Sixteen year-old Raz Kolnikoff is in his basement working out, trying to make his high school hockey team.

With every second I work out, the more likely it will be to reach my dream.

He’s been on the exercise bike now for 90 minutes. Raz’s face is dripping sweat all over the floor. He gets off and starts to do some pushups when footsteps thunder down the stairs.

”What are you doing? Why aren’t you doing your homework? Andre asked.

Without looking at his father Raz replies, “Not right now, I’m training for tryouts next week”

“Some dream you have? You think your going to the pros? You can’t even skate!” Andre exclaimed rather irritably.

“Only because you never taught me when I was younger like NORMAL parents in this country.” Raz raised his voice, sensing a major confrontation, and not the first.

“Look son, I just don’t want to see you wasting your time on this when you could be concentrating on other ways to be successful. Like school.” Andre tried to calm his son down.

“Wasn’t it you who told me to follow my dreams and be happy, dad? Well, this is the only way.” Raz said amid feelings of annoyance with his father.

“Look Raz, I’m sorry we didn’t have you taught how to skate when you were younger, it just never came up. But…” Andre taking a look at Raz’s face of disgust “Uggh! I can’t talk to you like this.” Andre stormed off upstairs.

He doesn’t understand, this is the only way for me to be someone, to do something real. I don’t get that feeling in school!

Raz completes 30 push-ups and takes a break, when his cell phone rings. It’s his friend Lorelai, who Raz desires. His hopes fuel the feeling that they will be more than friends one day.

”Hey Raz, I need someone to talk to,” said Lorelai.

Not this again, he thought.

“I keep fighting with my boyfriend. He gets so jealous at the slightest issue. Every time I talk to another guy … I just don’t understand men.”

“Well, if he doesn’t trust you then maybe he isn’t the right guy for you.”

Silence on the other end. This same old story had finally gotten the better of him.

“Maybe if you weren’t so quick to forgive him every time he ends up hurting you, you’d be happy,” Raz snarled. His bad mood stemming from the altercation with his dad was gaining full force.

“Well if your going to be like that then … FINE! GO BACK TO YOUR “TRAINING” SESSION!” she cried. Dead air followed.

Raz just stood their deep in thought for a moment then went back to his training ritual.

When Raz finished, he decided to go for a walk around the neighbourhood just to think about life and to clear his head.

One day I’m gonna play in the NHL and I’ll be famous, making money and doing what’s right for everyone. Then they’ll see…. They’ll ALL see!

One-point-nine seconds left.

“He crosses the blueline and cuts in, listen to this crowd,--” said Largen.

I’m not going to make it, damn! I’m gonna have to hit ‘im.

It never was easy being the son of Hall of Fame defenseman Ron Oristo. Baby Norm got his first jersey before leaving the hospital and was on skates before he could even walk.

Norm Oristo grew to love the game, but unlike his father, wasn’t blessed with an abundance of talent. Everyone naturally assumed that Norm would follow in his father’s footsteps - after all he did have Ron’s height, his flowing brown hair and brown eyes.

Today was a monumental day for his career. Cut down day. As a favor out of respect to his father, Norm was invited to try out for the OHL’s North Bay Centennials, and his first camp was not without its share of adversity. He had broken his ring finger on Thursday thanks to a wicked slash by teammate Josh Westkins and the subsequent fight brought the scrimmage to an end.

This was the first time that Norm had been away from home for a great length of time and he missed his girlfriend Heather Milano who had convinced him that he had a legit chance at making the team.

‘She really does believe in me’, he thought.

But the caliber of play at this level was unlike anything Norm had expected and for the first time, as he sat in the locker room, Norm thought seriously about his future. What would he do if he didn’t make it as a hockey player?

I’ve always liked to write. Maybe I could be an author. Or even a sports writer…

His thoughts were interrupted by the assistant coach.

“Normie, Coach is ready for you in his office.”

Norm’s heart skipped a beat. He nodded, took a deep breath and stood up from his locker stall for possibly the last time as a hockey player. It was exactly sixteen steps from his stall to the Coach’s office. It felt like the longest walk of his life.

“Come in and close the door Norman.”

Only his grandmother and Coach Denny Grapchuk called him Norman. He choked up inside, but kept it hidden from the coach.

Norm shut the door slowly and took a seat in front of the coach’s desk. Displayed on the wall behind the Coach’s desk were pictures spanning a 42-year career in hockey, including a signed photo of Ron and Denny playing in the Canada Cup against the Russians.

Even at this moment Norm couldn’t escape his father’s legacy.

“Norman, your father and I go way back. In all honesty if your name was Smith or Thomas I’m not sure you would have survived the first cut. But I see something in you … something that reminds me of him. When you started that fight…”

“Coach, I’m very sorry about that. I, I lost my temper and I should have just … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, son. Norman,” his tone softened, as he tilted his head, “that impressed me. To break your finger and still go after the kid, that took guts. Just like your father used to play in the old days - until he became a superstar and the coaches wouldn’t let him fight anymore.”

