Taking the Helm -- The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

[shinderhizzle84]

hey everyone. with the recent talks of NHL 10, and me maybe not buying it, I've decided to go ahead and write up the beginning of my next BAP. I don't know how much I'll be able to update it, but then again, I said the same thing about Mikko in the beginning. If you're new here, I seriously suggest you give him a read by searching in the OS search function "Mikko Lehtinen" without the quotation marks. I don't know what game this will be played on. whether it's on EHM, NHL 09 or NHL 2010, I will do my best to make a BAP on here once again.

I'm just getting the writing out of the way, first.

Well, here goes:

March 5th 1998 was the hardest day in my life I've ever lived through.

I was a senior in high school. Off to bigger, better, and more bad *** things. All of my friends were getting scholarships for their chosen sport, or going to top-notch universities.

And as I pulled into the rink's parking lot with my used 1991 Honda Accord, I couldn't help but wonder where I was going.

Certainly not to university. Certainly not to a top-notch ice hockey program.

At my 18th birthday party, one of my lifelong friends, Ed, who will be attending Brown university next year, said to me, "Congratulations, Phil. You're now legally old enough to pump gas!"

At the time I smiled and gave him a high five, but every time I thought about Ed going to university next year, I got chills at the bottom of my stomach, because I remembered his comment.

To him, it had been a joke. Easy for him to laugh at--he was going to an Ivy league school! Yet where was I going?

Citgo and Shell university? Was I going to graduate cum laude?

I yanked my wooden stick out from the backseat, then went around to the trunk, which I opened to reveal my babies.

My parents had bought me one last present for their "boy"--a brand new set of shining Heaton leg pads--the very same sported by the classy Martin Brodeur.

"Happy birthday," my mother had said when I had unwrapped them.

"From now on, it's office supplies!" my father had joked.

Office? Everything about success in this world of business came to haunt me in the end, didn't it?

Nobody seemed to get it. Nobody really understood how I went to bed each night, thoughts racing through my mind. High school graduation was still a good three months away, yet most of my fellow graduates had already heard back from their school of choice by now.

I was doomed.

I sighed, and, throwing my new babies over the back of my shoulder, I heaved my bag onto the other shoulder, and made my way into the rink.







Thirty minutes later I'm fully geared up and standing right by the door that separates our locker room with the ice. We're the away team tonight, and our school lies a good couple hundred miles south of where we're playing right now. Hockey's all the rage in our little New York suburban town. Our rink's legal capacity is just over 200 people, yet that doesn't stop our town from coming out in the thousands every single night.

I never doubted for a single minute that our faithful fans would let a couple hundred miles disallow them from seeing this game. Here they are, packed in the thousands in the large arena. This arena is a state-of-the-art deal, and can hold many thousands.

Most of the colors worn by people in the bleachers is that of our school--white, kelly green, and jet black. We're the Green Machine. Not the classiest title, but it helps set up some awesome crowd chants. Seriously, how can you not like the name?

Our captain, Brandon Appleby, is right behind me. Brandon's been a lifelong friend of mine, and I don't think I remember playing a hockey game without him on the ice with me.

We've led an underdog story the entire way through. We came from a section of the state that's always been viewed as the least talented section in the state, and we came from the lowest division within that section.

We managed to plow by team after team after team. Injuries didn't plague us, and nothing could stop the Green Machine. Pretty soon, other team's faces would turn green with nervous nausea when they found out they had to play us.

Not this team. This team's been the state champions for 27 years straight.

Keep in mind this isn't a private school league. There is no such thing as scholarships, and no family in their right mind is going to move their entire household to another town just so their kid has a shot at playing with a great varsity team.

This is all homegrown talent. For 27 years straight. This team has learned to skate together. They've grown up together--they're basically brothers, for god's sake.

I shift my head around slightly to the right, and give a slight nod to Brandon, and he smiles.

"Let's get them tonight, Philly," he says. "The crowds depending on it."

"This might be our last game together, eh?" I ask him somberly.

He shakes his head, as if in disbelief, and says, "Let's put on a hell of a last show, man."

The music begins to play. The crowd begins to roar. We start our chanting, as we do every game.

A lot of the other teams in the league think we look silly. We chant old battle songs some nerd in our school found for us in his obsession with viking lore.

