Don't bother to e-mail me to tell me I'm crazy. I already know that.
Yes, without endangering my life anymore than I do on any given Monday or Saturday night, I turned away shots
I never even broke a sweat. Of course I, like all netminders, remember the goal that was scored against me: a wrister from point blank, so sweet angels sang as it went in. When all was said and done, I was the game's second star after facing a 50 shot | |||||||||||||
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barrage. And after that, I turned the game off. | ||||||||||||
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As great as it was to hear the announcers sing my praises, to hear the cyber-crowd cheering, reality set in with a click. My team is one game away from the cellar, my goals against looks like a football score and I still need a TON of ice-time before I'm happy with myself again. And really . . . I like the sweating part.
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