the journal of literature and the arts at saint david ’ s school
Rags to Ritchies Personal Narrative
“ You did it ! I knew you could do it ! See how all the hard work you put in paid off ? You could be one of these guys you see here . You can be a hockey player .” After weeks of skating lessons , Coach Ritchie ’ s voice boomed as if it were coming out of the loudest loudspeaker ever created . With his heavy Brooklyn accent “ these ” sounded like “ deez ,” and his words were poetry to my ears . With his bear paws on either side of my helmet , his eyes peering into my own , the world froze as I let the message sink in . “ I can skate ,” I thought to myself . “ I am going to be a hockey player !” But that ’ s not how it all began . . . 1
In the car , I was quivering with nervousness , shaking like jello when you scoop it into a bowl . We sat in the parking lot for a long while , just waiting . I stared at the door to the rink , watching kids of different ages and uniforms , hockey sticks in hand , huge duffle bags swung over their padded shoulders , casually striding in as if it was just another day of practice or a game . This was not the case for me . That door represented an entry into another world that scared me and excited me at the same time . Sitting in the passenger seat , scenarios flickered through my imagination like an ancient movie reel . I ’ m gliding fast , exhilarated . Ha , I ’ m a natural ! A brief blink of light has me crying in humiliation . The door in front of me was the point of no return , the boundary between fantasy and reality .
Four years earlier , I had gone to my school ’ s annual skating party at Wollman Rink in Central Park . I have the vaguest of recollections , so perhaps I
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