This is just something I had in my head. I've got all these thoughts about hockey players, and this is a really strange poem, true, it's actually kind of a story in poetic format. I personally think I could do better, but I wrote it while in the car while trying to block out the folk tunes my grandpa was listening to, so bear with me here!

He yanks off his helmet, pulls off his sweater,

And, panting, takes a seat in front of his locker.

Running his fingers through his sweaty hair,

He listens patiently to the coach's speech.

The coach points over at him, saying

"Defense! Play two-way hockey." As usual.

He knows he'll have to pick up the defense

Still he can't help but think to himself...

:I'm not a defenseman! I never have been!

I'm a power forward; I'm a goal scorer!

It was never this way back home in Russia.

They taught us to score, and ONLY to score.:

He hears the words and knows they're true

And knows he'll have to apply every word

In every second of every shift, in this seventh game.

It's the only thing that can guarantee a win.

But all too quickly, their time has ended.

The intermission is over; soon, play will resume.

He picks up his jersey and pulls it over his head,

Covering his elbow pads, shoulder pads, and chest pad.

One last time, as he reluctantly rises,

His fingers slide through his damp, dark brown hair.

He puts on his helmet, fastens the strap,

And dons his padded black Nike gloves.

He grabs a stick with "17" on the tape;

He stands and fidgets, ready for action.

Glancing at the goalie, who the pressure is on,

He thinks of the two goals he's scored tonight.

They all walk, single file, onto the team bench

And glare at the opponents' red and white,

The same colors present all throughout the stands.

Even now, in overtime, the odds are against them.

He's out for the face-off, and he looks at his match;

The intensity is gone from those tired blue eyes.

His own brown eyes glance back to the center.

The puck is dropping, bringing the intensity back.

He dodges the check, gets the pass,

Passes it nicely, but it's taken away.

He skates back to his own end, seeing the coach.

The coach calls him off for a quick line change.

So now, with only four minutes to go,

He sits on the bench, breathless but ready.

And, soon enough, it's his turn to go out there.

He arrives just as his opponent does.

His enemy shoots, but misses because

He's down on the ice, blocking the shot.

He makes the defensive play of the game.

They'll be talking about this block for days upon days!

But, wait, he's not done; he gets up, gets the puck,

And skates in past the red line, then past the blue line.

He's in all alone, just he and the goalie.

Then, without warning, he rips a slapshot.

The men in red and their fans alike

All hold their breath and pray for a save.

His team also stops breathing, as one,

Hoping the goalie fails to block the shot.

Time slows as the puck sails through the air.

His teammates and opponents on the ice are still.

He stops and watches, drops his stick.

The goalie lunges to his left..

The shooter's brown eyes are closed in fear,

But he opens them when he hears silence.

Nothing can be heard, nothing at all,

Nothing but the shouts of twenty-two men.

He joins in the cheering, for he has scored,

A natural hat trick to call his own.

After holding the trophies of Conn Smythe and Lord Stanley,

He can finally relax; he's won it all.

Well, this poem is about Ilya Kovalchuk, forward for the Atlanta Thrashers (hey, this is fiction, so they can win the Stanley Cup if I want them to!) and the opposing team is the Detroit Red Wings, the goalie would be Curtis Joseph, and the intensely blue-eyed enemy is Brett Hull. Now since you were so patient to read my poem, tell me what you thought!!