I was dreaming of a frog. It was green and plump and lived under a patch of moss, deep inside the stump of an old birch tree in some ancient forest. Somehow I was inside of the stump and I spoke to the frog in deep gurgled groans and burps. The frog nodded as the sounds came out of my mouth and when it was his turn to reply, he slowly morphed into a vibrant green neon grasshopper with saw-toothed legs that twitched and vibrated and made the strangest high-pitched sound. I leaned my ear close to the massive insect to try and understand, but couldn't. It's leg twitched again and made the noise. The grasshopper's hinged leg now morphed into a golden water pump at a campground that I had been to once before, perhaps as a child. As the hinge pumped faster, so too, that sound became more and more intense, emanating as a screeching wail from mysterious depths of soil and shale.
That is when I shot back into the waking world, with drool dripping down my chin and thick crust scratching the corners of my eyes. My cell phone was blinking red warning LEDs of missed calls.
Three of them, all from my agent.
My agent? Why would he be calling at 7 in the morning, especially on a game day. I had at least another hour of sleep before my alarm, and the start my game day routine, the bus trip to Toledo, and the usual preparations of life on the road.
Then the thought flashed. Could this be it?
I checked the voicemails.
“Bobby, looks like you've been called up by the Providence Bruins. Call me as soon as you can so we can arrange the travel details. They want you to play in Portland tomorrow night.”
I started sweating. So many thoughts. So this was it, this is what I worked so hard for. This was years in the making. This was unheard of. I was 30 years old. Could I keep up with the new crop of young bucks? Yes, I can. I can, I will. How is this going to work. I'm in Chicago, in bed. We play tonight in Toledo. How am I going to get to Maine? And what the hell do I pack?
It's December 27, 2011. This is my sacred Christmas gift, and I have to make the most of it. This time will be different. I got the call almost four years ago, and I let it slip away, right through my fingers. I didn't do enough to stay, I didn't do anything. But that was so long ago. I was a different person then. I was a different hockey player. This is the new version of me, and this is my unveiling. And I will make an impact.
I wish I would have known about this two days ago, as I picture myself at the Christmas party at Doll's aunt's house across from Lambeau Field, back home in Wiscconsin. And there was me in front of the table, free-wheeling my way around the buffet and filling up my plate with venison sausage, beer-battered bratwursts, cookies, cakes, and cherry port.
I couldn't think of those things now. I had one hour to pack before the bus left for the game in Toledo. They said to pack for one week, so I brought a suit, a pair of jeans, three T-shirts, a few pairs of socks, and a few pairs of underwear.
The bus trip to Toledo was normal, a five hour cruise across the Mid-West, with a stop at Olive Garden for an Italian feast to load up for the big game. I didn't tell anyone the news. The only people who knew were my coach and me. I felt the prickling sensation of keeping a heavy secret or telling a slippery lie. After the first couple hours of the trip, I pushed those thoughts to the side and focused on the game in Toledo.
From the drop of the puck, I felt an extra jump in my step. I finished some big hits and played with an edge. I would need this edge tomorrow when I step on the ice with the big boys of the American League. I knew that it would be a big jump from the East Coast Hockey League. I had made the jump before. Up there, every is bigger, stronger, and faster. Also: meaner, tougher, and hungrier. I knew I had to be ready. I was ready. I was bigger, stronger, faster, meaner, tougher, and more hungry than I had ever been in my entire life.
We lost the game in Toledo and then the cat was out of the bag as my teammates found out the news. The bus dropped me off at the Park Hotel in downtown Toledo, and drove away, two red dots in the evening mist. It was only me now. Me and my adventure, my mission.
I checked into the hotel, and headed to my room. Now it was silent. The deafening sound of a stale hotel room. So now it was time for phone calls and congratulations, and after an hour, it was only me again. Me and my thoughts, living thoughts, breathing thoughts.
I managed to get a good night sleep. I must have been exhausted from the bus trip, the game, and all the commotion. The last thing I saw before my eyes melted shut was the green glow from the lights of the minor league baseball field, the home of the Toledo Mudhens, and I was quickly subdued by that florescent lulliby.
I sprung out of bed.
I didn't quite feel real, but reality quickly sets in when it is six in the morning and you have a one hour taxi ride to Detroit, where you will catch an early morning flight into Providence, meet the team for the first time in the afternoon, board a bus and drive four hours up to Maine to play against Portland.