Did I mention he's going to the University of Chicago for economics?

We march--no--stomp our way out to the ice, and I take my first step onto the ice that would forever become a hallowed ground to me.

[bashbros30]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

wow man. wow.

Awesome... As per usual

[FlyersFan30]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

I really like it

[shinderhizzle84]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

It's 3-2. We're done for, is all I can think.

We're losing--badly.

"Time out, Green Machine," the announcer says from his booth. This really was a cool rink.

The majority of the crowd--our fans--are biting their nails and praying to God.

Whatever's left are cheering their heads off, taunting us and calling out some of our individual players.

"Hey Gomez, go back to Mexico, or mow my lawn!" A fan yells.

I've been jabbed at a few times for my Spanish heritage, but that one set a new standard.

I'm at the bench, listening to the coach.

Brandon is still sitting in the penalty box, although he's done nothing wrong.

His gear has been taken off in favor of a Green and black windbreaker and khaki pants, and he still has his black and green-caged helmet on.

Around his left knee is a brace, and underneath his left armpit is a crutch.

He had shattered his knee on a dirty hit in the second period. These tough mother****ers were just too much for us.

I grabbed a sip of water before heading back to my crease.

"It's do or die," I thought grimly, re-donning my mask.

The faceoff would be in the opposing zone.

I looked up at the clock display that hung from the roof, directly over center ice.

24.2 was the seconds remaining left in the period.

3rd period, that is.

The opposing center won the draw back to his defenseman behind him, and that d-man cycled the puck behind the net and around the boards to the winger, who was already streaking halfway across his own blue line, past my defender.

**** I thought, coming out as far as I could to play off the angle.

We were all alone now, just me and him, and I stared him down as best as I could while keeping my focus on the puck.

19.7.

He cut out from the sideboards now, dashing more towards the low slot.

I shuffled across the crease, but got unlucky. The toe strap from my new pads had come loose, and I tripped on it, falling to the ice with a THUD!

The shooter had a wide open net, now. And it had been my pad's fault.

I sprawled my arms out, but it was no use.

I swear I saw him grin before he took a shot at the empty net.

That's when I realized I was still holding onto my stick.

In a move of desperation, I lifted my torso slightly off of the ice to give my toss more power, and threw the blade directly into the air, paddle first.

CRACK!

The puck met wood, shattered the stick into many fractured pieces, and skipped it's way into the corner, and over the glass, out of play.

14.3

The crowd went berserk.

"GREEN MACHINE, GREEN MACHINE!" Was the chant that rose from the stands, and I grinned as a few of my teammates came out from the bench on a line change and gave me some hugs.

Everbody on the bench was standing and cheering and jumping, save Brandon, who just wore this unbelieving, somewhat disgusted look on his face, as if to say Jesus Christ, not again.

I knelt down and quickly fixed my toestrap, tucking it into the tongue of my skate.

One of my teammates coming from the bench had brought me a new stick, and I examined it before getting in my stance to take the upcoming faceoff.

Our center won the draw this time, and we mimicked the exact same play that the opposing team had attempted, whisking the puck behind the net and around the boards to our right winger, who gathered the puck just as he crossed our own blue line.

Their defense never even had a chance, and pretty soon, it was just our guy and their goalie.

10.6

Our guy cut across towards the slot, just as their winger had against me, and the goalie slid across to keep himself angled with the puck.

Only he overestimated our winger's speed, and shuffled way out of the crease.

Our shooter had an open net!

7.1

I lifted my arms before the puck hit the twine, but I knew there was no way their goalie was going to pull off anything like I did.

"YEAAAH!" I screamed, and soon my cheer was enveloped by the screams, cries, and shouts of over two-thousand high school students rooting for the "Green Machine".

Our band began to play our fight song, and people hugged and danced and chanted. Our bench was just as ecstatic, with teammates hugging each other and giving each other pats everywhere on the upper body. We were all jumping up and down like children, and who could blame us, for we had new life, and more gas to fuel the Green Machine.

[bashbros30]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

lets go! Green Machine! lets go!

[shinderhizzle84]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

"1 minute left to go in the overtime period," the PA announcer said, once more from his booth.

