Goodbye my lover?

For as long as he can remember, he has loved her, cherished her, wanted her in his life, longed for her when he could not have her, felt butterflies in his belly when he knew that soon a stolen moment they would share.

Theirs is a relationship that goes back at least a quarter century, to a time when he was but a timid little boy, insecure in his ability to master his muse, ignorant of the incomparable highs she was capable of producing.

He first approached her gently, cautiously, unsure she was even worth the effort of pursuit. Quickly though, she grew on him, no matter the early hour of her weekly call, no matter the gruelling effort required in order for him to even just keep up.

Indoors and out, theirs is a love that matured, under star and snowfall, or in the early morning light.

Of her, he simply could not get enough, spending every waking moment with the beauty that is she, in his mind and in reality, overcoming his deficiencies as he learned of her intricacies, ever the player she felt that he could be.

They grew up together.

Completed each other.

She brought overwhelming highs during a stunning passage of time that always he wishes could have gone on forever.

Even when she rebelled, delivering upon him injury of the worst kind, he could not be swayed to give her up completely.

Too much history.

Too many good times.

The lure of her unspoken temptations just too great to resist.

So he returned to her, naively perhaps, again and again and again, though just a fragile shell of what he used to be.

And for that, he paid the ultimate price—on more than one occasion the unfortunate recipient of her powerful, painful touch.

Each time he would rebound, going back at her with a vengeance, determined to not let her inherent dangers keep him from her absolute pleasures.

Until finally, she broke him.

Not so much physically—from those wounds always he can recover.

Mentally though, no longer is he so sure.

She cannot be courted in fear, yet he is fearful of the pain she still could cruelly unleash upon him.

She cannot be courted with apprehension, yet apprehensive he is of the outcome of their next encounter.

She has pushed him so far in the direction opposite from whence he wants to go that he is left with no other option now but to let her go—completely.

And so it is that as of this writing, he has given her up, severing ties that took a lifetime to build, ending a relationship that should have gone on forever.

He?

He is me.

And she?

She is hockey.

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Editor’s Note: The above came to me last winter, in the aftermath of what was then my 24th or 25th shoulder dislocation, the majority of which have occurred on the ice, playing a game that I love.

It was my intention to post this piece as my final season as a hockey player came to a close, following weeks of torturous trips to the rink during which the fear of injury sapped from me all enjoyment that our beautiful game, the game of hockey, can produce.

But I didn’t post it.

Partly procrastination, but mostly premonition.

Deep down I probably knew that I could never give her up. At least not yet.

And so it is that I prepare to embark on yet another season, one in which I hope I will be spared the writhing pain of another dislocation, instead rewarded with goal after goal after goal.

Damn you, beautiful game of hockey.

You are just too impossible to resist.