During an important game that would decide our final playoff positioning, we faced this rival team and their goddamn goalie. He was performing spectacularly that day. He was cutting off shot opportunities with great positioning, he was making acrobatic saves that had us convinced he had a Slinky for a spine, he was establishing a presence by roughing up any opposing player who dared to hammer home an easy goal off of a rebound (that would be me). The game was scoreless after the first period, and already it seemed like our team wouldn't be scoring any goals that night. He was just too good. I hated how much better he was than us. Where we played like kids still trying to see the game's Matrix code, he played like Jesus Neo from the Matrix sequels.

Warner Bros.

Like this, but hockey.

Continue Reading Below Advertisement

I hated, hated, HATED him.

And then, I didn't.

I can't tell you exactly what caused it -- maybe he made a particularly impressive save? -- but my hate vacated my brain like it had been sucked out of an airlock to freeze and die in space. It was replaced with one undeniable, immutable vision of truth: this fucker was really good. I had already known that. It was old news. But now it wasn't clouded by my competitive nature, by my need to impress myself, my team, my coach, and my mom, with a goal. I needed something to replace the hate, so I decided to compliment the guy. And that's what I did on his next great save. I said, "Great save!" then skated away. He didn't say anything. He watched me skate ahead like he was trying to figure out what I had just said, like he had misheard me.