I vividly remember the first time I ever laid hands on a hockey stick. I was three years old and was happily living with my mom and dad in our house in Syracuse, New York. I remember sitting in the kitchen and hearing my mom start screaming at my dad. My dad seemed like he could not hear her and was walking around the house gathering his things. He put all of his things in a few bags and turned to my mom. “You have ruined the last few years of my life. I am getting out of here before you ruin my whole life.” He then turned to me. “Kid, take this. Maybe you will have more luck with it then I did.” And with that he dropped his favorite hockey stick on the ground in front of me and walked out the front door and out of my life.
I have never seen that bastard since that day but I cannot escape his legacy. My dad, John Koorz, was the best hockey player in the United States at one point in his life. Born with his genes I was destined to play hockey and from the minute I stepped on to the ice I was a star. It didn’t matter how good the competition was, I would rack up the points while leading my team to victory time and time again. I was named the top pro prospect in America in high school and led my team to back to back state championships as a sophomore and junior.
However, my reputation began to catch up to me. All throughout my life I was naturally the best. Sure, I worked hard, but not as hard as my teammates worked. I also couldn’t stand it when someone messed up. I hated it to the point where I would get violent. That’s when it happened. During the 3rd game of my senior year I passed the puck to my center on a 2 on 1 break. I gave it to him in such a perfect position that all he had to do to score was stick his stick out and tap it in. However, the moron couldn’t manage to do that. Somehow he tripped over his stick and went flying forward, costing me my assist. He got up and tried to laugh it off, but I didn’t like that. I told him he better shut his mouth before I got angry. With a grin still on his face, he attempted to explain what happened. I say attempted because as soon as he opened his mouth I punched him in his face. He fell to the ground and I jumped on top of him and just kept pounding away at him. When they finally pulled me off the ice was covered in blood and the kid needed plastic surgery. I was immediately kicked off my high school team and suddenly no scouts wanted anything to do with me.
The day of the NHL draft came and, no surprise, I was not drafted. That really didn’t matter to me; I knew someone with my talent would find his way into the league eventually. All I needed was a chance.
I have never seen that bastard since that day but I cannot escape his legacy. My dad, John Koorz, was the best hockey player in the United States at one point in his life. Born with his genes I was destined to play hockey and from the minute I stepped on to the ice I was a star. It didn’t matter how good the competition was, I would rack up the points while leading my team to victory time and time again. I was named the top pro prospect in America in high school and led my team to back to back state championships as a sophomore and junior.
However, my reputation began to catch up to me. All throughout my life I was naturally the best. Sure, I worked hard, but not as hard as my teammates worked. I also couldn’t stand it when someone messed up. I hated it to the point where I would get violent. That’s when it happened. During the 3rd game of my senior year I passed the puck to my center on a 2 on 1 break. I gave it to him in such a perfect position that all he had to do to score was stick his stick out and tap it in. However, the moron couldn’t manage to do that. Somehow he tripped over his stick and went flying forward, costing me my assist. He got up and tried to laugh it off, but I didn’t like that. I told him he better shut his mouth before I got angry. With a grin still on his face, he attempted to explain what happened. I say attempted because as soon as he opened his mouth I punched him in his face. He fell to the ground and I jumped on top of him and just kept pounding away at him. When they finally pulled me off the ice was covered in blood and the kid needed plastic surgery. I was immediately kicked off my high school team and suddenly no scouts wanted anything to do with me.
The day of the NHL draft came and, no surprise, I was not drafted. That really didn’t matter to me; I knew someone with my talent would find his way into the league eventually. All I needed was a chance.
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