4. Matt
MATT
Ionly have two hours before I have to leave for the arena, and I still haven’t finished my prep for game day.
Days leading up to a game, I dig deep into our opposing team, dissecting every single player’s game—from their shots to their speed.
I like to be as prepared as possible when I’m in the net.
I used to do this part at the arena, but then I remembered I have free will and more money than I know what to do with. Now my living room has a gigantic ninety-six-inch-by-forty-eight-inch whiteboard on wheels.
Grabbing my dry erase markers from the cup on my end table, I walk over to the giant whiteboard, my eyes drifting over everything I’ve already drilled into my head before I erase it to start again.
I memorize my opponents’ stats, their favored shots, their plays, their best and worst lines, from top to bottom.
“Ninety-one is going to be my biggest challenger. He got nine goals in the last six games, with four assists,” I whisper to myself, writing his number and name out on the board.
“He loves going five-holes on breakaways. His last four goals were all scored through the five-hole. But he also has a great slap shot a good distance out from the net that I’ll have to look out for too. ”
But it’s not to say that if ninety-one is off the ice, the net will be easy to defend. Not a chance. The Eagles are stacked with talent.
From memory, I continue on to the next player. “Eighty-seven, forward. Twelve goals in the last fourteen games and six assists. On a hot streak. Shoots all over the place, which means he’s just looking for whatever’s open.”
Number eleven … seventy-two … forty-eight …
I continue to run through the players in my mind, translating my running thoughts to notes on my board. I don’t think I necessarily need to write it out, but it helps my mind stay organized.
By the time I’m done with my routine deep dive, I cap my marker and drop it in the cup, looking back at my board with pride. It’ll stay like that until after the game because when I get home, I’ll be comparing tonight’s experience to the predictions. I usually come pretty damn close.
Am I too obsessive? Probably. But that’s what a winner does, and we’re going to win it all this year. Whatever it fucking takes.
Walking into my bedroom down the hall, I grab my phone, which I kept in here so as not to distract me, and I find a few new tags on social media, a few messages on Raya, and a text from my mom, which I immediately click into.
Mom: Your dad and I will be cheering you on tonight!
My jaw clenches, stopping the emotion that’s trying to bubble up. I quickly answer, my mind dissociating further and further from the thought of my dad’s diagnosis with every second.
I couldn’t do it without you both! <3
I love them so damn much, and knowing that my dad is slowly disappearing in front of our eyes makes me want to curl in a ball and never get up.
He has Alzheimer’s disease and I wish more than anything that I could stop the progression of his deterioration. Losing him is eating me alive, tearing everything up inside and leaving without hesitation, only to return until I stumble to my knees, weakened.
Closing out of my Messages app, I swallow hard and take a slow, shaky breath, stopping myself from doing anything other than focusing on hockey. That’s how I keep everything under control. It’s worked this far.
I open my Instagram, finding my tags in my profile and tapping on the first one. This is what I need—a little boost from the media and fans to get me back in the right headspace.
MacArthur in the net tonight. Eagles don’t stand a chance with Big Mac in the house.
My shoulders lift, and my lungs eagerly fill with air as a smile takes over my face. I can’t like the post yet—that’s gotta be a form of jinxing, and I refuse to mess with the jinx god. But I save the post and continue on to the next.
MacArthur may be the best asset the Nighthawks have.
I repeat the same steps before moving on to the next.
Big Mac is my favorite player! I can’t wait to watch him in person tonight! Go, Mac! Go!
Will Big Mac hold off the Eagles, denying them entry into the playoffs? Tune in at seven.
Yes, I fucking will. Thank you so much.
Adrenaline lights the match deep in my soul as I lock my phone and slide it into my slacks pocket.
I’ve got this. We, the Nighthawks, have got this.
Grabbing my suit jacket from my bed, I pull it on, feeling my body center and enter a sort of Zen that I always find pregame. It won’t be until I step on the ice that I come out of this. From this point forward, I’m blocking everything out.