Yesterday I did something I had not done in a long time: play a game of road hockey. It was just great. Everyone who took part had a fantastic time and we're probably going to do it again despite the fact that we're all sore today.
For me, playing road hockey brought back a lot of memories. It took me back to my days in elementary school when all you needed was your hockey stick, your buddies, a ball and you were all set. Those were fun times. It was all I did in grade five and six. Every Tuesdays and Fridays after school I would rush home, drop my books, pick up my stick and then rush back to the school. And we played until we couldn't play no more.
However, those memories also came with a certain sadness.
When I was young boy, I lived and breathed sports. But more importantly, I wanted to be a professional athlete. It didn't matter what sport it was. In the summer, I dreamt of being the star catcher for the Toronto Blue Jays, winning the World Series with a two out, bottom of the ninth home run. In the fall, I was the star quaterback with the Toronto Argonauts, winning the Grey Cup. In the winter, I was the goaltender for the Montreal Canadiens, winning the Stanley Cup. And in the spring, I was sinking Three's for the Toronto Raptors. I would imagine having children come up to me and asking me for my autograph. I wanted to be someone who was remembered as a legend.
But as I grew up and realized that I had no athletic ability whatsoever, those dreams faded away.
Now I realize that those dreams did not just fade away. Part of me died with them.