<p>Hey guys, I am finished with my essay and just need some help in picking an essay title. So far here are my options: nICE Life, A Life Ending in Ice, My Life before Dawn. My essay is below, feel free to an alternate title option. Thanks!</p>
<p>The time is 4:27 a.m. on a Tuesday morning in the middle of February. I am in a dank, low lit room breathing in nothing but the pungent odor of our rarely washed hockey equipment; a stench to which only a hockey player can attest. My eyelids fight to stay open. The sight of my breath makes me feel colder than I already am. I unzip my bag to look for my towel so I can wrap it around me in an attempt to retain some of my body's dwindling warmth. Much to my dismay, all that I uncover is a clump of rigid cloth frozen to my practice jersey. I forgot to take my bag out of my trunk last night, a rookie mistake. I see many of my closest friends occupying the same small, frigid room as me. Almost all are hunched over, trying to catch some brief minutes of shuteye. I pull out my gear and slowly begin attaching it to my body, letting the thin coating of ice defrost against me. My shivering body would much rather be tucked away in the warmth of my bed, sound asleep preparing for the arduous day of school and homework ahead. However my mind does not feel the same way. In my mind, there is no place I would rather be.</p>
<p>The time is now 5:27 a.m. My teammates are no longer hunched over on the bench inside the locker room. Instead, many of us are hunched over the home team bench, getting rid of some undigested dinner from last night, a not-so-uncommon occurrence. Suddenly, the piercing sound of our coach's whistle echoes throughout the rink, signaling the end to our brief respite. I re-strap my helmet and hurdle the boards back onto the ice for our second of three 25 minute rounds of continuous skating. Right now there is no place I would rather be.</p>
<p>Finally, the clock strikes 6:20. The sound of the final whistle echoes off the rink walls for a final time. Using the last of my depleted energy reserves, I slowly glide off the ice without uttering a word. Though practice is over and both my mind and body are drained, there is no place I would rather be.</p>
<p>I was two and a half years old when my Pop put on my first pair of ice skates. I cannot say I was thrilled. In fact, my parents said I cried when I finally stood on the ice with the help of a milk crate. But something inside me would not let me quit. Apparently I made an inspiring, but unsuccessful attempt to stumble across the ice to get to a 6-year-old girl who, I failed to see, was way out of my league. However, this experience bred far more than love for that six-year-old girl; it bred my insatiable love for hockey.</p>
<p>Insatiable in that I have never thought to question waking up at 4:05 a.m. four times a week for eighteen weeks each miserable, New England winter to drive to the next town over and skate to the point where I have lost feeling in my limbs. Insatiable in that I would spend all this time and energy, to play high school hockey, knowing that I will never play in the NHL. Insatiable in that I do it all for that feeling of freedom and peace I get while gliding across the ice, and ultimately, for the glory of the place where I love to be.</p>
</p>