My broken hockey stick

Dear Diary

I once had a green Malik Pegasus laminated wooden hockey stick, it was the best stick I had ever played with. It was 38” long and had a sweet spot large enough for a wealth of (lack of) striking ability and skill. It was a real beauty and even when the big switch to composite happened, I stuck it out with my wooden beast for a few seasons more. Eventually the years of heavy (cynical/bad) tackles took their toll and my stick had to be put to pasture. Fortunately my friend and team mate Peter Wright had a maroon composite stick he had been using and he generously gave it to me. Let me tell you, this became the best stick I have ever played with and it even got a pink grip (In memory and awareness of those that fought and those still fighting the big C battle) to enhance its magnificence. This stick could literally hit a ball on the coldest morning without a warm-up and not rattle your hands to breaking point. Equally comfortable on grass and on astro, it went to ‘war’ and never so much as uttered a complaint or gave any reason for me to. I would have given my left and right shin pads to protect this champ and yet, in a cruel twist of fate, our bond would be broken in a way nobody could have foreseen or prevented. The unthinkable happened on a mild mid-August afternoon in the middle of Masters Hockey 2017. Between games while not even playing myself, I walked to fetch a ball that had run over the base line, for two teams busy playing a match. I fished the ball out from under a trailer and with a gentle hit I returned it to them. There was something very different about the feel of the strike though, something a bit too forgiving about the impact. To my horror, I looked down to see that my old faithful, my pink and maroon legend, my trusty companion, had struck a ball for the last time. A clean and complete break, left the bottom part of my stick hanging by the thread of some old strapping tape. Just like that. I held in my hands two pieces of my treasured stick and the iconic chapter of my hockey career ended right there and then, my stick’s days of glory committed to folklore. The irony of it surviving massive clashes, hacks and hits and then snapping in the act of returning a ball for others to play on, was not lost on me. I have denied it, I have been angry about it, I have tried bargaining but that didn’t work. I am now in the depression phase and I fear I may never reach the point of acceptance. If the Malik gods shine on me I will find and love another, but there will be no other like you. RIP My Maroon Malik, you and I could have been something were something.

Signed Broken Baksteen