Picture this for a second - it’s around 6 a.m. on a school
morning. I’m in the basement shooting pucks, waking the
whole house up. Snap. Line up another puck. Slap. Crossbars,
posts and mesh. Every shot closer to the show. The Tragically
Hip and Matthew Good Band blaring on the boombox while
everyone “tried” to sleep. Boom. Line up another puck. Boom.
Each bucket held around 50 pucks and I had to shoot 10
buckets before mom yelled down that my porridge was ready
(that’s what Canadians call oatmeal). My hands were so
battered and blistered from shooting that I could barely hold
my spoon. I loved every second of it. Off to school with my
hands taped up. “How many did you shoot today?” asked my
brother Phil. “About 500 give or take. Sorry if I woke you up,” I
replied. “It’s fine Zac. Any good ones?” Phil is the best.
Teachers were always wondering why my hands were always
In rough shape. “Shooting pucks this morning. I might have
a rough time holding onto my pencil” I replied.
