After a career-ending fight, ex-professional-hockey-player-turned-Zamboni-driver Chase Cassidy has never looked back at the sport. He's perfectly content cleaning the ice between periods and chatting with fellow staff members, and running a pub outs...
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Seven years ago...
Chase
Playoffs are nothing like the regular season.
Here, all the points I racked up during the regular season mean jack-shit. As a rookie, it's inevitable to note how different playoff games are. They're a fresh slate with limited rules and emotionally charged players. Any goals, assists, or time on the ice I notched into my belt during the regular season don't contribute to our battle for the Stanley Cup. My efforts aided us in getting here, but now it's time for the gruelling work.
If the regular season is set in stone, the playoffs are aqueous, always changing. Fighting for Lord Stanley means I have to prove myself all over again. Prove that I deserve to play for this team. Prove that I can harness my skills to help paint a bigger picture. Second-guessing myself will only lead to failure. Sloppy passes will create giveaways.
All the lessons I've learned throughout my breakthrough season need to be applied without a margin of error. I need to follow the direction of playoff veterans and trust my gut instinct. But more importantly, I need to believe in myself and fight through the anxiety.
Because being a rookie during the playoffs isn't for the faint of heart.
Each step taken emphasizes the intensity. The importance of playing good hockey.
Winning a game.
A series.
The semi-finals.
Lord Stanley.
There is a list every hockey player has their goals set on, and so far, we've ticked off a few. The only one left is winning the Stanley Cup.
The atmosphere is charged with emotion and electricity. With every blade scraping against the artificial ice, every ominous or upbeat reaction from the crowd, and every ding as the puck ricochets from the iron, adrenaline pulses through my veins. I play harder and devote my approach to strategy.
While I may not be the fastest or roughest player on the team, I can read the play unlike any other teammate. Projecting where the puck will go, what moves the opponent will make—it's a skill I appreciate and use to my advantage.
My gaze follows the puck as it slides back to a Calgary defenseman. Their focus on the net ahead as he winds up for a wrist shot. But with a quick glance to the left, to an open left-winger, his decision changes. It grants me a fraction of a second to change the course of the puck.
I lunge forward, jutting my hockey stick out to deflect the puck into the netting. Rusken expels a frustrated sigh as he slams his stick against the ice. I skate a circle around him, heading back to the face-off area.
"You okay there, Rusken?" I chirp. "Didn't disrupt anything, did I?"
Jackson Rusken adjusts the visor of his helmet and flips me the bird. There's a crooked grin on his face. "Fuck off, Cassidy."
