The Swap

Chapter 4 Jack

"Son?"

"Yes, sir?" I pause, my hand on the truck door handle, and turn toward my dad. This is what we always do befor The Captain drops me off at practice. I dont know if its a superstition or just a routine, but I always stop right before I get out of the truck, and listen. My dad is tough. He pushes us. He was a Captain in the army, and before that he was an All-American for Boston College, so, I mean, he knows what it takes.

"Go in there and work hard. Give it all you have. No regrets," he tells me.

"No regrets, yes, sir," I say back. We do a nod, and I finally open the door and leap out of the truck.

The captain rolls down the window on my side and leans toward me. "Win those battles in front of the net," he tells me. "Be strong on your feet. Play a two-way game."

'Yes sir." I stand at attention outside the truck, my bag slung over my shoulder, my two best sticks in my hand.

'Hard-nosed discipline."

"Yes sir." I nod. "Thank you sir."

My dad is big on please and thank you. All Malloy boys are expected to-let me quote-"partake in the basic civility of life." That means, please, thank you, yes, sir or yes, ma'am, holding open a door, firm handshakes, and so on.

"Jack?" The Captain calls out.

"Yes sir?" I look back at him.

"Go get 'em."

It doesn't matter what kind of day I'm having. The second I step into the rink, everything is better. Its magic. The first thing that hits you is the Smell. Every rink is different, but they all smell like hockey. You could put a blindfold on me and put me in any rink and I'd know, just from the salty, sweaty scent and the dampness and the cool air that kind of hits you when you walk in the door. BAM! You are at the rink. You have arrived. There's just this feeling of excitement. It's unreal. And when I walk though the doors to the locker room, that hockey smell is stronger than ever. It's always there. It will never go away. I love that smell. I can't explain it, but its comforting, I guess. Once you get into the.locker room you're sheltered from everything. There are no windows. You have no view of the outside world. You're kind of in a shell. The only contact you have is the other guys, your teammates, sharing stories, talking about different things-hockey, music, where guys went out on the weekend, what they did after, who hung out with who, girls, who's hot, who's not. Guys are chriping, everyone is sort of making fun of each other, joking around. Nothing's off-limits. Most of the guys on the Bruins are one or two years older than I am, so they love to pick on me and razz me, and they call me "Mallsy," or "Malls" I love it.

Its like this place that's different than any other. You're just all together, talking about whatever, no distractions.

To an outsider looking in, it might look like a madhouse-eighteen guys,eighteen equipment bags covering almost every space on the floor-but actually there's an order. Every guy knows that order. All the little adjustments to get yourself ready to goo: tying your skates just right, lacing them up at just the right time, tapinf your shin pads, taping your stick, folding your socks just the way you like them. Its like tying your shoes-you're so used to it, you just do it. Then when your all done? Somehow everyone looks the same, and we all head out to the ice.

You walk out of the locker room on the rubber mats, out on the rink, and as soon as you take a step onto the ice, right off the gate, you glide. It's just effortless. That sensation is really the best feelings in the world. You take your second step and your third step and you pick up speed and the cool wind blasts through your face mask and you inhale that first breath of cold air and it gives you a jolt of energy and you want to go faster and faster. You just feel like you can do anything. Like you are invincible. Then there's a screeching whistle that brings everyone to a stop, brings you all together, and you get to work.

For the next sixty minutes of my life, everything is almost a trance.

Nothing else matters.

Nithing else exists.

It's like I'm there but I'm not there.

I don't have to think.

The sound track is the steel on your skate cutting into the crisp ice with each stride, the swooshing of the ice when you stop, the puck hitting sticks, the coach directing players, whistles, so much motion, so much activity.

At my best, everything is clicking, everything is so right in the world. The puck goes to where I want it to go, my feet move the way I want them to move. It all flows. I just love to be out there. It's what I'm built for. It's what I do best.

After, in the locker room, I sink into my seat, soaked in sweat. Usually there's a high. All the boys feel really good. And as soon as we're off the ice we're on to the next thing. Nobody's talking hockey anymore. Someone cranks the music, and as we change, we talk about girls and school. We talk about everything but hockey. The guys are always joking and chirping and throwing tape balls in the garbage. And I'm so spent-not just physically, but mentally too, which is kind of awesome, because in the fifteen minutes before I leave and throw my bag in the back of my dad's truck, in those fifteen minutes I have no worries. None. I get my gear off, get dressed, dry my skates, pack up, and laugh with the guys. I do not have a single worry in the world. I'm free.