Some creative non-fiction comin' at ya

Ok, so Prof. Roorbach instructed me not to work on my book until I had completely "lived the experience" and I really think that's excellent advice. Otherwise, the goal of writing about my experience might get in the way of the experience itself. However, last night I had one of those moments - one of those moments that told me I made the right decision. And I really need those moments. Even afterwards last night I found myself second-guessing the way I've spent my time: I probably shouldn't have, but I did a google search and found the blogs of some other current fellows, who are off trekking across Mongolia (in yurts no less!), tangoing in Buenas Aires until 5 a.m., and hiring guides to take them through African canyons. Am I being to safe? I find myself asking the question time and again. Am I making the most of this Watson experience? The essence of the Watson is adventure, isn't it? But, I have to go back to my proposal: I proposed to live the life of a Danish hockey player, to become a teammate, which requires being in one place, going to practice instead of going out at night, living in one city, in someone's house, rather than living nomadically in Asia - those weren't my proposals. I love hockey, I do. Thus, I need moments like the following one to remind me of just why I find joy in being a teammate and to let me know that I am making an impression on my teammates here, just as they are making an impression on me. And today, the idea to put it into a short creative piece just seemed right. I've been doing so much journaling, that I needed to do something more creative, especially after reading a book of creative narratives, both prose and poetry. I haven't even reread it, but thought I'd blog it anyway. I hope you enjoy - I did:

I hadn’t even gotten my towel on yet when Lizette popped her head into the shower.
“Meghan, Meghan, hurry up!” She half whispered in the serious voice she uses when she tells me not to forget which side of the bench the defensemen should change at, or which player each of us is replacing on the ice. “I have to ask you something!”
“What’s going on?” I questioned skeptically as I wrapped my tiny towel around my freezing torso. I hate showering at the rink, but that’s what the team does, so I do it.
“I can’t ask you here, just hurry up.”
I grabbed my huge bottles of shampoo, conditioner and body wash, each big enough to last me the entire year away from home. Denmark was my first stop, so each was also nearly full, meaning I had to tote them all back and forth to the rink every practice and game until I found the equivalent of a Danish Wal-Mart where I could by smaller, more transportable bottles.
I threw on my sweat suit, still damp with sweat from the pre-practice 5K run and weightlifting session, struggled to pull my too-small socks over my damp feet, slipped my sneakers on without bothering to tie them, and quickly wrapped my towel around my wet hair. I ran out the door to find Lizette walking past me down the hallway, her arm around a crying Louisa Doj. I marveled again at how well these girls take care of one another. Two weeks ago it was Michelle crying on Louisa’s shoulder when she found out she had been cut from the Finnish Olympic team. Tonight it was Louisa leaning on Lizette. I gently closed the door and eased back into the locker room.
As I bent over shaking my hair dry with the towel, I was again summoned.
“Meghaaaan, Meghaaaaan, hurry.” Even if she wasn’t being serious, Lizette always seemed to sound it; her accent couldn’t be any more stereotypically Scandinavian – so much so that I always wanted her to tell me that her name was Hans and she wanted to “pump ME up!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
I jogged to the door – rather, I waddled to the door, my legs aching from the hours of exercise. She motioned for me to follow her down the hallway, so I let the big fuzzy pink ball at the end of her ear-flapped winter cap guide me.
“I saw something in your…what do you call it…your…” she pantomimed the shape of a box as we walked into the locker room, a long, cold, dimly lit concrete corridor filled with shoulder-high, cage-like lockers and the dank smell of wet hockey equipment.
“My locker?”
“Yes, yes, that.”
“There was something in it.”
Oh shit, I thought. Someone’s played their first prank on me. I wondered if someone had managed to open it up and put in the team’s second “mascot:” a purple dildo that got passed secretly from hockey bag to hockey bag to see how each girl would react and hopefully get someone some sort of embarrassment.
“That,” she said, pointing to the floor of my locker, which as far as I remembered was empty besides a few roles of black hockey tape and some old purple socks.
“My hockey puck?”
“Yes. Is that something from home?”
I had forgotten about my college bookstore souvenir hockey puck, which said “Holy Cross Hockey” and had a big purple Crusader head in the middle. I had thrown it in my bag, figuring I would find someone to whom I could give it as a gift.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s from my university,” I responded with excitement. “The Holy Cross Crusaders!” I found myself talking about, and missing, my old team a lot. Many of these girls couldn’t even conceive of being able to play hockey and go to school in one place and I was proud to tell them all about it.
“Can I buy it from you?” She asked tentatively.
“Buy it?! No way – it’s yours!” I laughed. “You don’t have to pay me for it. I’d love to give it to you. I had brought it knowing I’d give it to someone and it turns out that someone is you.”
Lizette was my defensive partner. She was only fourteen years old, but she was a solid hockey player. She took life seriously, especially hockey. Laura, our fellow teammate and national team coach, told me that Lizette had begun crying when she received the letter inviting her to play for the national team; she had wanted it so badly and finally (I say finally, though she was only fourteen) got that chance. But it served her well on the ice - she was strong and she was level-headed about the game, always knowing what the next move should be.
For a short while, I thought she might take things a bit too seriously, but I saw her goofy side more and more each day. In fact, I think I often brought the goofy side out of her. We seemed to end up in a wrestling match every night at the end of practice and I’d always here my name called out in different voices around the rink and, looking up, see her giggling face pretending to hide behind something. But nothing could hide that big pink knit cap. I was glad she was my partner; I was glad that being partners was bringing us closer together (we both lamented being separated that night at practice); and I was glad she wanted my puck.
I took my keys out of my pocket, unlocked the tiny padlock on the locker, reached down and grabbed the puck and happily put it in her hand.
“Yes, I saw it there and I thought I could have it and then, oooh I could have something of Meghan’s!” She threw her hands in the air as if she were indicating a star’s name on a Broadway sign and looked up as if in serious admiration.
Really? Does she really think that much of me? I wondered and I smiled.
“Well you take that and remember Holy Cross hockey. And you get a video camera and have someone tape you so that I can tell my coach all about you and you can go play for him when he starts giving out scholarships.”
“Yes, yes alright,” she answered enthusiastically. “Thank you, Meghan. I’m going to go home and put it in my room.”
“You better.”
She turned, and started to run out, but before she got out the door she turned back. “I will see you next Monday then, Meghan.”
“You’re not going to work the concession stand with us this weekend?”
“No, I must go away for the weekend with my mother and grandfather. We’re going to our summer house.”
“It’s not exactly summer,” I laughed, thinking about all of the dark, rainy days we had been having, so typical of Copenhagen, “but have fun anyways.”
“Ok, goodbye.” She ran out. I was a little disappointed she wouldn’t be selling “French Hot Dogs” with me that weekend.
“Hi-hi!” I shouted in one of my small attempts at fitting in with Danish culture. Our hot dog adventures would have to wait.