Aspiring

Prologue - The Hammonds' Plains, Nova Scotia Native

All his life, Tyler Marchand had only dreamed of making it big in the NHL. He was passionate about his hockey and succeeding in doing his sport that he loved dearly. But some people weren’t like that. In fact, some people, even some of his closest friends were amateurs, weren’t “good enough.”

He didn’t think he was anything special either, coming from Hammonds’ Plains. He was ready for a big let down and the words, “sorry, you’re just not good enough”, like the rest of his pals.

Yet, he didn’t receive those words. Instead he got praise for his offensive capabilities and his perfect body frame. He was put to the test in professional hockey leagues around Canada, until he reached the age of seventeen.

He never went to school and was homeschooled for most of his childhood, though he did learn and was exceptionally smart.  

He stood on the small ice surface of the most popular and public ice hockey rink in Nova Scotia. It was that time of the year again, when players came out to showcase their talent and hockey IQ to the different college scouts and higher level professional scouts. The annual Nova Scotia Shoot-Out. Tyler was one of the skaters on the radar for certain teams and he was a skilled forward for the hometown team, the Nova Scotia Leopards. 

He was shaken from his thoughts, as it became his turn to go. He launched off and the puck zipped past the goalie’s left shoulder and grazed the left goalpost before smacking the mesh at the back of the net.

“Can’t see it, can’t stop it, eh?” Tyler Marchand taunted, lightly, as he sped past the goalie. He spun on his skates and taunted him, as he backed away: “But you’re the expert at missing pucks, aren’t you, Millsy?” The goalie had heard that one a few times before.

The Nova Scotia Shoot-Out was nearly over by now. Tyler had seen his fellow goalie pal face more than a hundred wrist shots, snap shots, slap shots, backhanders, and dekes in a series of one-on-one showdowns. He had stopped most of them. Thirty shooters had been eliminated. Now it came down, as it did most years, to Tyler Marchand versus his rival Andrew Campbell. Each had three final shots. He had stopped both of their first efforts. Tyler had just scored on his second, a slapper that caught him leaning to his right. He plucked up his water bottle off the top of the net, flipped his mask up, and skated away from the net for a breather.

“Today, Millsy!” It was Andrew shouting from center ice, where he stood flipping a puck back and forth on his stick.

“Relax,” Tyler heard “Millsy” the goalie say, as much to himself as to them. The goalie leaned his head back and doused his face with water. Above him, in the steel rafters, Tyler glimpsed the faded blue-and-gold banners marking the Leopards’ progress in the state playoffs, 1998 to 2002: regional finalist, regional finalist, state quarterfinalist, semifinalist, runner-up. He leveled his gaze and looked past Andrew to a banner that had hung at the end of the rink for as long as he could remember. It read: “To win the game is great, to play the game is greater, to love the game is the greatest.” Tyler looked back down and saw Millsy skate slowly back to his net, set the bottle down, and pull his mask don over his face once more. Slapping the blade of his goalie stick once against each goalpost, he lowered himself into his semicrouch and yelled, “Bring it on.”

Andrew was what hockey players admiringly call a “dangler,” with hands that cradled the puck as if it were no heavier than a tennis ball. He could dangle it between his skates, behind his back, one-handed, backhanded, skating backward, on one knee. All the while the puck stuck to his stick like a nickname. He had a thousand moves that he’d practiced for hours in his basement or late at night on a patch of ice behind his garage. He liked to practice in the darkness, the darker the better, so he was forced to rely not on his eyes, but on simply feeling the puck on his stick blade with his amazingly sure hands. That way he’d never have to look down, he could always be scanning the ice for an opening or an open man, and he’d always be ready when an opposing defenseman was lining him up for a hit.