-
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
No, your one of those stupid, cocky nerds. LOL PWNT!Regrets Aren't Something You Did, It's Something You Didn't Do
1000 posts achieved on December 21st,2008 at 2:26 p.m in the "birth of the Mighty Blazers" thread.Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
haha, i thought somebody might say that when I wrote that sentence. no, i'm going to try and keep ny soap opera scenes to a minimum in this one, but there still *may* be some fun and drama.
And flyersfan, even I don't know what nostradufus was, or whatever, lmao.Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
It's a Judas Priest album.
<__<Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
Damn you and your smartas* responces.Regrets Aren't Something You Did, It's Something You Didn't Do
1000 posts achieved on December 21st,2008 at 2:26 p.m in the "birth of the Mighty Blazers" thread.Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
It's responses.
Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
Oh I thought you knew alot about history, he was a writer who predicted things look him up pretty interesting
That wasn't what I was aiming for but I guess it is lol
I aim to please
Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
i knew ernie. no worriesComment
-
LEAFS
GO LEAFS GO
Check out my Dynasty>>>>
The Passion That Unites Us All- A Leafs Dynasty
GONE TO http://www.***************.hqforums.com/Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
I arrive in Lowell for my first practice, staring around at the place once more. Trailing behind me is a guest. Or two. Or three.
I've got Kyra nestled in a big hulking arm of mine, and Tommy is trailing slightly behind Sarah, holding on to her hand with about three fingers. She's pretty tall, especially for a woman, standing at about 5-foot-9, and little Thomas is doing everything within his might to keep on holding on to the hand that towers so high above him.
A trainer, or something, comes out to greet me.
“How are you, Mr. Gomez?” He asks, shaking my hand. My insides do a little squeeze at the name he addresses me with. Mr. Gomez. 5 or 6 years ago people would just call me Phil.
He helps me out with my large bag, and escorts me and my “guests” through the player's entrance to the arena.
“This is where our path together ends,” I say, turning to my family.
“Why?” Sarah asks, not seeing the brightly lit sign right above my head that says “LOCKER ROOM—LOWELL”
I simply point upwards slowly, and smile, and she emits a soft little, “Oh,” and takes the kids to the bleachers.
I intake sharply. I have no idea what to expect. My stomach is squirming violently, and I feel for a sudden moment as if I'm going to vomit. Will I be a rookie, easily trod on, and tossed around? Or will I be a respected member of the team, who is able to sway lesser team member's minds?
I'm trapped in my own thoughts, when a trainer sneaks up behind me and opens the door. I don't notice him at first, but he's holding the door open for me. He keeps it open for quite a while, and when he still sees that I'm not noticing him, he gives a slight little throat-clearing noise, and I snap back to attention.
“oh!” I exclaim, at a loss for words. “Thank you..” I nod finally.
He nods back, and I walk in through the door.
When I get inside, I see an older man, maybe in his 40's or so, rummaging through my Green Machine hockey bag, next to a trash can.
“Holy ****!” I yell, running over, making a big commotion in the room. “What the **** do you think you're doing with my stuff?”
He doesn't even look up at me, still taking item after item out of my hockey bag, and dumping it in the trash.
“The name's Bill Avelhart,” he says through gritted teeth. I look down in the general direction of his face and see he's got a pen stuck in between his teeth.
I gape at him, once again at a loss for words.
“Fine, Bill,” I finally spit. “What do you think you're doing with my gear?”
“Throwing it away,” He shrugs.
“THROWING IT AWAY?” I grab the hair in my head and feel like ripping it off, but I don't.
“Yep,” He says. He takes out one of my leg pads, and I scream with rage.
“Get your hands off of those!” I shout threateningly. I'm very close to my boiling point, now.
“Hey Steve,” He says, getting up, still holding the pad in two hands. A younger man, wearing similar black and red attire, comes over, and Bill says, “Take this and the other one to the boiler room. No need in having this extra scrap of junk—just burn it.”
“BURN IT? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?” I ask.
“HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO PLAY HOCKEY TODAY WITHOUT ANY GEAR?”
He stands up now, finally looking me in the eye. I try to unclench the tight fist sitting at my side, but it's very hard to do, especially when there's a vein pulsing through my forehead that I can feel is part of my rage.
“Simple.” He says finally, going back to his work, and handing the other leg pad to “Steve”.
“Oh,” I say. “Simple.”
