twelve nods at his father, stands up, and watches the game from the box. He glances at his time, and it is only a minute into it. Of course, to delay things even more, the whistle blows when their goalie covers the puck. He looks over at Coach to see if he wants him to go back to the bench after the penalty, and he indicates that he wants him to stay out. He nods and turns his attention back to the game. He gets so involved that when his dad taps him on the shoulder, he is taken by surprise. �Ten seconds.� He watches the clock eagerly and as soon as the clock hits �1,� his dad unlatches the door and he sets off like a mad man after the puck. He�s going to show those men in stripes what number twelve, Cody Cesarz, is really made of. Taking the puck out from under a careless defenseman, twelve turns and takes his chance on a slap shot, even though as of late, they hadn�t been at their best. He feels his arm and stick rise in slow motion, ready to take a swing at the disc. His heart pumps hard a couple of extra times for effect and he squeezes his eyes shut, a very foolish thing to do when it came to a shot like that. Don�t you owe your teammates, your fans� yourself more? The puck sails forward, and before twelve has time to open his eyes, he hears the crowd erupt behind him. All of a sudden, a force of four other bodies jump on top of him and he is nearly knock him off of his skates. �Goal scored by number twelve, Cody Cesarz, unassisted. Time of the goal, 9:34.� It doesn�t even occur to number twelve that he has scored a goal. All that matters is that everyone now knows, his teammates, coaches, fans, and even his dad, that he has recaptured this and made it his game. His passion. |