Of course no one would pick him.
No one really ever had.
No one cared about him; he was just a filthy, dilapidated, and ancient hockey stick.
Even when the rink was filled and every single seat was taken, players never chose him. Ever. They all wanted newer and shinier sticks. Something that wouldn’t “dirty” their hands.
Sure, his lining was ripped, his wood had darkened with dirt, and he was a bit patchy at the ends, but he wasn’t any less effective. He was definitely as capable of scoring goals as the other hockey sticks.
Right?
After all, he had been crisp, glimmering, and bright once. He had scored many winning shots in his lengthy years.
But people always disregarded him.
Always.
* * *
It was a lighthearted, relaxed afternoon. The sky was a placid, tranquil oasis, and the sun a breezy daffodil that bestowed warmth on its children, making the flowers sprout and the bees buzz.
John, a six year old, arrived at the quaint rink that very day for his first ever hockey lesson. He hid behind his mother’s skirt, intimidated by the public swarming, seething around him.
“Go on, honey,” his mother whispered. She had been longing for this moment, waiting for years and years- even before her son was born. “Choose a stick while I find your instructor.”
His mom left, and John suddenly felt frightened, alone, deserted. He craned his neck to find her, but he couldn’t. She was camouflaged by the crowd. All he could see were parents fussing over their children, tightening uniforms and polishing equipment. Most of them were fathers.
Where was his dad?
The boy walked towards the sticks timidly. He surveyed the ones in the front, but he stashed them all aside. Even the brand new ones.
At last, he reached the back of the stack.
He calmly and quietly walked away with the ragged one of wood.

***

The stick was overjoyed.
No, no- he was ecstatic.
He hadn’t felt the cool, chilling breeze of the players whizzing by, the gentle, appealing click of the puck against his skin, the gloved hands on his top, and the whoosh of the shredded ice in what seemed like an eternity. It was enthralling to finally be back on the rink. It was where he truly belonged.
And it was all because of a six year old.
The universe had finally bestowed its blessings on him.

***
“I think I’m gonna call him Johnny, Mama! He’s brown, and he’s kind of ripped, and there’s the word “Lion” on the side!” exclaimed the excited little boy. He was, of course, talking about the stick, whose new name was “Johnny.” Whenever he entered the rink for his lesson, his vision would tunnel and he’d dash right towards that stick in the heap.
Yes, the one with the tattered edges.
For some reason, John felt connected to the stick. Like it was family.
What was so unique about it?
“Alright, dear,” murmured his mother absentmindedly, perched on a chair; children at his age were known to have countless imaginary friends and peculiar interests. Parents only had to sit and pretend to listen with the occasional nod and “That’s great!” while they worked on a crossword or read a magazine.
But she wasn’t doing either. Her forehead was creased and her eyes became cloudy as her fingers brushed over a picture of a man who had the same eyes as her son. He was in a bulky hockey uniform, and a trophy could be seen in his right hand. In his left was a gleaming stick with the word “Lion” on the side. A small tear dropped from her cheek.

***
It was a frigid, yet festive, December morning. Snowflakes sprinkled the air like leaves on blossoming trees, holiday decorations adorned every doorstep, ravishing scarlet and refreshing emerald against the frosty backdrop. Every breath transformed into mist, and the captivating scent of bubbling hot chocolate wafted beneath apathetic, stuffy nostrils, fragrancing the flurries of snow.
Months had passed since John’s first hockey lesson, and he had improved quite a bit since then. He claimed that his success was due to the stick.
For the moment his little, nimble fingers touched the aged wood of the stick, they prickled with warmth; they were like the peanut butter to the stick’s jelly, or the yin to the other’s yang. Everything came naturally.
And if only the stick could respond, he would have agreed.
* * *
It was midnight.
A stick tumbled onto the floor from behind the stack, clattering loud enough to conceive the exhausted janitor’s attention.
“These people are gonna drive me nuts one day. They can’t even keep their stuff right,” muttered the man with the straggly beard, traipsing over, reeking of the rotten toilets he had to scrub every day. “Why do sports even matter to these people?”
Just as he was about to throw it back in the stack, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the word “Lion” etched on its side.
About ten years back, he had seen that very object in a newspaper. It had been about Jonathan “Johnny” Hughes, a legend in ice hockey. The athlete had died four years back, but the people of his nation worshipped him- which meant that his possessions were worth a fortune.
I’m gonna be rich! the janitor noted with a sly, smug smile. And who even cares if the dealer shreds the stick? I’m gonna be the one with all of the hard cash.
He cackled maliciously, zipped up his jacket, and didn’t even bother to finish his tasks.
Besides, who really cares about some old hockey stick? No one will even notice if it’s gone.

* * *
“I won’t I won’t I won’t!!” shouted John. He had been screaming all morning.
His mother was flustered; her son never acted like this.
“John, honey, why don’t you want to go to your hockey class today?” she asked him gently, once he had calmed down.
“Johnny’s not there! He wasn’t there yesterday or the day before! I can’t play without him,” he finished, his voice a weak whisper.
“Who’s Johnny?” his mother asked, immediately. Her heart was racing; she used to call her husband Johnny. But how could her son know about him? She had never even mentioned his father because his tender mind didn’t have the capacity.
“Who’s Johnny?” she repeated, this time more fiercely. Her fingers curled around his shoulders, and she bent down so their eyes were at the same level.
“He was the stick I used to play with in class,” John said as he looked down at his feet. “He was wooden, black at the ends, the word “Lion” was painted on his edge, there-”
His mother’s eyes widened at “Lion”.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
He nodded innocently.
“Sit down,” sighed Mrs. Hughes; she couldn’t keep the truth from her son forever. “I think it’s time I tell you some things.”

***
That smelly bag was a prison for poor old Johnny.
Every single step the thug took jostled him around mercilessly in the bag. Johnny wanted to scream out of frustration and yelp with fright. Why was he always hurt or forgotten?
Why was the universe always so intent upon snatching his pleasure?
He wanted to kick and scream and shout and cry and punch.
He wanted to go back to John, who had treated him so well.
He wanted… to be content.
But he couldn’t.
I am incarcerated.

***
By morning, everyone wanted to touch, see, or hold the dirty, dilapidated stick of the legendary Jonathan Hughes.
This is what they call an “overnight Internet sensation”.
At around 11:43 the previous night, David Hawkes, a senior citizen who lived by the rink, saw the greedy janitor in the parking lot. In the darkness, the stolen property appeared to be a weapon. Alarmed, he immediately phoned the authorities. The police tracked the thug down three days later at a diner (stealing did make a man hungry) and they arrested him once they figured out the exact value of the property in his hands, which had, thankfully, not reached the hands of a dealer yet.
There was a huge commotion at the rink; people (patriots, policemen, and hockey players alike) were lined up outside to buy the prized equipment that had brought their country glory.
But the stick ended up in John’s hands after much debate, and dejected fans left.
They finally understood the bond that they shared.

***
Whenever she saw her son whizzing by on the ice, gliding with bewildering ease, Mrs. Hughes always sensed a bit of her husband in him, for they were both extremely agile, ambitious, and alert. However, his stick was the factor that constantly reminded her of his father.
Seventeen years had passed since John had started playing ice hockey, and in the process, he had become a professional. Even now, he refused to participate in any competition without his tattered and faded Johnny.
Whenever his team won, every newspaper in the region was headlined with photographs of John and his steadfast stick- whom now nobody could ignore.