This morning some boys were playing street hockey over at the FAC and the echoed sounds of the sticks cracking on the pavement made me want to skip work and join in. You see, from 1985 to 1990 I was a hockey-aholic. Not only that, I was Great. This is no exaggeration. In fact there has never been another competative activity in which I have participated, other than darts, where I so thoroughly dominated as in hockey. It was a weird, freak talent. Once I had the puck, everyone else lurched clumsily in slow motion. I could maneuver effortlessly around them, fake them out of their skates, and score nearly at will. And my wrist shot? Pinpoint lightning devastation. That was my on-ice nickname: DEVastation. My modus operandi was to introduce myself to the opposing goal tender by sailing a blistering shot at about eye level right past their ear where it would crash loudly against the plexi-glass behind the net. After that, their reactions were a bit hindered. And street hockey? At street hockey I was 50-times better than on ice. I don't mean to sound cocky. It was unreal. I can't explain it. In gym class the team that picked me was the team that won, often by a 20 goal margin. It got so ridiculous I had to play half the game on one team and half on the other to make things fair. Really. The jocks couldn't take it. I was a riddle they couldn't solve. No amount of athleticism could stop me. Hockey is a frustrating sport, especially after you've been burned for the tenth time and it was a common sight to see an angry, red-faced boy tomahawk his useless stick over the fence and into the woods in complete disgust. Those were great times. But what happened? I suddenly stopped. Other than a few pond games I haven't played at all in 15 years. I don't even know where my stick is. All I have is the chip in my front tooth. I miss it terribly.