For the Feeling

I remember it all so clearly. If I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, my lungs still fill with icy air. I exhale, and in my mind I watch the breath float through the cold around me. I hear the roar of the crowd, feel it fade as I step out to the top of my crease to face the oncoming rush. Once again I'm in the zone, and once again nothing else in the world exists except for me and that black rubber puck. The steel of my blades cut into the ice beneath me, and I'm connected in every way to this moment. It's who I am.

From my earliest memories as a boy growing up in Canada, my life's dream was to become a professional hockey player. Literally born with a hockey stick in my hands, this dream defined me from day one. Out on the backyard rink my dad would build for us each winter, I learned to skate before I could walk. This is where the dream became my own, before the crowds, before the pressure. Just me, my parents and brother enjoying the snowy Canadian winters.

Out of these idyllic beginnings, pursuing this dream consumed me. Each opportunity that brought me closer to realizing my goal filled me with excitement, made me feel alive. I still remember the thrill I felt in those early years, the fascination I developed with the goaltending position. I instinctively loved every aspect of it. Initially it was probably the equipment that drew me in, the way the goalie stands out, different from all the other players. When it came my turn to take our team goalie gear home, I would lie awake with excitement. I still remember the joy of getting my first real set of goalie pads: few things in life have made me happier. As I set out on this journey, I couldn't have asked for a more supportive environment. My family was there every step of the way, never missing a game. I would constantly beg them to play with me, running through each family member until they were all exhausted. Anything for another minute of the sport. Street hockey, floor hockey, kitchen hockey... it was all an arena to me. 

As I began to grow and progress through the different levels, my life revolved more and more around the game. Through junior and senior high, I went to a specialty sports academy where we would train on and off the ice around our school schedule, in addition to regular team practices and games. These years of competitiveness and possibility were some of the best in my life. But they weren't always easy. My first year of Bantam, a crucial year in a young hockey career, I was cut from the team I so badly wanted to make. Thinking back, there were turning points that seem obvious in hindsight, but could have gone in many different directions. Those setbacks made everything ahead mean so much more to me. I felt I had something to prove to those who doubted me, a different mindset from those to whom everything came easy. The second year of Bantam, I went back to tryouts with a renewed focus and made the top level AAA league. It's hard for me to overstate the importance this held for me, this first major stepping stone. The process of attending evaluations, making it through the various rounds of cuts, proving to myself and everyone else that I belonged. This would be my life for years to come. 

The success I found that season would be tempered with disappointment. One of the highlights at that age is the Western Hockey League draft. I remember meeting with scouts and discussing a potential future with these teams I'd grown up idolizing. I remember watching every name of the draft, waiting for mine which never came. Again, I wouldn't have an easy route to my dream, but I would work twice as hard to prove that I should not have been overlooked. I travelled across Saskatchewan, Alberta and BC attending training camps and tryouts for an opportunity to further develop at the next level. The mix of uncertainty and possibility in each of these places contributed to my character in ways that stay with me today.

In the midst of these anxious and uncertain times, something happened that would solidify hockey as an inseparable, unforgettable part of my life. My best friend, someone I'd grown up and chased hockey dreams with, was at one of these team camps when he collapsed and passed away on the ice. I had just turned 16, and we celebrated my birthday together just weeks prior. That day, a Friday, I remember dropping him off at home after school, wishing him good luck at camp and planning to see him on Monday morning. How do you process something like this at that age? How does it affect your outlook and understanding of life? Although painful, impossible to understand, as I gained some distance from the initial shock and grief of losing my friend I matured and developed in ways only possible under extreme circumstance. Each moment spent on the ice took on a much different meaning for me.

Eventually I would progress to the junior hockey level, travelling around Alberta with the Calgary Royals of the AJHL. It was during these years that I really experienced the mental toughness and performance goaltending required. An inherently difficult mental position, goaltenders are known to be some of the most superstitious players. Over the years, with a lot of trial and error, I had refined my inner habits to a science. I think many of the mental games develop as a way to deal with the pressure of the position. I remember travelling and getting off the bus, seeing the big arena, knowing people are going to show up and pay to see you play. All these people there hoping you fail tonight, waiting for you to make a mistake. Watching your every move. It's as exhausting as it is thrilling. 