Nobody cheered this time. We were dead tired, yet it seemed as if they could just go on forever.

When one man left the ice exhausted, another, seemingly bigger skater replaced him, fresh with new life and energy to bring to his team.

We had barely hung in there, being heavily outshot 24-6.

I was knelt over in my crease as play in the other end commenced. We had finally gotten a good offensive possession, and it already seemed as if our players were ready to get off the ice.

I looked up at the clock once again, and was about to check the time when I heard a series of Oooh's come from the audience.

There biggest defenseman had laid a bone crushing hit along the boards on the guy who had scored the game tying goal for us against the boards, and although he appeared to OK, he had given up possession, and the other team was already halfway up the ice, towering over our unsuspecting defense.

Pretty soon the play had transfigured into a 2-on-1.

I came out as far as I could.

"You take the pass!" I yelled to my defender.

He obliged, moving over to his right to cover the man without the puck.

It was the right move to make. Every goalie and defenseman is taught since they are very little that on a 2-on-1 scenario, the defenseman has to cover the pass, so the goalie doesn't have to worry about a one-timer.

I shuffled slightly more to the left to cover the shooter a bit better.

The shooter began smiling as he came barreling down on me, and I began to feel a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach as he looked down at the puck once more and fired it well past my blocker and into the near-empty net.

I had moved a good foot over too much, and my error had cost us the game.

No....

I knelt down in the butterfly, throwing my hands up in the air as if to question God's will on this match.

"WOOOHOOOOO!" The player shouted, as he skated around my net and went back towards his own end of the ice, where the rest of his team had pinned their goalie against the glass in the corner, and they had been celebrating.

The fans remained silent as they accepted their defeat in it's totality, and not a finger twitched on the bench. Players looked down grimly, and the remaining players on the ice had taken one knee down, looking remorseful and physically upset.

I didn't take it so easily.

I leaned my head against the ice in front of my legs and began to cry.

I didn't care that I was eighteen years old.

I didn't care that my parents were there.

I didn't care that my girlfriend, Sarah, was watching her all-state hockey playing boyfriend crying his eyes out like a little boy.

I didn't care that three-thousand members of my school were watching me slowly die inside.

And I just lay there for quite some time, crying in a near fetal position on the ice.

The sounds of the other team's celebration drowned out everything else in my ears.

I could hear each and every one of them, everything they were saying. I could hear them laughing, embracing each other, yelling each other's nicknames in pure joy.

It was over.

Finally, the celebrations died down, and so did my tears, for I knew I had to go through the painful ordeal that was the ceremonial handshakes.

I led my team through the handshakes first, for I was the goalie, and dropped my blocker and glove and helmet so I could properly congratulate the winning team.

Those handshakes were the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my entire life.

"Good game, Good Game, Good game," I said to every team member who had beaten me, shaking their hand, clasping them on the back.

"Good game, good game, goo--" That last one rolled up down my throat, and I closed my mouth as if I was about to vomit. I couldn't continue on, I felt.

These might be my last ever handshakes in a competitive hockey game, I thought, and I knew that If I opened my mouth one more time, even to say "good game", the tears would flow freely once again. I couldn't let that happen, especially not when I was so near the other team.

I simply half-smiled and handshaked my way through the rest of the line, until I finally made it to the coaches, and was finally done.

I skated back around to gather my stuff, and headed back off of the ice in despair.

In the locker room, not a soul spoke.

And nobody dared look me in the eye.

Like I said, I think I may have died inside.

[Pink Mist]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

Tough loss.

[bashbros30]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

awwwwww poor you.

i swear every time you write you get better and better

[bluejacketsfan]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

this is getting interesting.

[shinderhizzle84]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

July 5th, 2008:

I've had those nightmares again.

I get out of bed, feeling around in the dark for some sort of light to guide me to the bathroom.

God, how I could use a drink.

I continue to search for the light, and it comes as a surprise to me when Sarah turns our bedroom light on for me.

"Honey?" she asks worriedly. Yeah, that's right. I married my high school sweetheart. I know I should be considered a lucky man, but truthfully, I feel bad for her. She's such a great woman, with such a kind heart and a gorgeous body, even after having two kids. Yet she could have done so much better than me.

