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    Posted September 21, 2012 by

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    Fw: September 20, 2012


    I played hockey with the Willow Park Mapleridge Jets for two (2) consecutive seasons in Calgary. The first season ended with a provincial win in Edmonton. After a brief introduction to a lacrosse stick that spring I cut the palms out of my gloves, put on the same baby blue jersey and went on to win the provincials in that contest. In the fall I wore the same old sweater, sharpened my skates and completed a second season with the Jets. Once again a victory in Edmonton was secured, only this game was different, it was I that was being played.     We arrived in Edmonton around noon and drove straight to the arena. The dressing room was small and stunk of sweat and fear just like the the jersey I wore. Black with a blood red Leaf on the front, large white numbers on the back. As the story goes, our blues were similar to the other teams and this was the remedy. I wore two (2) numbers that day. One (1) because I had too, the other, a strategic managers decision. After all this is a serious game we play.   The ice was lit but the Arena was dark. Not a fan in the stands, only armed shadows graced the halls and in the corners. This truly was a lights out experience.   The boxes are opposing, ours filled with black and red, theirs filled with white, trimmed in blue, red, and crested in gold. They must have been fed the same line about the blues.   It is late in the second period and were down a number of goals. We have been completely dominated.   It is only a matter of time before this club hands us our hat and shows us the door. The face off is in our end of the ice to the right of our goal. I am at left wing, my mirror at right. He's one of the best, both big and mean and in my face. I feel nauseous, trapped, like a guinea pig in some weird political experiment, we all feel the same. You see these guys we play wear the colors of Russia and for one reason or another they had too.   My left skate blade comes down on his right ankle bone with the precision of gods surgeon. The referees back is turned. Of the two (2) linesmen one has been summoned to our bench to the left,  the other on the right is obscured by the players. It was a decision made split. There is no one here, there is no crowd, no spectator for witness just a camera rolling high in the corner and it has just filmed me smile and slip on the ice before I strike. The Russian, he's done, crippled yet still shooting his mouth off until his brain recognizes the pain, he folds and leaves the ice, game over.   I changed numbers for the third period. It was a clever distraction. Maybe they won't recognize me. My first shift on defense took up most of the third period. As a team we capitalized on every opportunity and left little to chance. As an individual, I was like the only&nb

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