I could have done without the cold wind blowing in my face or the pain in my feet from the blisters that had broken even with the Band-Aids. But I ignored all that as I headed up ice, imagining it was game seven, overtime, Stanley Cup Final, with the puck deep in our end. I imagined a forechecker coming hard and I swerved at the hash marks into the slot to avoid him, cutting up the middle into the neutral zone. Time to end this, I said to myself. At centre I did a little shoulder fake to throw off the D, dangled the puck, and then about five feet from the blue line slowed a bit, bobbed my head left and right, and then flicked the puck forward and leapt high in the air. The clueless defencemen were left behind by my move. For fun I dropped my stick low and flipped the puck onto the blade, spun around and shoved it under the crossbar. Arms held high, I closed my eyes as I curved outside toward centre. What would the Undergrounders say about me scoring the overtime goal to win the Cup? That would shut Fitzy up.
