It is the only one that supported me. I am the only one that made it work. One broken stick with a tall body and gritty look like mine. Two that did not belong here but were here. No excuses given by me.
Its valor was secret. It sent powerful shots on net and reached out in front of me yearning to take the puck, it never quit its struggling. That is how it kept.
Let it forget its reason for shooting, and its shots would never have left the ice, and a brief dialogue would have ended its career. Keep, keep, keep it would say while I slept. It taught me.
When I’m too tired and too sore to keep keeping, when I’m outmatched by everyone on the ice, then it is that I look at this broken stick. When there’s nothing to look at in my room. One who came and learned to shoot. One who shot and did not forget to shoot. One whose only reason is to be and be.