Twisted Wrister pt. 1

“Hey! Hey, and Gooooooood Morning! It’s 7:34 in the AM and its time for the, HONK! HONK! Traffic Fix with Freddie Ferguson. Freddie what da ya got for…”

He slowly raised his head and turned his shoulders to terminate the din that had interrupted his slumber. His right arm jutted out from under the sheet and swung at the clock radio sitting next to his bed. Swinging and missing three times, Kent then sat up. With his left hand he took the clock and threw it across the room.

“F&$#!” He shouted as he ran his left hand through his hockey player cliché hair and scratched the back of his neck. He had slept in his jersey and jeans not because he was too tired, or because he wanted to cut down on the time it took to get ready in the morning, but because those are the clothes in which he felt most comfortable anymore. His normally well-trimmed goatee was scraggly at best. There were small bags under his eyes. He yawned and rubbed his chest as he got up from his bed.

As he descended the stairs in his nearly empty house he treaded lightly so as not to wake Aleia. She was too tired to travel back to Philly last night and so she slept in his bed tossing and turning all night next to her man.

He poured himself a protein shake and drank it slowly while taking his gear out of his bag.

“Damn street skates!” he said as he did up the plastic straps with his left hand. His actual hockey skates were of no use to him now. Rolling slowly towards the door he put on his gloves and helmet. Letting the door slam shut behind him as he left, Kent threw down the bright orange puck and began to skate down his driveway into the cal-de-sac, even though he knew it would be of little use to him. The street was too worn and debris riddled for anything, let alone a small, chipped, brightly colored plastic disc.

The net was still set up from the night before. His brothers had been playing until it was time to go over to their grandmothers. The metal posts collected dew and shimmered in the morning sun. He picked up a ball that his brothers left on top of the net and threw it down the street. Skating as fast as he could after it, Kent caught up with the dirty pink sphere and overtook it. While the ball slowed Kent picked up speed and began to dart from side to side in the street, eventually skating up the hill and reaching the main road.

Turning and riding the bank down into his street Kent began to skate toward his house and the goal. After he banked the ball off the curb to himself he began to stickhandle down Spruce Lane. Fighting the ball the whole time Kent could move it from left to right with a moderate pace, nothing like what he could before. Dragging it behind him and almost loosing it twice he began to grit his teeth and skate harder. Finally the challenge was too much as when he tried to maneuver around a leaf he lost control completely, letting the ball roll aimlessly until its travel was halted by the curb.

“S*%&!” he muttered to himself. Skating to the curb to retrieve his escaped orb, he took his lower hand off his stick and swung at the ball violently with his stick in his right hand only. As he swung the stick hit the ground, missing the ball by a good six inches, but his follow-through flung it out of his glove onto the lawn of a neighbor. Stepping heavily in his skates Kent sunk into the wet grass as he retrieved his Sher-Wood P.M.P. with Ray Bourque curved blade. That stick was the one he used to win the scoring title for both his high school and the Junior Flyers.

When he got back onto the street his wheels were wedged with mud and blades of grass. Stomping to dislodge the clogged sod, the echo of the pounding of hard rubber wheels against cold and damp pavement reverberated through his small and quiet community. Ready to make his approach, Kent spit, slapped his stick on the ground and took off towards goal.

His movements were frantic. The ball bounced over some errant gravel and his stick caught slightly in a crack causing him, nearly, to lose all semblance of balance. Brute force, not grace took over as he trudged on into where his brothers had drawn the slot in chalk, a face-off circle to each side. He wound up for a slap-shot as he began to coast towards the left circle, he always loved to move the goalie to his right and shoot high over his blocker to the near side, top shelf. Usually it would be a quick flick of the wrist and the shot would sail past the shoulder and into the twine, but this morning he was angry, thoughtless and frustrated.

The shot was moderately paced and four feet to the left. The grunt that Kent let out while shooting told anyone who was witness to it that it was forced and labored. Frustrated, he hacked at the post. The metallic clang rang stridently through the all but silent suburbs.