Pride

January 5, 2011
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It was one of the greatest moments in my life. I was so proud. I was proud that I fulfilled one of my childhood dreams, which any hockey player might know is a hat trick, or three goals in a game. In fact, I was so proud to what I accomplished, it was a kind of pride that can only be described as the sweet taste of chocolate chip cookies or the intense buzz or a red bull with a numbing coldness. It was anything but a salty bowl of oatmeal with those disgusting raisins mixed in. My pride made me feel like I couldn’t be touched by anyone. As I finally scored my third goal of the game, which was also the game winner, the hockey puck was flying into the net, like my pride flying into the air, which was the only thing I was focused on at West Meadows Ice Arena. And when I scored that goal, my overwhelming pride enveloped the building. My pride was 75 degrees and sunny without a cloud in the sky. My pride was the Empire State building, towering above all beneath me. My pride was an eagle soaring throughout the vast mountaintops in Canada. This pride, which immediately took over my self-control, was a navy blue Ford Mustang, cruising by all the Buicks and Hondas, leaving them in the dust. Songs like “Can’t be touched” and “No way to stop me” was all my pride was about that day at the rink. To put it this way, that kind of intense pride I felt that day was no Disney movie or Barney episode.





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