The Swap Read Free Page A

“Win those battles in front of the net,” he tells me. “Be strong on your feet. Play a two-way game.”
    â€œYes, sir.” I stand at attention outside the truck, my bag slung over my shoulder, my two best sticks in my hand.
    â€œHard-nosed, discipline.”
    â€œYes, sir.” I nod. “Thank you, sir.”
    My dad is big on please and thank you. All Malloy boys are expected to—let me quote—“partake in the basic civility of life.” That means please, thank you, yes, sir or yes, ma’am, holding open a door, firm handshakes, and so on.
    â€œJack?” The Captain calls out.
    â€œYes, sir?” I look back at him.
    â€œGo get ’em.”
    It doesn’t matter what kind of day I’m having. The second I step into the rink, everything is better. It’s magic. The first thing that hits you is the smell. Every rink is different, but they all smell like hockey. You could put a blindfold on me and put me in any rink and I’d know, just from the salty, sweaty scent and the dampness and the cool air that kind of hits you when you walk in the door. BAM! You are at the rink. You have arrived. There’s just this feeling of excitement. It’s unreal. And when I walk through the doors to the locker room, that hockey smell is stronger than ever. It’s always there. It will never go away. I love that smell. I can’t explain it, but it’s comforting, I guess. Once you get into the locker room you’re sheltered from everything. There are no windows. You have no view of the outside world. You’re kind of in a shell. The only contact you have is the other guys, your teammates, sharing stories, talking about different things—hockey, music, where guys went out on the weekend, what they did after, who hung out with who, girls, who’s hot, who’s not. Guys are chirping, everyone is sort of making fun of each other, joking around. Nothing’s off-limits. Most of the guys on the Bruins are one or two years older than I am, so they love to pick on me and razz me, and they all call me “Mallsy,” or “Malls.” I love it. It’s like this place that’s different than any other. You’re just all together, talking about whatever, no distractions.
    To an outsider looking in, it might look like a madhouse—eighteen guys, eighteen equipment bags covering almost every space on the floor—but actually there’s an order. Every guy knows that order. All the little adjustments to get yourself ready to go: tying your skates just right, lacing ’em up at just the right time, taping your shin pads, taping your stick, folding your socks just the way you like them. It’s like tying your shoes—you’re so used to it, you just do it. Then when you’re all done? Somehow everyone looks the same, and we all head out to the ice.
    You walk out of the locker room on the rubber mats, out to the rink, and as soon as you take a step onto the ice, right off the gate, you glide. It’s just effortless. That sensation is really the best feeling in the world. You take your second step and your third step and you pick up speed and the cool wind blasts through your face mask and you inhale that first breath of cold air and it gives you a jolt of energy and you want to go faster and faster. You just feel like you can do anything, like you are invincible. Then there’s a screeching whistle that brings everyone to a stop, brings you all together, and you get to work.
    For the next sixty minutes of my life, everything is almost a trance.
    Nothing else matters.
    Nothing else exists.
    It’s like I’m there but I’m not there.
    I don’t have to think.
    The sound track is the steel on your skate cutting into the crisp ice with each stride, the swooshing of the ice when you stop, the puck hitting sticks, the coach directing players, whistles, so much motion, so much activity.
    At my best,