Hey all, after about 4 months or so of a broken xbox 360 and NO NHL 09, I finally decided that the trouble to get it repaired was not worth it, and I went out and bought a new one. As a celebration to that, I immediately popped in my NHL 09 disc, and made a new BAP. I've decided to share it all with you, although I'm not sure how often I'll be able to get out updates. This will be an all text dynasty, seeing as I don't know how to do html or video or whatever, and I'm a pretty decent writer, so I'm going to make this like a story. However, instead of the common BAP, which involves a high-school/college stud teenager rising from the top, whos is polite, energetic, quite good looking, and the definition of cool, i'm going to change it up a bit.
My BAP character is going to be the first ever autistic person in the NHL--and to make matters worse for him, he's going to have to deal with the extreme pressure of being a goalie in one of the world's most crazy hockey cities. Good luck, heh. Anyways, here it is, the updates might get a little long at times.
My father had played hockey since the day he was born, and wished me to play it too. As a little boy, he would take me to Rangers games, since we did live in the nearby town of Mamaroneck, NY. It was a suburban town, yes—but the population was very large. Having roughly 120,000 people, Mamaroneck was big enough to have 4 elementary schools, 2 middle schools, and 1 very large high school.
In about 2nd grade, my parents noticed that my trend of refusing to socialize was becoming a severe problem—they took me to my physician, who referred me to a neurologist. I barely remember that day: all I remember is my mother's tears, my father's grim look, and the doctor giving me various tests, looking at me with his great, big, wise sagging eyes through a neatly trimmed white beard. He peered down at me through his glasses, and asked me, “Mitchell, do you know what autism is?”
At the age of 13 my autism was in full blossom. Thankfully, it wasn't terrible. It wasn't like I talked in a high pitched, candid voice like many of the “********” kids did over in the basement of the middle school. I wasn't amused by Barney or Sesame Street, either. No...I listened to heavy metal, I played videogames, and I had one or two friends.
My social abilities, however, were lackluster. I dreaded being filled in a room with loud, teenage boys and girls. Actually, I dreaded being filled in a room with anybody that I wasn't completely comfortable with.
When high school started, nobody in my town knew me—still. By 11th grade, people referred to me as “that creepo kid”. I was huge, for starters. Standing at a monstruous 6'6”, weighing 205 lbs, I had completed growing, but my hair hadn't. I had long, wavy hair, that went all over my face and covered parts of my upper back. Furthermore, I had quite a beard. I grew it as a commemorative to the doctor who had diagnosed me, although my beard wasn't nearly as neat as his, and it wasn't pearly white, either. When a girl in my school got raped and murdered, and police asked some kids in my school if there was anybody suspicious in the school, everybody pointed to me. I was arrested publicly, and interrogated for 13 straight hours, without a lawyer, about something I didn't even have the first idea about how to do.
I played World Of Warcraft, and listened to Death Metal, and as such, I was defined as a “nerd”. However, nobody—and I mean nobody, could have even guessed about my other side.
I liked hockey. And I loved to write. I would often write fictional stories in my spare time that were similar to Matt Christopher in every way, shape, and form. Except, instead of it being baseball, basketball or football—they were all about an autistic ice hockey goalie who made it the NHL and ended up being the best ever, and won the trust and friendship of all his peers.
Every single day I would go to school—and all the kids in my school couldn't stop raving about the Mamaroneck High Varsity Ice Hockey team.
“Oh my god, can you believe we've won states again?” said one girl who I had never met before to me.
“Err....”
“Whatever, you're a nerd, I wouldn't expect you to know anything about sports, let alone hockey.”
I had wanted to shout out that while the Mamaroneck star varsity goalie was going to DIII club school, I had already met the head coaches at Michigan State, Michigan, Miami (OH), Minnesota, Harvard, Yale, Notre Dame, and North Dakota. They all wanted me, the autistic kid, on their team! Of coure, my 4.0 GPA didn't hurt, either.
I remembered trying out for the Mamaroneck team two years ago, in the beginning of Junior year, when their starting goalie had just graduated. I remember this “star”--he wasn't so good. His positioning was always OFF, his reactions were somewhat slow, and he had a horribly sloppy stance. But I do remember one thing about him that set him and me apart—the way he held himself, the way he spoke, and the way he behaved on and off the ice—he had confidence, and a boatload of it. He couldn't stop a puck for ****, and the best players on Mamaroneck couldn't even get close to getting past me, but that didn't stop the heralded Mamaroneck coach from choosing him over me.
