58 minutes …
Like whitespace in a painting, I can feel my heart rest. Anticipation.
How many Nintendo games did I unwrap at Christmas as a kid? God, I was spoiled. I was lucky. But I enjoyed it. It wasn’t all that different than this very moment. I relished in the moment before.
Everyone within reach of the lassoed garland could tell you that the rectangular package was a Nintendo game. Uncle Tony and Aunt Christine wrote my name on the tag. I, for one, wasn’t fooled by the Target wrapping paper. That shape and feel was unmistakable. But which game was it? Ah, now that was a wonderful question. I knew I was getting something good, but how good?
I dug into the couch and waited my turn. I watched the wrapping paper fall.
I’m glad I found that memory. There were only so many outcomes. It was my turn. I wanted it. I peeled the paper back. I found gold.
I’m back in the now. I feel as if I know the final score, yet I still need to play the game. For a superstitious person, this no-man’s land could be a dangerous place. But in this moment, I’m not concerned with superstitions. This moment is something to be harnessed. It’s the silence before the needle finds vinyl. It’s the moment before.
The noise in my inner ear is gaining momentum, my exhales are more apparent. I’m craving the next minute. The clock is winding down. The game is about to begin. Will we see Lord Stanley’s Cup tonight?