Stream of consciousness, to some extent.

It's the pendant to your performance. It's the endless drills and the ache of your muscles and the mini heart attack every time a buzzer or whistle reverberates in your ears. It's the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat and the blood and sweat and tears and the pain, the relentless pain, physical and emotional pain and everything that goes with it. It's the way you handle the stress and fear and trash-talk and the over-thinking and every little thing life throws at you to shatter your focus. It's the fire in your belly and the fire in your eyes. It's the way you work and the way you play and what you put in every second, minute, every hour, every day, the dedication and determination, the perseverance and perspiration, the commitment. It's the heart hammering in your head and the choking, ragged breaths. It's the way your body burns and the buckling knees and gritted teeth and the feeling that you're going to vomit, the moment when you finally collapse. It's the yells and screams and shrieks and cries and moans and groans and grunts and the laughter, the way you feel when you lose and the way you feel when you win, the desperation and hope and the horrible moment when you know there's nothing else you can possibly do. It's the teamwork and the camaraderie and the final seconds, the final points, the moment you dream of where everything can go right or everything can go wrong. It's the moment you forget everything around you and all you can think is, this game is mine, this moment is mine, and I will never let it go.