Alternative

October 25, 2008 at 6:49PM

I used to be really good at hockey. Scored almost more than anyone else on our team. But I had a major flaw: I was selfish. I kept the puck too long, tried to do everything myself. Most of the time this worked for me, even though it annoyed the hell out of my teammates. But it caught up with me eventually.

It was February, day after Valentine's day, and we had an out-of-town game. We hadn't played this team before, but they had a reputation for being scrappy. Their coach was some kind of former pro and he pushed his players hard. Apparently, they were all a bit older, too. Like technically the same year as us but all born in January or something.

I remember this uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach as we stepped onto the ice. Maybe because of what we'd been told about the team, or because the rink felt especially cold and enormous... or I just somehow knew this was going to be a turning point in my life.

They scored on us within the first two minutes. And they were intense, just as promised: checked hard and fought aggressively in the corners. They had a couple forwards who were lightning-fast skaters. This tiny center no one could keep up with scored their first goal, and then five minutes later, scored a second. Our coach told us we looked "pathetic out there." We all felt like shit after the first period. I took it personally; I wanted to do something about it.

The second period got started and I vowed to not let that small forward score another goal. So, when he got the puck, I set my sights on him. When he finally let his guard down, I checked him as hard as I could. He fell to the ice; and I felt triumphant for a second. Then he got up, seeming only slightly rattled. I turned away and noticed a hulking defenseman on their team looking at me crookedly. I pretended not to notice, didn't want anyone getting under my skin.

Later in the second period, I intercepted a pass near our blue line and suddenly had a clear path towards their goalie. I rushed forward, deked him out and scored top shelf. It was a big moment for us; we were finally on the scoreboard. My coach gave me a "nice work" under his breath, which was a lot coming from him.

Five minutes later, I got the puck again, and with the confidence from my previous goal, attempted to get around one of their forwards and two defensemen. I got through two of them, and then saw our left wing, Jake, on the other side of the ice. He was banging his stick on the ice, begging for a pass, but I ignored him. I thought I could do it on my own; there was only one more defenseman to get through. I looked up at him, over at Jake, then down at the puck as I stickhandled, preparing to get around him. And just as I was about to look up again, the other defenseman, the one who'd looked at me crookedly earlier, came out of nowhere and hit me harder than I've ever been hit.

Elbow to the head. Brutal jolt. A car crash.

Knocked me out cold.

When I came to, I felt like I was in a movie. That was my first thought anyway, but it wasn't like any movie I'd want to watch. The lights at the top of the rink had this crazy, slow-motion sparkle to them. Everything seemed unreal.

The assistant coach led me off the ice and I sat in the dressing room alone.

Everything still felt unreal, like I was dreaming. I couldn't shake the feeling. My breath quickened. I started to panic. I wondered if this dream-feeling would ever go away.

I told my parents after the game that I felt weird, but they just kept saying I was going to be fine. I had a headache for weeks after that, but I sort of felt like I was dreaming for months. And I was terrified. There was a barrier between me and the world, and I couldn't explain it to anyone. School was harder, socializing was harder, doing anything I used to do was harder. It seemed like I might be stuck like this. There was my life before the hit and my life after the hit. Two entirely separate things. 

My parents kept telling me I was fine, and that I had to stop worrying. So did my doctor: he said it was a concussion but that I should recover soon. It was hard to believe them though. How could I feel this way if there was actually nothing wrong with me?

It all felt kind of inevitable, too; instead of changing me, the blow to my head had actually just revealed something that was off, that had always been off. Other people recover from concussions, but I couldn't. 

It all came back to that thing. I was different. I was weak. There was something wrong. Not a surface level wrong that could be easily fixed, but something that ran deep. 

It didn't make sense to anyone I spoke to, and eventually Mom got really tired of hearing about it. Tired of me obsessing over my head, worrying that I was always going to feel this way, that I was compromised as a person.

She sent me to a therapist, who I hated. He didn't know what he was talking about and treated me like I was some kind of whiny, piece-of-shit infant. I declined going back after the second session and neither she or dad fought me on it. I decided all I had to do was stop telling them how I was feeling, and eventually they would leave me alone.

But I still felt it. All the time. I'd be writing a test in class or eating dinner at home and suddenly everything felt like a dream. The barrier was back. And there was nothing I could do about it.

I couldn't explain it to anyone because, physically, my doctors said I was fine, and I just sounded crazy whenever I brought it up.

I kept my head down and did my best to get through days. I even wore a baseball cap just so I could forget what my head actually felt like. I liked that. It sort of worked for a while, having no head. Like I was floating. But then I'd remember again. I could only float for so long before it felt like I was disappearing. 

I hoped things would change one day, that eventually I'd be ready to become someone. But for the time being, my brain was broken and all I wanted to do was hide.

I guess I was finally coming out of hiding, or starting to...

Maybe I wasn't ready.