But that wasn't his reason, or so he had claimed. The night after the last day of tryouts, the Coach came over to my house—uninvited--and asked to speak to my parents. I overheard the conversation, or at least bits and pieces of it. There wasn't much that was important, but what was important was rightfully so. Their son had autism, right? He had never seen such a skilled goaltender, and he would be honored to work with me, but I had autism.
The legendary Mamaroneck Ice Hockey program couldn't afford to have their image ruined by having a mentally disabled goaltender on their team. It didn't matter if he started or if he was 4th string—there was no autism in Mamaroneck.
So here I am, the day after graduation—I've got a twisted ankle—the Mamaroneck Hockey team thought it would be a funny idea to spill a bucket of marbles in front of the creepy kid as a graduation celebration, and here I am, writing, in bed, in pain. I just looked at the brochure from Michigan—solid campus—I knew what major I wanted, and they were one of the few schools in America that had it, and they were one of the best ice hockey teams in America. I knew their coach, having worked with him for some years, and he was a nice guy. I put away the brochure, and turned out the light.
My phone rang. Grumbling, I gently hopped onto my good ankle, and turned out of bed. I lightly limped over to my phone, which was conveniently located across the room, and picked up the receiver.
I never liked initiating conversation. That's why I generally just sat back and let the person on the line state their purpose, first. Usually, they paused quite a while, unable to tell if they had gotten disconnected or if I was pulling a joke on them, and then muttered a quiet, “Hello?”
This man was different. He got right to the point.
“Hello, Mitchell. I know all about your autism, and I had been told that you don't like initiate conversation, so I'll do you a favor and get right to the point. My name is Bryan Murray, and I know that you've been taking Michigan University into deep consideration, but I'm here to convince you otherwise. Oh—I'm so sorry, I forgot to finish my introuduction—I'm the General Manager of the Ottawa Senators.”
“I know, Mr. Murray, I saw your coaching talents on full display last year during playoff time.”
Mr. Murray adopted an angry tone in his voice, and said, “Now hold on just one second, I did the best I could! We had **** goaltending and none of my players had any motivation left in them, it wasn't completely my fault!”
I chuckled a little to let him know I was joking.
“Oh—you're joking...didn't think you would, whatwith your condition and everything.”
I didn't care that he was taking a jab at my autism—I was too used to it to even notice, let alone be hurt by it.
“Anyways, Mitchell, we'd be honored and thrilled if you'd play for us this year. Normally we would've taken you through the draft, but I figured that you wouldn't want all of the attention and publicity.”
This was true. One of the reasons that Mitchell had refused to partake in the draft, no matter how much his father pushed him, was because he was afraid of all the attention and nerves that went into the process.
“Mr. Murray, I'm sorry to dissapoint you, but I really don't think that I can take the pressure of the NHL, let alone the AHL or even the ECHL, and I'm not sure I want to go through with this, at least so soon.”
it sounded like Mr. Murray was down on his knees, pleading with the devil for his soul.
“Please, Mitchell, just give it a chance! Tell you what, we'll sign you to a pre-season tryout contract, you'll get a little bit of dough in the process, and--”
“No, I'm not sure if I can play college if I do that—if you're really set on this then I will come, but don't pay me—just pay for the flight and transportation, and a hotel, I'll pay for my meals and I'll call you when I'm settled into my hotel room so we can arrange the finer details.”
“Fine,” Mr. Murray replied. “Jesus Christ, kid. My scouts have been telling me that you're gonna be our team's messiah, are you really that good?”
“I—I don't know, Mr. Murray. I never think so, mainly because of my autism. Part of me thinks that if my confidence was higher, I'd be ten times better. But no matter how much I try, and how good I do, my autisms always makes sure I never get too confident.”
“Trust me, Mitchell. That's a good thing. If you're too confident, it can catch up with you, and your confidence may very well be your downfall. That's what I think happened to my Senators last season. God bless ya kid, wherever you do decide on going. And listen, if you do join us, if you need anything, anything at all, let me know, kid. Whether you need me to pick you up mcdonalds or you've got an angry columnist that you need help with, let me know.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Murray. I'll see you in Ottawa.”
I hung up the phone, and walked over to my bed. The limp was gone. In it's place was a spring in my step. Maybe I need Ottawa as much as they need me, I thought. With that thought, I climbed under the covers, and went to bed.
