Click here for your discount coupon

I-League diary
previous entries

archives

1997

1998

1999

It is Monday, February 1st.

It's just before ten o'clock as the Bruins, my team, goes on the man advantage.  The opposing Comets had taken a bad penalty and prepared to fight off our offense, that had scored twice in our first two shots.  There's a brief flurry of activity from the left face-off circle at the far end of the ice from me.  The puck is played behind the net, then passed across the slot for a shot from the high point.   At least that's what I thought they were trying to do.  The pass is misplayed and trickles out passed the blue line into neutral ice.  But instead of being picked up by my team, a streak in a white Comets sweater starts down the ice with the puck.

No forecheck.
No backcheck.
Only a gut check.

I steel myself.  Sliding to just outside the crease, I look down quickly to make sure my stick is completely on the ground and analyze my position.   Do I have the right angle?  It doesn't matter; the guy's coming right down my throat.  There are no passes to worry about.  No angles.  Nothing but me and him and the puck.

I can only say I must have been transfixed by the moment.   For a second, I froze and that second would be all that he needed.  A rising wrist shot zipped between my leg pads and into the back of the net.  If I had been watching the game, I would have admired it.  As it was, I was in the game and could only envy it.  They could take a penalty, go short-handed and still be dangerous, still score.  They could tresspass and take advantage with impunity.  It didn't matter.  The penalty play wasn't a penalty at all.  It was just another shift just like any other.

But that's not how it should be.  It should be that penalties are bad things, that they are things to avoid.  The penalty should be enough to show you not to do that again.  Sure you may think there's nothing wrong with what you're doing at the time, but it's not your game and you didn't make the rules.   You just have to follow them anyway.

Now about warehouse parties . . .

"Get out the A-1 sauce, I'm done."

Lopez