Fuck.

FFFUUUUCCCCKKKKK.

I broke my stick last night. My good stick.

Not the back-up stick that everyone has. You know, the one you got off the clearance rack that might not be your curve, or your flex, but it was a good deal and you need a second stick so why the fuck not.

Nope. I broke my “eh, it’s kind of expensive, but fuck it. It’ll probably last me a while. Plus…it’s so pretty” stick. The one I lied to my wife about how much it cost.

I’ve barely got 10 games in it. I don’t even know how it happened. One minute I’m launching clap-bombs high and wide, next thing I know I’m on the bench and it’s bent at a Gordon Hayward ankle-like angle.

I swear I missed my next shift I was so inconsolable.

This is bad.

I have a tournament I’m playing in down in Tampa a week from tonight. Flying down with the boys for some puck, some brews, and some Disney Princesses.

What?

Anyways. I don’t know what I’m going to do. There’s not a good selection of pro-shops around here to get a new one, and I don’t trust anyone to ship me one in 6 days.  I’d ask Nick to send something to my hotel room, but he’s too busy filling Eagle gloves with Vaseline for some late night lovin’ to bother right now.

Guess I’ll use the 105 Flex with the Ovi curve.

Yikes

 

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