Well that's just the very very beginning, I'm going to get into the games and whatnot eventually, don't worry. Lifes going to be incredibly hectic this weekend, because I'm very, very sick and am going to the hospital all day tomorrow to get like, 18 CATSCANS and 2 billion blood tests
My BAP character is going to be the first ever autistic person in the NHL--and to make matters worse for him, he's going to have to deal with the extreme pressure of being a goalie in one of the world's most crazy hockey cities. Good luck, heh. Anyways, here it is, the updates might get a little long at times.
My father had played hockey since the day he was born, and wished me to play it too. As a little boy, he would take me to Rangers games, since we did live in the nearby town of Mamaroneck, NY. It was a suburban town, yes—but the population was very large. Having roughly 120,000 people, Mamaroneck was big enough to have 4 elementary schools, 2 middle schools, and 1 very large high school.
In about 2nd grade, my parents noticed that my trend of refusing to socialize was becoming a severe problem—they took me to my physician, who referred me to a neurologist. I barely remember that day: all I remember is my mother's tears, my father's grim look, and the doctor giving me various tests, looking at me with his great, big, wise sagging eyes through a neatly trimmed white beard. He peered down at me through his glasses, and asked me, “Mitchell, do you know what autism is?”
At the age of 13 my autism was in full blossom. Thankfully, it wasn't terrible. It wasn't like I talked in a high pitched, candid voice like many of the “********” kids did over in the basement of the middle school. I wasn't amused by Barney or Sesame Street, either. No...I listened to heavy metal, I played videogames, and I had one or two friends.
My social abilities, however, were lackluster. I dreaded being filled in a room with loud, teenage boys and girls. Actually, I dreaded being filled in a room with anybody that I wasn't completely comfortable with.
When high school started, nobody in my town knew me—still. By 11th grade, people referred to me as “that creepo kid”. I was huge, for starters. Standing at a monstruous 6'6”, weighing 205 lbs, I had completed growing, but my hair hadn't. I had long, wavy hair, that went all over my face and covered parts of my upper back. Furthermore, I had quite a beard. I grew it as a commemorative to the doctor who had diagnosed me, although my beard wasn't nearly as neat as his, and it wasn't pearly white, either. When a girl in my school got raped and murdered, and police asked some kids in my school if there was anybody suspicious in the school, everybody pointed to me. I was arrested publicly, and interrogated for 13 straight hours, without a lawyer, about something I didn't even have the first idea about how to do.
I played World Of Warcraft, and listened to Death Metal, and as such, I was defined as a “nerd”. However, nobody—and I mean nobody, could have even guessed about my other side.
I liked hockey. And I loved to write. I would often write fictional stories in my spare time that were similar to Matt Christopher in every way, shape, and form. Except, instead of it being baseball, basketball or football—they were all about an autistic ice hockey goalie who made it the NHL and ended up being the best ever, and won the trust and friendship of all his peers.
Every single day I would go to school—and all the kids in my school couldn't stop raving about the Mamaroneck High Varsity Ice Hockey team.
“Oh my god, can you believe we've won states again?” said one girl who I had never met before to me.
“Err....”
“Whatever, you're a nerd, I wouldn't expect you to know anything about sports, let alone hockey.”
I had wanted to shout out that while the Mamaroneck star varsity goalie was going to DIII club school, I had already met the head coaches at Michigan State, Michigan, Miami (OH), Minnesota, Harvard, Yale, Notre Dame, and North Dakota. They all wanted me, the autistic kid, on their team! Of coure, my 4.0 GPA didn't hurt, either.
I remembered trying out for the Mamaroneck team two years ago, in the beginning of Junior year, when their starting goalie had just graduated. I remember this “star”--he wasn't so good. His positioning was always OFF, his reactions were somewhat slow, and he had a horribly sloppy stance. But I do remember one thing about him that set him and me apart—the way he held himself, the way he spoke, and the way he behaved on and off the ice—he had confidence, and a boatload of it. He couldn't stop a puck for ****, and the best players on Mamaroneck couldn't even get close to getting past me, but that didn't stop the heralded Mamaroneck coach from choosing him over me.
But that wasn't his reason, or so he had claimed. The night after the last day of tryouts, the Coach came over to my house—uninvited--and asked to speak to my parents. I overheard the conversation, or at least bits and pieces of it. There wasn't much that was important, but what was important was rightfully so. Their son had autism, right? He had never seen such a skilled goaltender, and he would be honored to work with me, but I had autism.
