As the woosh of the wind on your face intensifies, your legs pumping with great speed, and even when the huffing and puffing of air is throwing you off, you still focus on racing past defenders. While your whole body aches after the long nights of practice and the constant mental battles of conditioning, your calves cramp, and you only look forward to a break from this contant pain. You start to think to yourself: “Maybe I should have stretched more”. But you snap out of it. No time to think of what you could have done, the past is the past and there’s no changing it. You clear your mind as you juke left into open field, while the other players become blurs in your peripheral trying to catch up. The smell of the saturday night air is sharp as it whistles all around you, and even though your body is screaming at you to stop, you made it clear that you’re not going to give up. As you approach the opposing goal, the defenders lunge to try to stop the fast break. Their coaches had failed them and you exploit their poor defensive habit by faking the pass left, and step into a hard, low shot to the bottom left. As you let the ball of of your stick, you can feel the perfect placement and know that it’s a goal before it smacks the left post and into the net. You gain the satisfaction of the lound ping when the ball meets metal of the post and the loud cheering met with the familiar roaring announcement: “Goal #7 Deeeeeaaaan Morrison!”. Absolutely no better feeling can be had on earth.