The Lament of a Broken Twig

I had the twig for two years ( a length of epic proportions in hockey time). He had a Vapor shaft with a 52 flex and a Sakic blade. His majesty and grandeur from his bright yellow and fierce black complexion was unparallel to any other on the ice. Religiously, I would protect his shiny glaze with a covering of tape. Never would I be satisfied with any tape-job until it reached perfection. He deserved no less. He was not just a fiber glass extension of my arm like all the others: we were one in the same. He was the reason for so many of my goals, the culprit who was guilty for so much of my success on the ice. I loved that stick more than scoring itself.

Until on day, my love, and his life, was shattered in an instant. That damn slap shot. Why did i have to take that slap shot? I was holding him in my own hands, MY OWN HANDS, when he spilt right in half. It was only a practice, not even a noble death during overtime in a championship game when i was on a breakaway to make the game winning goal. We weren't even doing a drill! As we were waiting for the team to finish their water break, we decided to fire some shots at the net. We made beautiful music together, me and my stick. The first show pierced the back of the net in the high right corner, sailing past the goalie before she was able to react. A shot like that only feeds our desire to keep shooting, our insatiable appetite to score, more and more. The second shot was not our best, however. We hit the crossbar, just above the goalie's shoulder, and the puck escaped its entrapment in the net. We needed to reconcile for our mistake. Three times a charm, right? We lined up before the puck, wound up for the shot and released the potential energy into an insurmountable force that came crashing down onto the ice and the puck.

And then it happened. October 13,2009 I lost a part of myself, something I would never get back. I looked down into my hands and saw only half of my twig, while the other half lay helplessly on the ice, motionless, lifeless. My heart was shattered, it seemed, more so than the vapor shaft itself. How could this have happened? What went wrong? We had been through so much together. Through every tournament, whether it was in Ohio, Canada, Minnesota, or anywhere else, he was by my side. Even when we lost states, he stayed Strong for me. So why did he have to leave me right then and there? I was so lost, so confused. The bewilderment was blinding. I did not know what to do. I felt like sea biscuit with no legs. I felt as helpless as a beetle on its back or a boxer without arms. I was so distraught; I had no way to release these emotions except to yell at the top of my lungs.

My coach laughed and said," You finally broke that old thing?"

How could he be so heartless? What a hostile and evil man! He lent me his wooden stick, as if it were comparable to my Vapor, and expected practice and life to go on normally. The stick that he gave me was nothing like mine. It was stiff and didn't move like my old twig. On top of that if was ugly and had a cold feeling.

My heart was broken and so was my stick. Both were unfixable. All I can think about is that horrible day. He's gone now, but he will always be in my heart.

R.I.P