That guy was me.

My sec 1 year was terrible. The first time I stepped into a hockey pitch, my back ached after less than fifteen minutes. My glamourous proud spine was forced into painful contortions as I clumsily bent down so that the stick would be on the ground. And yes the stick, that stick sticky with sweat and grime, slipped so often in my hands as I clumsily tried to move the ball. While I had so often outshone people, this time, I was shining with a hot glow of humiliation and despair. Every part of my twisted body shouted “Unglam”! And of course, my teacher-in-charge spotted that terrible eyesore and told me to go “broad-base”. Broad base, what a terrible word, after four years of hockey im sick and tired of hearing it. Oh yes, “sick and tired”, these three words, spat out in a typical disgusted Coach tone, still resounding in my head even after he stepped down six months ago. I was fated to be a toilet bowl, yes always. Since young, I’ve been a WC—water closet, and even as I stepped into my hockey life, the tag never left me. So, heeding my teacher’s words of advice, I bent both legs, and squatted, and from then on became known as a toilet bowl.

Humiliation and frustration, trickled through my body, as the first beads of sweat started rolling down my face. Then, the sun beat down harder and mercilessly on us, the frustration boiled into raging rivulets of anger at a CCA that was so weird, so otherworldly, just as soccer is to New Zealand. Grr, that stupid Gifford, coerce me into joining such a stupid CCA, I felt like throwing down my stick and quitting that very instant. And so the newly initiated Hunch Back of Noterdam walked out of the pitch hunched and defeated from the torture he had endured that afternoon.

Have you ever felt like just melting into the shadows, hiding in the safe haven offered by the velvety cloak of anonymity? Have you ever felt your throat constrict by the fear of failure? While grinning g arfield Gifford had given me my first impression of hockey, the next person, who arguably had the most influence on me the next three years, was nothing like my grinning friend. What greeted me instead was an Indian man, face fixed in a fierce frown, which we soon found out was the closest he could get to a smile (most of the time). Framed by thick eyebrows, his eyes seemed to be ferociously boring into you, and just as your defenses start melting around you, his commanding, unyielding bark would drive through that hole in your defence and straight to your heart. Fearful of being judged to be lousy, I decided that I would rather NOT BE judged at all, so every time there was a match, I volunteered to play as a back. Those days, those sweet old days, attackers were goons who would run straight into a flat stick. As long as you put your stick down, those bumbling brainless bees would just bang into you. Awesome! Of course later on I realised what I experienced on the hockey pitch was really reflective of my own attitude towards life, and that performing on the hockey pitch was not very much different from my own “academic act”.

The next milestone was six-a-side. There was a sort of trial, I got called a “brainless”, “blind”, “stupid joker”, when I passed straight to the opponent several consecutive time. And of course, I enjoyed the day off as the rest of the team trooped off to compete. (Later on, I felt a guilty, nevertheless refreshing, sense of malicious relief as the team failed to win.) Accompanying me in my misery were my friends, but as much as they are integral to my hockey experience, they are not part of this part of the story for now. This story is about me. And my battery is low so
I shall continue another day.