The energy and atmosphere of game days are still vivid in my mind.  They became whole day events, everything throughout the day geared to getting mentally ready. I remember everything leading up to puck drop, the music, the team warm up. Hearing the anthem play. You think of everything that has led up to that moment. Everything it took to be standing there. And then you don't think. There's a switch that turns inside as soon as the play starts. Adrenaline fills your system and your awareness is completely tuned in. The only feelings now are internal. I feel instead of think. Feel my heart beat in my chest. Feel my pulse quicken as the play enters the zone, my awareness expanding and focusing at the same time, a heightened sense of what's going on around me. It forces a level of focus. If you're thinking about anything other than the task at hand, you'll quickly be reminded. There's no way to recreate that feeling, no way to replace it. The puck drops, the game is on the line, and you're in the zone. I live for that feeling of focus. 

After 2 and a half rather disappointing seasons with the team, I was called into the coaches office and informed I would be let go. I like to frame it as if I was traded, but the moments that followed were filled with inner panic. What now? This is what I'm built for. My body and mind are tuned to be a hockey player. Everything about me had been specially crafted to be a goaltender. The very next day the phone rang, and I was fortunate to take calls from a number of teams looking for stability in their goaltending. I could postpone the self reflection and panic. I could still call myself a hockey player.

Within the week I was on a plane to Langley to join the Chiefs in the BCHL. They were spending their first season in a brand new 5000 seat arena, and I would be expected to come in and have an immediate impact on the teams success. I thrived in this environment, winning 13 consecutive games. All the hard work and character shaping experiences throughout my life in hockey began to pay off, and I had night after night of the best experiences. I lived away from home for the first time, with billets who became like a second family to me. The whole experience began to validate everything I had given to hockey. 

As that season came to a close, the question began to creep up again: What now? After missing out on the WHL draft, I would need to take a different route to my dream. I received offers from various NCAA teams and chose to attend the State University of New York in Fredonia, a small college town south of Buffalo. In my first season as a freshman, I would again be expected to have an immediate impact, and again I would prove myself as I helped the team to the state finals. I spent 2 more years there, graduating a year early so that I could take my 4th year to finally achieve my goal of playing professional hockey. I've never wanted to do anything else. 

As I prepared to finish my time in college hockey, I was expecting an experience similar to the one I had with Langley. I was expecting a phone call from a coach with an opportunity to continue. Everything up to that point had been neatly mapped out. I would play junior, leverage that experience into college, and then begin as a professional. I took that summer and trained as I had years previously with the pro players back in Calgary. As time for training camps drew closer, I felt ready to compete but also tense. How do you navigate this professional environment? I searched for an agent, I contacted teams, I looked into playing overseas. I tried to force it, again travelling back to New York, over to San Francisco, then to Idaho. Looking for an opportunity, looking for the ability to continue defining myself as a hockey player. As the season began, I found myself lost without a team and without an identity.

I didn't want it to end. I wasn't ready to stop pursuing this dream. But at what point is it enough? At what point do you step back and just appreciate how far it took you? I find this so hard because I kept expecting that phone call. Something to launch me into another incredible experience like I had with Langley. 

I learned a lot about life through the lens of hockey. It took me around the world, through city championships, provincial tournaments, and state finals. There were countless wins, losses, memories I'll never forget. The amount of total commitment required is what made it so special. People always ask me if I still play, and I never know how to answer. I don't know who I am without it. What would I play for? It will never be the same. I will never get that feeling back. It's gone. Sure, it could be fun to put some skates on and shoot a puck around. But I didn't just play it for fun. I played it for the feeling. And I'll always be searching to find that feeling. I hope I can find it again.