The Game

   The heart-wrenching cheers of hope were becoming too much to handle. I felt like an ancient, haggard man, the entire nations' dreams of victory weighing down my shoulders. As I frantically skated towards the net, I looked up towards the tsunami of noise. There, in front of me, was a grand mosaic of red and white. I was a single, red leaf in thousands, but I'd never felt so alone. My face was a broken facet, the sticky sweat pouring rhythmically onto my jersey. I wasn't sure if we could win the game, but losing wasn't an option. Suddenly, I was passed the puck. With the game on my stick, I skated towards the frozen tundra of destiny that lied before me. As I my eyes saw the goaltender, auto pilot kicked in. It was as if someone had pressed delete on a computer, my memory wiped. I couldn't remember where I was or who I was, but I knew what I was supposed to do. I was a blank piece of parchment, the crowd writing my story with their continuous chanting. I had no past. I had no future. I was the present, and it was now or never. I shot the puck at the net.