I say that last word in a very mocking tone, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by it, or even notice it, for that matter.
“And how am I supposed to play hockey without any gear, Billy-boy?"
“First of all,” He says, stepping up and getting closer to me. “Don't call me Billy-boy.”
“Second of all,” he continues. “Why haven't you checked your locker stall yet?”
“Wh-what?” I say, almost falling to the carpeted ground in pure shock. “I have a stall?”
“'Course you do,” He says, now wiping off my old glove with an already sweaty towel.
“Well, where is it?” I ask, keen on finding it ASAP.
“To my left, 1st one behind my back.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, walking away as best as I can.
I rush over to where I was told my locker is going to be, as soon as I've recollected my thoughts.
“HOLY ****!” I exclaim, doing a double-take to make sure I'm not really dreaming.
Bolted onto the top of the dresser is a gold nameplate with writing in black that says “P. GOMEZ.”
As if that sight isn't mind-rattling enough, the nameplate is surrounded on every side, nook, and corner, by gorgeous, customized, RBK premier series gear. The helmet and gloves sit directly on top of the name plate, supported by the shelf the name plate is attached to.
Right below the name plate are a couple of nobs, where some hockey shorts, a jockstrap, my jerseys, and some underarmour performance gear, which I guess is for working out, or wearing on the ice, which is black with a couple of red stripes, hang on for dear life.
Sitting below the nobs is another tiny shelf, and there they are, the most beautiful pads I've ever seen.
They're all black, with Devil-red as the “2nd stripe”. I only know it's the 2nd stripe from the countless hours I've spent on Rbk's website, on the online customizer, dreaming of being able to possess such gorgeous gear.
They're the exact one's that I customized so many times on the website, just staring at them for countless minutes.
I feel Bill walk up behind me and put his arm over my shoulder.
“Like 'em?” He says. “By the way, sorry about your gear. I'm the equipment manager here, though, so it's kind of my job.”
“H-how did you know what I wanted?”
“Contacted a representative at Rbk, they were able to extract the information from the account you made at their website, and knew it was you right away. We saw the single saved color scheme you had on your customizer account, and we knew immediately what to get you.”
“I guess I owe you my thanks,” I said, turning towards him and shaking his hand.
“Better start putting everything on,” He says. “Practice starts in 20 minutes.”
I scramble for the bench, and sit down, but not before taking out my camera phone and nabbing a picture of the nameplate, making sure the picture enables the viewer to see all of the lettering.
I sneak it away, and put it in one of the tiny cubbies the stall has, and take out my new pair of Rbk skates before I realize I have to put on my jock and underarmor first.
Is this the life of a professional hockey player? Expensive gear and a nameplate?
I guess my journey will enable me to find out.
Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
Haha, you are quite the equipment whore.Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
yeah...tis true, unfortunately, haha. i carry so much burden in my heart, knowing that the leg pads that I wear in real life are from a cheap discount knock off company, haha. At least my gloves are nice....and OLD.
My favorite piece of my real life set by far, though, is my helmet. i haven't gotten it painted yet or anything, it's just solid white. But the way it's constructed, and how it pretty much fits around my head so perfectly...God, it's like......love.
Comment
-
Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
Practice was gruesome, and in the conditioning and skating drills, I often felt as if I had no business being on the same ice as the rest of the guys.
Alexander Vasyunov was a complete speed demon, and although he spoke little English, he knew enough hockey lingo to know where to skate. However, you almost never saw him near the front of the line in the conditioning drills. Probably because he wanted to see it done, because he didn't understand the coaches too well.
Tyler Eckford was one of the most gifted defenseman I had ever seen, and his puck moving abilities could not be found anywhere else on the ice. However, being 6-foot-3, he also knew when and how to lay on the body, and he did it well every time, sending him teammates flying left and right.
I was a bit nervous, however, when I saw Scott Clemmensen.
Not because he was good. In fact, just the opposite.
The first moment I saw him take the opposite net, I knew I could beat him for the starting job. I just knew it.
But hockey has always been very political. Would the coaches let me, a walk-on, a former fan—a loser in almost every sense—take the starting role?
I swept some ice away from my crease before coming out to take the first shot from Vasyunov.
I easily swatted it away with my blocker, and saw some of the coaches looking down the other way, focusing all of their attention on Scott Clemmensen.
I better make the decision easier for them.
Comment
Comment