There are some games where you try and try your hardest to make something happen out there, and the harder you try, the worse it gets. Other times, everything clicks into place in congruent benevolence, and it's almost as if fate takes over, whatever is meant to happen, happens. Those rare games are nothing short of magic.
All I know is that on my first shift with the Providence Bruins, something happened that defined the entire rest of the season for me. Sometimes the hardest thing to do when you get called up is to make a difference out on the ice, to be an impact player. You are trying so hard to get noticed and stand out, that you end up careening all over the ice, doing a whole lot of nothing out there. It's such a fine line because there is so much to prove, and not much time to prove it. Often times, a call up to the American Leauge will only be for one game. One game to try and show your worth. And often times, you don't get much playing time when you first get called up. I guess all you can do is hope that opportunity will present itself and that you will react accordingly, based on the time and practice that you have dedicated to this gorgeous sport of ours.
Almost six years ago, in my rookie year with the Binghamton Senators, my coach asked me what kind of player I thought I was, or who I wanted to model my game after. I said that I saw myself as a Ryan Hollweg. I had watched him closely for the past year when he played for the Rangers, and loved the way he played. He played with reckless abandon. He was a warrior, laying massive hits, and fighting Colton Orr in those epic battles they had. He was my favorite player.
And then there he was, lined up against me at the face off dot during my first shift, first game, first call up in years.
The dialogue ran through my head. I figured I should probably fight him. But I didn't want to fight my first shift, I didn't want to be a one-dimensional goon. I wanted to show Providence that I could play, that I could play the game and be a force to be reckoned with, and when it comes time to throw bones at my opponent, I would do it, and throw as hard as I could.
So I brought my gaze to the faceoff dot, and saw the lineman hovering the puck between two eager centers.
Crack!
The smooth face of the puck hit square onto the ice and ignited a frenzy of armor-clad warriors chasing that rubber disk.
Then it happened. At the exact moment that I turned toward the boards in the neutral zone, Ryan Hollweg picked up a suicide pass from his left defensemen, and as he lowered his head and turned back to receive the pass, I drove my body through his, laying him out.
As I skated into our defensive zone to get to my breakout position on the half wall, I heard someone yell my name.
Fight time.
After any big hit, after any hit, it could very well be fight time. And after every hit, something happens in my body. I'm ready for it. My body and mind accept it completely. It is almost a calm moment. This hit happens, BOOM! Then everything slows down, and I say to myself, “yup”, and I await my challenger.
This time it was him. It was Ryan Hollweg. His helmet and gloves were off, granite eyes piercing through wild flowing hair and thickets of beard. His fists were up and so were mine.
Three of them, all from my agent.
My agent? Why would he be calling at 7 in the morning, especially on a game day. I had at least another hour of sleep before my alarm, and the start my game day routine, the bus trip to Toledo, and the usual preparations of life on the road.
Then the thought flashed. Could this be it?
I checked the voicemails.
“Bobby, looks like you've been called up by the Providence Bruins. Call me as soon as you can so we can arrange the travel details. They want you to play in Portland tomorrow night.”
I started sweating. So many thoughts. So this was it, this is what I worked so hard for. This was years in the making. This was unheard of. I was 30 years old. Could I keep up with the new crop of young bucks? Yes, I can. I can, I will. How is this going to work. I'm in Chicago, in bed. We play tonight in Toledo. How am I going to get to Maine? And what the hell do I pack?
It's December 27, 2011. This is my sacred Christmas gift, and I have to make the most of it. This time will be different. I got the call almost four years ago, and I let it slip away, right through my fingers. I didn't do enough to stay, I didn't do anything. But that was so long ago. I was a different person then. I was a different hockey player. This is the new version of me, and this is my unveiling. And I will make an impact.
I wish I would have known about this two days ago, as I picture myself at the Christmas party at Doll's aunt's house across from Lambeau Field, back home in Wiscconsin. And there was me in front of the table, free-wheeling my way around the buffet and filling up my plate with venison sausage, beer-battered bratwursts, cookies, cakes, and cherry port.
I couldn't think of those things now. I had one hour to pack before the bus left for the game in Toledo. They said to pack for one week, so I brought a suit, a pair of jeans, three T-shirts, a few pairs of socks, and a few pairs of underwear.