Norm smiled, and made eye contact with the coaching legend, unable to decipher any hints from Grapchuk’s body language.

“Look, at this point the Pros may not happen for you but you can skate well and you’re tough. You’re not a natural but I like your work ethic.”

“Coach I’m willing to work so hard for you ...” Norm was almost pleading.

“You certainly won’t crack the lineup right away. I’d like to work you in as the thirteenth forward.” I’d also like to get you practicing with the defensemen. I know you don’t want to play Ronnie’s old position but I have a hunch you’ll be a better player on the blueline ...”

Norm had always insisted on being a forward throughout his career, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It was either hockey in small town Ontario or go back home and become a normal teenager in high school.

“I’ll play anywhere you need me, Coach. Just don’t make me wear his number 2.”

Coach Grapchuk chuckled as he stood up, walking around the old wooden desk to shake Norm’s hand.

“I think we’ll leave that number hanging from the rafters. See you at practice tomorrow, Norman.”

Practice. Tomorrow! Norm smiled. Practice had never sounded so good.

One practice, one game at a time and maybe one day I’ll win that ring that my father never could…

“ … skates into the slot, Oristo is right on him …”

Kolnikoff realized he wouldn’t make it to the net with Oristo there stride for stride. His five-foot-ten frame racing at full-throttle with a chance to win the Stanley Cup without a clear-cut lane.

He would have to shoot.

Just a little bit more, he thought. Just…another…few …

Both attacker and defender stepped into the slot in between the face off circles. They heard the goaltender screaming through his mask. Norm had heard this before. Kolnikoff registered the words. The first word was a profanity, and the second word sounded something like ‘dad’.

One-point-two seconds flashed on the clock.

“Did you see him, Martha?” asked Jonathan Morgan.

“Jonathan, he’s only twelve,” said Martha, retreating from her unstable husband.

Morgan the elder’s face contorted into a scowl as he marched across the kitchen to bang on the door to his son’s room.

“He’s not just twelve! He’s a failure! He STINKS! D’ya hear me boy?” He fiddled with the doorknob after reaching the bedroom door.

Behind the closed door, a young Karl Morgan fought back tears.

I won’t let him see me cry; he won’t have the satisfaction, I …

The door swung open.

Bits of plaster rained down onto Jonathan’s bald head and shoulders as he crossed the threshold.

“Boy, how many times have I told you to STAY ON YOUR FEET!? You lost it for your team today? And you want to play in the pros? Do you know how much time, and money, and devotion to the game I have lavished on you, boy?”

I won’t let him see me cry … Impossible. Young Karl Morgan couldn’t hold back and tears streamed down his cheeks.

Taken as a sign of weakness, Jonathan took three steps with intent, pounced on his son, grabbed his biceps and shook him violently enough, the boy’s head swung back and forth, like a jack-in-the-box.

“How do you expect to make it to the NHL choking the way you did tonight, boy? Letting in last minute goals to lose the Championship. You STINK, d’ya hear me? Eh, boy? ANSWER ME!”

Karl was limp in his father’s grip, being shaken. He felt his insides squirming, as tears flew from his smooth, unsullied cheeks - that would be full of pimples soon - onto his father’s arms. Behind Jonathan came his mother, in tears herself, to take hold of her raging husband.

“He’s just a boy, Jonathan, he’s just …”

“Stop coddling him, woman! It’s no wonder he’s soft.” He turned back to his son. “Stop the tears, you little girl! Look at what you’ve done,” he said turning to his spouse. “You’ve made him into the marshmallow, woman!”

He let go of his son, stormed out of the room and snatched up a bottle sitting atop the kitchen table. He took a seat and lit a Marlboro, inhaling with force and a look of utter disgust as he watched his wife slowly close the door to the bedroom.

This set off Jonathan. He went off on a loud rant, screaming just outside the door, cursing the boy, his mother, the fact that he was born and the way she babied him.

The sound of a buckle being undone could be heard through the door.

In the room, Martha Morgan took her son into her arms pulling him close to her chest as she silently sobbed. She comforted Karl, stroked his hair, and held him in a vise-like grip only available to a mother protecting her offspring. She whispered to him how things would be alright, while Karl stained her kitchen apron with his tears and run-off from his nose.

“Hush, baby, hush. He only wants the best for you. He just …, “ she held back a massive sob, “ … just wants you to be the best, to make it to the pros, to be …”

A bottle shattered and she jumped.

The door swung open.

There stood Jonathan, belt in hand.

“Leave the room, woman …” he said. She froze holding her only son tight to her bosom as her husband wrapped the belt around his hand twice, the buckle swinging like a pendulum. “Now!”

Karl was lucky. The beating sent him to the hospital.