A Narrative Essay On The Most Dangerous Game

“Are you,” Abby, the player whom I had just met recently, questioned, “gonna be our goalie for the tournament?” Puzzled, I had tilted my head and responded, “Yeah, I think so.” “Awesome! I was hoping you would be,” she had exclaimed, to my surprise. The echoes of this conversation circled through my head as I stood stoically in the goalcrease, refusing to show any anxiety. Clouds of breath billowed out of my mask like smoke. It was the championship game of a tournament and our team had tied the game up at the last minute. Now we were in a shootout and the pressure was on. It was the opposing team’s turn to shoot, and unfortunately, the last shot of the round. If I made the save, we would win, if I didn’t make the save..well, I tried not to think about that.
The high-ceilinged rink was filled to the rafters with spectators, everyone from the building came to view the outcome of the game. Despite being crowded, the rink was eerily
I raised my stick and tapped its two ends to each pole on the sides of the net. The customary, clink clink, wished me good luck. Suddenly, the shrill sound of the referee’s whistle cut through the silence. My breath caught in my throat as I skated out, bracing myself with all of my knowledge of saves, techniques and tricks. I cleared my mind of all worries and focused on the shot. By the time I glided out far enough, the opposing team’s player had reached the puck, swiftly captured it with her stick and began to skate toward me.
As she advanced, I fell back, carefully keeping the same amount of space in between us. I was poised, ready for her to make a move. I could taste the salty tang of sweat on my face but I ignored it. Mindful not to jump the gun, I inspected the puck closely. Timing was just as important as cutting off the angle to the net. Promptly, the player tilted her stick upwards and shot the