I always feared that if I wrote a memoir it wouldn’t get any recognition. Who am I to write about my life? And why would anyone really give a shit. I tried to approach this topic differently. Instead of making it all about me, I’m just going to let you in on a few series of events. This is more of a story about a kid who, unhappy with his role, put his personal feelings aside for the benefit of his team. Instead of fitting an entire season into one article, I decided to write it in pieces. This is “part one”.

Not many people get to say they played a college sport. I guess because I’ve been playing hockey my whole life it didn’t occur to me as “college hockey”. To me it was just another season with a new group of guys. Stepping onto that ice for tryouts, I never felt more nervous. I trained all summer, rehabbing my knee which underwent ACL surgery a year prior. I was ready to retake my spot on a team and be the person my teammates could count on.

Tryouts were six days, three off ice sessions and three on ice. After the final tryout, the coaches called out players’ jersey numbers who didn’t make the cut. Going down the list, I prayed he wouldn’t call 29. He started with the lower numbers. 5, 14, 23. Then he called out “29”. I couldn’t believe it; although a part of me felt I didn’t deserve to make it. I lowered my head, tapped the ice with my stick, and proceeded to the locker room. I began taking off my equipment when all the other players walked in congratulating each other. Their elated energy only made me feel worse. I decided a few days later I wasn’t going to go out like that. This was my last chance to play competitive hockey before its men’s league at the local rink for the rest of my life.

I met with my coach and told him everything. What was going through my head; the player I could be for him and the team. Hockey is 90% mental. All those crazy superstitions we gain over the years aren’t just for fun. They’re to be a better player. Nothing kills your confidence/makes you work harder then getting cut. He gave me some bullshit about being a good teammate and enjoying the experiences rather then actually playing. But I just wanted to play hockey. He told me I would get in some games, but I knew that was just to shut me up. He didn’t care. And why would he? Kid’s get cut from teams, it happens. I just couldn’t believe it was happening to me.

As you could imagine, 30 players fighting for 21 roster spots created tension. Everyone was fighting for a spot to play in the next game. What started off as a family became a civil war. The coach would send out an email to all the players the morning of our games, listing the jersey numbers of players who were dressing. Whoever’s number was not in the email was a healthy scratch for that game. To no surprise, #29 was not on the list. Not for game 1, game 2, or even game 3. What’s the role of a healthy scratch you ask? Show up in a suit, and stay out of the way. This wasn’t a team. It was a mini high school. There were cliques, popular kids and losers. The losers were the healthy scratches. Getting the players Gatorade in between periods, sharpening skates, filling water bottles. I hated it. I didn’t want to quit, but I certainly didn’t want to stay where I was. I fought with this decision until I woke up one Sunday morning to an email from my coach. The title read lineup for tonight’s game. As I read the jersey numbers from top to bottom, there was number 29, right in the middle.