The bus trip to Toledo was normal, a five hour cruise across the Mid-West, with a stop at Olive Garden for an Italian feast to load up for the big game. I didn't tell anyone the news. The only people who knew were my coach and me. I felt the prickling sensation of keeping a heavy secret or telling a slippery lie. After the first couple hours of the trip, I pushed those thoughts to the side and focused on the game in Toledo.
From the drop of the puck, I felt an extra jump in my step. I finished some big hits and played with an edge. I would need this edge tomorrow when I step on the ice with the big boys of the American League. I knew that it would be a big jump from the East Coast Hockey League. I had made the jump before. Up there, every is bigger, stronger, and faster. Also: meaner, tougher, and hungrier. I knew I had to be ready. I was ready. I was bigger, stronger, faster, meaner, tougher, and more hungry than I had ever been in my entire life.
We lost the game in Toledo and then the cat was out of the bag as my teammates found out the news. The bus dropped me off at the Park Hotel in downtown Toledo, and drove away, two red dots in the evening mist. It was only me now. Me and my adventure, my mission.
I checked into the hotel, and headed to my room. Now it was silent. The deafening sound of a stale hotel room. So now it was time for phone calls and congratulations, and after an hour, it was only me again. Me and my thoughts, living thoughts, breathing thoughts.
I managed to get a good night sleep. I must have been exhausted from the bus trip, the game, and all the commotion. The last thing I saw before my eyes melted shut was the green glow from the lights of the minor league baseball field, the home of the Toledo Mudhens, and I was quickly subdued by that florescent lulliby.
I sprung out of bed.
I didn't quite feel real, but reality quickly sets in when it is six in the morning and you have a one hour taxi ride to Detroit, where you will catch an early morning flight into Providence, meet the team for the first time in the afternoon, board a bus and drive four hours up to Maine to play against Portland.
There are some games where you try and try your hardest to make something happen out there, and the harder you try, the worse it gets. Other times, everything clicks into place in congruent benevolence, and it's almost as if fate takes over, whatever is meant to happen, happens. Those rare games are nothing short of magic.
All I know is that on my first shift with the Providence Bruins, something happened that defined the entire rest of the season for me. Sometimes the hardest thing to do when you get called up is to make a difference out on the ice, to be an impact player. You are trying so hard to get noticed and stand out, that you end up careening all over the ice, doing a whole lot of nothing out there. It's such a fine line because there is so much to prove, and not much time to prove it. Often times, a call up to the American Leauge will only be for one game. One game to try and show your worth. And often times, you don't get much playing time when you first get called up. I guess all you can do is hope that opportunity will present itself and that you will react accordingly, based on the time and practice that you have dedicated to this gorgeous sport of ours.
Almost six years ago, in my rookie year with the Binghamton Senators, my coach asked me what kind of player I thought I was, or who I wanted to model my game after. I said that I saw myself as a Ryan Hollweg. I had watched him closely for the past year when he played for the Rangers, and loved the way he played. He played with reckless abandon. He was a warrior, laying massive hits, and fighting Colton Orr in those epic battles they had. He was my favorite player.
And then there he was, lined up against me at the face off dot during my first shift, first game, first call up in years.
The dialogue ran through my head. I figured I should probably fight him. But I didn't want to fight my first shift, I didn't want to be a one-dimensional goon. I wanted to show Providence that I could play, that I could play the game and be a force to be reckoned with, and when it comes time to throw bones at my opponent, I would do it, and throw as hard as I could.
So I brought my gaze to the faceoff dot, and saw the lineman hovering the puck between two eager centers.
Crack!
The smooth face of the puck hit square onto the ice and ignited a frenzy of armor-clad warriors chasing that rubber disk.
Then it happened. At the exact moment that I turned toward the boards in the neutral zone, Ryan Hollweg picked up a suicide pass from his left defensemen, and as he lowered his head and turned back to receive the pass, I drove my body through his, laying him out.
As I skated into our defensive zone to get to my breakout position on the half wall, I heard someone yell my name.
Fight time.
After any big hit, after any hit, it could very well be fight time. And after every hit, something happens in my body. I'm ready for it. My body and mind accept it completely. It is almost a calm moment. This hit happens, BOOM! Then everything slows down, and I say to myself, “yup”, and I await my challenger.
This time it was him. It was Ryan Hollweg. His helmet and gloves were off, granite eyes piercing through wild flowing hair and thickets of beard. His fists were up and so were mine.
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