The legendary Mamaroneck Ice Hockey program couldn't afford to have their image ruined by having a mentally disabled goaltender on their team. It didn't matter if he started or if he was 4th string—there was no autism in Mamaroneck.
So here I am, the day after graduation—I've got a twisted ankle—the Mamaroneck Hockey team thought it would be a funny idea to spill a bucket of marbles in front of the creepy kid as a graduation celebration, and here I am, writing, in bed, in pain. I just looked at the brochure from Michigan—solid campus—I knew what major I wanted, and they were one of the few schools in America that had it, and they were one of the best ice hockey teams in America. I knew their coach, having worked with him for some years, and he was a nice guy. I put away the brochure, and turned out the light.
My phone rang. Grumbling, I gently hopped onto my good ankle, and turned out of bed. I lightly limped over to my phone, which was conveniently located across the room, and picked up the receiver.
I never liked initiating conversation. That's why I generally just sat back and let the person on the line state their purpose, first. Usually, they paused quite a while, unable to tell if they had gotten disconnected or if I was pulling a joke on them, and then muttered a quiet, “Hello?”
This man was different. He got right to the point.
“Hello, Mitchell. I know all about your autism, and I had been told that you don't like initiate conversation, so I'll do you a favor and get right to the point. My name is Bryan Murray, and I know that you've been taking Michigan University into deep consideration, but I'm here to convince you otherwise. Oh—I'm so sorry, I forgot to finish my introuduction—I'm the General Manager of the Ottawa Senators.”
“I know, Mr. Murray, I saw your coaching talents on full display last year during playoff time.”
Mr. Murray adopted an angry tone in his voice, and said, “Now hold on just one second, I did the best I could! We had **** goaltending and none of my players had any motivation left in them, it wasn't completely my fault!”
I chuckled a little to let him know I was joking.
“Oh—you're joking...didn't think you would, whatwith your condition and everything.”
I didn't care that he was taking a jab at my autism—I was too used to it to even notice, let alone be hurt by it.
“Anyways, Mitchell, we'd be honored and thrilled if you'd play for us this year. Normally we would've taken you through the draft, but I figured that you wouldn't want all of the attention and publicity.”
This was true. One of the reasons that Mitchell had refused to partake in the draft, no matter how much his father pushed him, was because he was afraid of all the attention and nerves that went into the process.
“Mr. Murray, I'm sorry to dissapoint you, but I really don't think that I can take the pressure of the NHL, let alone the AHL or even the ECHL, and I'm not sure I want to go through with this, at least so soon.”
it sounded like Mr. Murray was down on his knees, pleading with the devil for his soul.
“Please, Mitchell, just give it a chance! Tell you what, we'll sign you to a pre-season tryout contract, you'll get a little bit of dough in the process, and--”
“No, I'm not sure if I can play college if I do that—if you're really set on this then I will come, but don't pay me—just pay for the flight and transportation, and a hotel, I'll pay for my meals and I'll call you when I'm settled into my hotel room so we can arrange the finer details.”
“Fine,” Mr. Murray replied. “Jesus Christ, kid. My scouts have been telling me that you're gonna be our team's messiah, are you really that good?”
“I—I don't know, Mr. Murray. I never think so, mainly because of my autism. Part of me thinks that if my confidence was higher, I'd be ten times better. But no matter how much I try, and how good I do, my autisms always makes sure I never get too confident.”
“Trust me, Mitchell. That's a good thing. If you're too confident, it can catch up with you, and your confidence may very well be your downfall. That's what I think happened to my Senators last season. God bless ya kid, wherever you do decide on going. And listen, if you do join us, if you need anything, anything at all, let me know, kid. Whether you need me to pick you up mcdonalds or you've got an angry columnist that you need help with, let me know.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Murray. I'll see you in Ottawa.”
I hung up the phone, and walked over to my bed. The limp was gone. In it's place was a spring in my step. Maybe I need Ottawa as much as they need me, I thought. With that thought, I climbed under the covers, and went to bed.
Well that's just the very very beginning, I'm going to get into the games and whatnot eventually, don't worry. Lifes going to be incredibly hectic this weekend, because I'm very, very sick and am going to the hospital all day tomorrow to get like, 18 CATSCANS and 2 billion blood tests
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