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Banned
OVR: 31
Join Date: Nov 2008
Location: Westchester County, NY
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Re: Getting A Late Start: The BAP Story of Phil Gomez
About a month and a half later, I'm at my home back in the suburbs of New York.
It's 6:30 AM, and I've just woken up.
I sneak downstairs, and make myself some coffee, while pouring out some Cocoa Puffs into a bowl.
Our family dog, Brianna, a golden retriever, comes down at the sound of the Cocoa Puffs, and sits on her hind legs, panting and whining in the hope that she'll receive a gift for her humility.
“No,” I scold her, pointing a threatening finger at her.
She gives me a look, and I say, “You can't have Cocoa Puffs—it's chocolate.”
She's still whining, though, and I give in, although I don't give her the chocolate. I go over to the bread cupboard and whisk out some white bread and toss a slice in her general direction. She leaps up on her two hind legs and catches it like Bernie used to out in center field.
“Nice catch,” I mumble, gently patting her on the forehead.
She moans her thanks, and within 3 seconds the slice of bread is gone.
My stomach is churning, and it's not from the coffee I'm tentatively sipping from a mug now.
My first game is tonight. And I've gotten word that I'm set to start.
The call came late in the night, from Coach Maclean, naturally.
“Hey listen, Phil,” he said the moment I had reached for the phone out of bed, not even bothering to announce himself.
“Who is this?” I mumbled sleepily.
“Coach Maclean, I...sorry.”
A moment of silence engulfs us for just a moment, and then I say, “How can I help you?”
“Just wanted to let you know that I've been unable to sleep for the past five or six days, because of you. I'm naming you the starter. Scotty hasn't been looking too sharp, and I couldn't give a damn what outsiders will think. But don't make me look like an *******. Don't make me look bad.”
Sarah woke up then, and said, “Who the hell is calling at this hour of the night?”
I mouth Maclean! To her, and she mouths, Oh! Before getting back underneath the covers.
“You there?” He asks me, a strain of worry audible in his voice.
“Yeah, Coach Maclean, don't worry. I won't let you down.”
“Thanks Phil. Have a nice night, and say hi to the wife for me.”
I put in my goodbye, and hang up the phone.
“What did he want?” she asks, putting her hand on my bare chest.
“Oh, nothing,” I say with a bright smile.
“Really?”
“Yeah, he just wanted to wish me good luck in the game today. You see, I'm starting, now.”
She's wide awake now, and is on top of me, hugging me and planting kisses on me all over. I'm laughing, and trying to hold on as best as I can.
“Honey,” she says, after a moment. “That is wonderful, wonderful news!”
“yeah, I know!” I exclaim.
For the rest of the night I can't sleep, so finally, this is where I'm at.
Just me and Brianna, sipping coffee, eating cocoa puffs and bread.
“how'd you sleep?” I mumble to her. She gives me a confused look, and I mumble, “nevermind,” before she goes back to her business of begging.
I open the paper, it's the New York Times.
Blah blah, Yankees stink. Blah Blah, Mets keep on losing. Eli Manning ready for the season after winning the superbowl.
Nothing on hockey.
Simply pathetic.
I turn over the New York Times on the counter, in favor of a more local newspaper, the Westchester times.
And I'm on the front page.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim as quietly as possible. Everyone's still asleep, even Kyra, which is a blessing. More often than not, she's already up by now, wailing her poor head off.
It's a picture of me in practice, wearing my awesome new gear, making an actually pretty good looking glove save.
The caption underneath reads “Westchester Native Phil Gomez, formerly of the Green Machine, will be the starting goalie for the Lowell Devils this season, the AHL affiliate of the New Jersey Devils.”
I just stare at the photograph and caption for a moment, before delving in and reading the actual article.
It isn't much. They didn't schedule an interview with me or anything, but they had a couple of nice quotes from my teammates and coaches, complimenting my work ethic, my locker room personality, and my general performance in training camp and preseason up to this point.
Although it isn't particularly long, and it doesn't have too much personal information on me, it means the entire world to me. I hug it close to my chest, having cut out the picture and article away from the rest of the paper.
I take a refrigerator magnet and place the article directly on the center of the fridge.
About three hours later I'm on the road to Providence, Rhode Island, which is where our first game will be, and am getting ready to play my first game of professional hockey.
I can barely focus on the road I'm so nervous, but finally, I make it to the Bruins' rink unscathed, a good four hours before the game is set to begin.
I run into Bill there, and he clasps me on the back, and asks, “You ready, Philly?”
“I'm not sure,” I say. “If by ready you mean so nervous I think I'm going to vomit my lower intestine, then yes, I'm ready.”
He laughs, chopping me on the back once more.
“Don't worry,” He says to me. “You'll be fine.”
I nod as appreciatively as I could, but can't face the demons inside of me.
I walk into the arena, and wait, simply sitting in my stall, utterly alone, waiting for my time.
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07-24-2009, 02:32 PM
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