“Exactly.”
“Then what do you attribute this miraculous recovery to? There are rumors, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
Ever since Coach removed me from the IR list, my phone has been blowing up. The conspiracy theorists were the first to claim my injury had been a publicity stunt. The PR office wanted me to claim the lesion healed, and that’s why I regained my sight, but I know differently. No one can convince me not to give praise where it belongs.
“I gave my life to Christ, and in a matter of days, I woke upand could see. It’s straight from the lines of ‘Amazing Grace.’” I swallow against the lump in my throat. I still can’t believe God blessed me with a miracle, but I’ll do everything in my power not to waste it. Including interviews ad nauseam if it’ll reach just one hurting person who needs hope.
“Well, you heard it here first. Jabari Hall was blind but now he sees.” Paul claps a hand on my shoulder. “Welcome back to the game.”
“Thank you so much.”
The cameraman stops the live feed, and I remove the microphone they clipped to me.
“Is that true?” Paul asks.
“It is. Got saved at Javier Sanchez’s church.”
Paul studies me as if he’s a human lie detector test. “What time is service?”
“Ten.” I grin. “Will I see you there?”
“Maybe,” he says slowly.
“I’ll be there,” the cameraman quips.
This is my prayer for everyone who sees the interview. “I look forward to seeing you then.” I leave them with the church card. They had them at the welcome center. Looks like a business card but with the offer to “Try Jesus” and the church’s contact information.
I wave, then walk back to the locker room. Someone’s got “Warriors” by Imagine Dragons playing through a Bluetooth speaker, and I smile. It’s game day, and each guy is getting in the zone before we skate out on the ice and listen to a local sing the national anthem.
Focusing on each task on game days helps me release stress. So I deliberately hook my hoodie onto the locker rung. Next come on my pads, and my mind clears with each task. I’m able to block out the guys who are talking quietly and ignore those wearing headphones and listening to their own playlists. Everyone has their game-day rituals.
Finally, Coach has us line up. As we do, the equipment managers hand us our sticks, then we’re out on the ice. The crowd roars as the announcer introduces us as the Washington Warriors. I sail by the home bench, scanning the seating area for Val. When I spot her, she’s totally engrossed in whatever story Fran’s telling her, but I don’t care. My girl is here to watch me play. The last time I played and she watched, she witnessed me getting the concussion that changed everything.
I come to a stop on the center red line, and Javier halts beside me.
“You ready to bring it?” he asks.
“I got this.”
He and the rest of the line have run me ragged this week, but every day I skated longer, played harder, and didn’t die from exertion. Granted, the ice bath became my friend, but it’s totally worth it to stand here now.
A dream I thought was dead has been resurrected. I’m beginning to realize how much that’s a God thing. There was absolutely nothing I could do back in January when they told me I couldn’t play for a month. But once they realized my eyesight wasn’t returning to normal, the helplessness was at peak levels.
Thank You for getting meback on the ice,back in the game.My gaze flits to Val.And thank You for the greatest giftever. I’d leave hockey in a moment as longas Val’s by my side. But I’m gladI get to celebrate my return with her to cheerme on. Thank You,God.
My prayer is over just as the local singer begins the national anthem. When she sings about the rockets’ red glare, the fans shoutredalong with her. I grin at the tradition that happens at every DC sporting event. I’m not even sure how it started, not being a native, but it doesn’t matter. It energizes me and lets my mind know the best fans are ready to cheer us on.
The crowd goes wild when the singer holds the final note longer than any famous singer I’ve ever heard. When it’s over, I throw a gloved fist in the air and skate to position. My line is first, and I’mready to bring my A game. I hunch over the face-off spot, and as soon as the ref gives the signal, my stick swings. Unfortunately, the opponent wins the face-off.
The first period is intense as we battle to score. Though our side says zero, so does the other team’s. A whistle sounds, and Coach motions for our line to come back. My skates cut through the ice, then slow to take the step to the long bench. I sit, glad for a breather.
The assistant coach, Liam, walks up to me. “How you doing, Crank? Good?”
I nod as I squirt water into my mouth. We’ve been playing hard, but I’m not exhausted. The great thing about practice, you play almost nonstop. The beauty of game days, you get a break every couple of minutes or so, depending on the plays the coaches come up with. This time, I’ll be out for two minutes before I have to go back in. It’s enough to get my heart rate back down and calm my body from the beating I’ve taken against the boards.
When the change up comes, I’m ready and hop over the siding and skate into position. Before I make it toward the puck, the other teams’ defenseman slashes his stick, hitting me in the shoulder. The ref calls the penalty, and our opponent goes in the penalty box. The Warriors now have a power play where we’ve got six guys on the ice and the Tornadoes have five.
“Spear!” I shout to Javier.
