Every weekend there's always one game day. I wake up on these days with a glint in my eye, no longer super competitive, but I know there going to be some fun.
I check my kit; Leg-guards, kickers, abdominal protector, padded shorts, chest guard, gloves, helmet, stick. The stick's showing its wear, moreso the back side, because I thump the goal posts a fair bit to gauge my position. Over time I've mostly used Gryphon gear, but of recent more and more Obo has been making its way into my bag. The blue and black of the leg-guards is somewhat reflected in all the bruises I've worn over the season, but the gear doesn't let me down.
Three or so hours from the game I chow down. I used to be picky. It had to be pasta. But nowadays its whatever I can get my hands on. Whatever's quick, easy.
90 minutes from game-time and I sort out all of the extras. The uniform, sweat bands, and various bits of strapping get shoved in my kit-bags pockets. My ninety-three is there in orange, white or blue depending on which team we're playing against. It used to be a twelve back in the day, that was my state rep number - chosen from the counting thing in Sesame Street. But then the new club president gave his son that number for his first season in seniors. I'm no longer at that club, and now my back is covered with the number Doug Gilmour made famous on the ice.
Jumping my car, I chuck on the MP3 player and start running through my pre-game playlist. Its mostly metal, but there's a few drum and bass tracks in there as well as some good Aussie hip hop. Looking at the playlist now, the first thing that's up is Painkiller by The Freestylers and Pendulum, and next up is To the Edge by Lacuna Coil. I arrive at the ground with about an hour left before we start.
The club's first team is playing currently, and they're great to watch. This level of hockey is where I was at a few years back, but father time, work, and a knee and an ankle later and I'm playing in the seconds. Its not a bad thing really, 21 years of experience makes me somewhat of an elder statesman in the team, and a guiding force for the younger blokes. Meanwhile, the MP3 player is still pumping tunes into one ear.
Half time hits in the ones game and that means its time for the twos to gear up. We make our way to the change rooms, sharing a joke, ribbing each other. Its good to be part of a team. I'll generally sit in the middle of the change room whilst everyone else is on the benches that span it. I have the most gear, what can I say? The coach has a few words, but most of it isn't relevant to me. I try to lose myself in the music, and focus the tempo, anger and aggression it gives into what I'll need in a few minutes time.
We hit the track for the warmup and stretch. Again, mine's a little bit different to anyone else's, the large blue and black foamy things strapped to my legs necessitate that. As I stretch I replay saves I've made before through my mind, shots I've missed and the moves I've made. I'll need them all again shortly. Hopefully not the missed part, I like seeing the big fat zero at the end of it all.
Back into the rooms and I put on the top half of my gear, pulling the ninety-three over my head. The music's gone now, and I'm hyping the rest of the team up with a lot of noise. The ones game finishes and we're out of the turf to warm up. I'll miss a few shots here and there, but the main thing for me now is to get my eye in, and get my movements down. I jog off the field and grab gulp of water and join the huddle. The coach gives his final address, the captain has a few words and so do I. We hit the field.
After the pre-game pleasantries are shared, I walk to my position in the D, flanked by my two fullbacks. We go through the usual, and I say my lame joke again before I jog to the goals and chuck my water bottle besides the net. I pull my glove back on, acknowledge the umpire and thump my pads one last time.
Then the whistle blows...
I check my kit; Leg-guards, kickers, abdominal protector, padded shorts, chest guard, gloves, helmet, stick. The stick's showing its wear, moreso the back side, because I thump the goal posts a fair bit to gauge my position. Over time I've mostly used Gryphon gear, but of recent more and more Obo has been making its way into my bag. The blue and black of the leg-guards is somewhat reflected in all the bruises I've worn over the season, but the gear doesn't let me down.
Three or so hours from the game I chow down. I used to be picky. It had to be pasta. But nowadays its whatever I can get my hands on. Whatever's quick, easy.
90 minutes from game-time and I sort out all of the extras. The uniform, sweat bands, and various bits of strapping get shoved in my kit-bags pockets. My ninety-three is there in orange, white or blue depending on which team we're playing against. It used to be a twelve back in the day, that was my state rep number - chosen from the counting thing in Sesame Street. But then the new club president gave his son that number for his first season in seniors. I'm no longer at that club, and now my back is covered with the number Doug Gilmour made famous on the ice.
Jumping my car, I chuck on the MP3 player and start running through my pre-game playlist. Its mostly metal, but there's a few drum and bass tracks in there as well as some good Aussie hip hop. Looking at the playlist now, the first thing that's up is Painkiller by The Freestylers and Pendulum, and next up is To the Edge by Lacuna Coil. I arrive at the ground with about an hour left before we start.
The club's first team is playing currently, and they're great to watch. This level of hockey is where I was at a few years back, but father time, work, and a knee and an ankle later and I'm playing in the seconds. Its not a bad thing really, 21 years of experience makes me somewhat of an elder statesman in the team, and a guiding force for the younger blokes. Meanwhile, the MP3 player is still pumping tunes into one ear.
Half time hits in the ones game and that means its time for the twos to gear up. We make our way to the change rooms, sharing a joke, ribbing each other. Its good to be part of a team. I'll generally sit in the middle of the change room whilst everyone else is on the benches that span it. I have the most gear, what can I say? The coach has a few words, but most of it isn't relevant to me. I try to lose myself in the music, and focus the tempo, anger and aggression it gives into what I'll need in a few minutes time.
We hit the track for the warmup and stretch. Again, mine's a little bit different to anyone else's, the large blue and black foamy things strapped to my legs necessitate that. As I stretch I replay saves I've made before through my mind, shots I've missed and the moves I've made. I'll need them all again shortly. Hopefully not the missed part, I like seeing the big fat zero at the end of it all.
Back into the rooms and I put on the top half of my gear, pulling the ninety-three over my head. The music's gone now, and I'm hyping the rest of the team up with a lot of noise. The ones game finishes and we're out of the turf to warm up. I'll miss a few shots here and there, but the main thing for me now is to get my eye in, and get my movements down. I jog off the field and grab gulp of water and join the huddle. The coach gives his final address, the captain has a few words and so do I. We hit the field.
After the pre-game pleasantries are shared, I walk to my position in the D, flanked by my two fullbacks. We go through the usual, and I say my lame joke again before I jog to the goals and chuck my water bottle besides the net. I pull my glove back on, acknowledge the umpire and thump my pads one last time.
Then the whistle blows...
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But then, seeing a reformed, re-ignited RATM is probably going to be pretty awesome too.