I'm nothing, by the way. She's a lawyer in New York City--some big firm that I don't even know the name of.

I went to her workplace once, and it's all guys. A lot of them are very interested in her, too. I don't blame them. They must think I'm some sort of hobo or something that doesn't belong with her.

I work part time at a Wendy's, but now that we've just had a second child, I've had to put that job on hold so I can take care of it.

That's right, I'm a stay at home dad. And I take care of my children.

I'm cleaning up the dirty diaper of Kyra, our baby girl, when the phone rings.

"Honey, can you get that?" I yell upstairs. Kyra is crying loudly, so I'm not sure if she heard me.

Once again, though, I'm surprised, as I hear the phone stop ringing, and realize that Sarah must have picked it up.

God, I love that woman.

Moments later I heard her running down the stairs with the cordless phone.

"Honey, it's for you!"

For me? Now that's a surprise.

I figured it must be Bill, from Wendy's. Bill is the manager there, and he doesn't take kindly to people who just walk out on him, even if they did have a second child.

I quit work about 2 months ago, yet he calls me every now and then to try and convince me to come back to work, and how badly he needs the help, even though he's got about eighteen other people who would love to have my job.

"Hello?" I ask into the receiver.

"My, how you and Sarah have changed, ****head," The voice says.

"Excuse me?" I ask, angered by the usage of the curse word, as well as the first name basis with my wife.

"Hey, hold your fire there, chief," the man says. "I'm a little hurt you don't remember me, to be honest."

"Will you just shut the hell up with that and come out and say who you are already?"

The man chuckles slightly, and then inhales before speaking once again.

"My name's Brandon. Brandon Appleby? Or have you forgotten about me altogether?"

I almost drop the phone into a pile of baby ****, but manage to catch it with my free hand.

"Brandon?" I asked once again, disbelieving.

"Yep," He said, his voice now more raspy. It almost sounds as if he's got a subtle Texan accent.

"What have you been up to?" I ask, interested.

"Well, for a few years I moved down south to open up a ranch in the hopes of making a living off of the land."

That explains the hint of an accent.

"Unfortunately, us New Yorkers simply aren't meant for cattle herding and whatnot. Now I'm living in Brooklyn in a one bedroom apartment that I lease. It isn't pretty, but the rent is cheap and it gets the job done."

"Nice," I said. I never really had an opportunity to test the "free agent market", so to speak, and I'm immediately envious of him for having the ability to be single for a while.

"Did you hear about the Rangers?" He asked me after a moment of silence.

"Yeah," I said, shaking my head in disbelief. "I can't believe we didn't resign Jagr, what a bunch of bologna.”

"Yeah, but THN says it's going to be a hidden blessing, so we'll see how it plays out."

"Speaking of playing out," I say, "would you like to maybe go hit one of the local rinks one night and go play some pickup hockey?"

"Sure!" he replies back, joyful now. "I haven't been on skates in years."

"Me neither," I say, laughing at the thought of the two of us, now grizzled with poorly shaven beards and aged with the tolls of adult life playing hockey like we used to as kids.

"Take the train into town," I say, "and I'll pick you up at the station. Maybe we can go for a bite to eat afterwards."

The phone conversation winds down slowly enough, and eventually, we say our goodbyes, finalizing our plans.

I can't wait for tomorrow night.

[bashbros30]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

hahaha Grizzled??? your how old??

[canucksfan33]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

When you said you worked at Wendy's, I lol'd a little. When you said the manager's name was Bill, I lol'd more.

I used to work at wendy's a few months ago, my managers name was Bill.

Sorry, I found it funny.

Great Updates though. Really like this already.

[shinderhizzle84]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

When you said you worked at Wendy's, I lol'd a little. When you said the manager's name was Bill, I lol'd more.

I used to work at wendy's a few months ago, my managers name was Bill.

Sorry, I found it funny.

Great Updates though. Really like this already.

haha that is hilarious!!!! that's serious fate right there, haha.

But Bashbros, if you remember the first update, it took place in March of 1998, and he was 18 then, but now it's 2008 in the summer. So he's like 28 years old, I guess.

[kzoz21]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

wendy's is tasty. and so is this. just an fyi.

[Bolts_26]

Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez

I caught up.

It is nice.

You are a Mexicano.