The icy breeze whispers over my body, the cold stings my nostrils with every breath and the frosty wind colors my cheeks a blushing pink. The bright white ice blinds my eyes, and the aroma of sweat and tears that originates from the rubber mat beneath, encompasses me. However, this odor no longer provokes a negative reaction but a smile, for it’s a smell that has been embedded in me for 10 years; it’s a part of me now. I have been here many times before, yet my excitement before I step out on the plate of ice never withered and the sight of the gleaming surface reflecting the lights above, never dull. The people around me have numbers embedded in the back of the red and white polyester mesh covering all the gear that identifies them and a logo of the team on the front that identifies us and what we stand for. The soothing chill that runs throughout the body forms goose bumps on the skin encouraged not by the temperature, but by the anticipation for the task at hand. The buzzer rings and like horses, we gallop on to the snowy plain with pride representing the colors of the red army, ready to fight with dignity.

White plastic boards surrounds the entire rink with thick hard glass on top, and inside this large ring contains a part of me, a part of my life that I gave my all too. Walls containing giant slashes from years before, big towers of glass marked by the rubber pucks thrown at it, dents in the side of the metal net formed by an angry stick, all traces of me that I left and drew on this blank icy canvas. A loud thundering voice booms among all of us that trembles our body and signals us to head over to the benches. This voice all too familiar to me, for it carries a positive connotation when praise is given by it creating a glistening grin on one’s face, but it also carries a negative connotation when one is yelled at by it. This bellowing of a yell that reaches into your soul and causes your body to shiver in a way cold weather could never achieve. All of this occurs on this bench, with giant cherry red letters of home written upon the wall behind it. To the left there is a tattered black trash can with chipped white paint spelling a faded out “property of AZ ICE” upon its lid. To the right lays the cage that the zebras use to imprison any lion that dares to cheat the game. Underneath are rubber mats marked with red stains of blood and covered with drops of sweat accumulated from the games of the past. As I sit upon this bench, my face can’t help but drip like a leaky faucet and add to this accumulating pool of nervousness, hard work, and dedication between my feet as I await my calling.

The word “Mission” is imprinted in the center of this frozen oval. Bleeding in red and enlarged for even the blindest eye to see so that we never lose vision of who we represent. Five players are chosen by the voices above to start the game and I am not one. Each individual blows out a cloudy mist with every exhale taken as they glide with grace to line up for the faceoff. Among the shadows from the side where light never touches emerges five players intruding the inner circle to stand toe to toe with our own. Eye contact is made and never severed; their presence is acknowledged, but never welcomed. The screech of the buzzer going off can be felt through every strand of hair in my body as they stand up excitedly for the start of the game has been motioned.  The crunch of the sharp metal blade against the ice occurs with every stride taken, the metal post on the net rings in harmony with every black biscuit thrown at it, and combined with the clashing of sticks, forms this orchestra that is conducted by the game itself. My whole body jumps with every hit of the puck that crackles as it bounces everywhere like a marble in a pinball machine, never knowing where it’ll end up. From the abyss of the icy plain, an individual as pale as a ghost pursues the bench, gasping for air, and physically drained from the soul he just poured out for the game seeking me to replace him. It is time, and as I jump off the bench, I slice the ice with the blade on my feet, and draw on this white ice of a canvas a continuation of my life which is embedded in this ice rink or in my case, home.