THIS IS MY TOP SPEED.

We all have a top speed. At some point in our hockey careers, we stopped getting faster and started getting... smarter. Or at least that's what we tell ourselves.

Every season begins with optimism. "This is the year I get back in shape." "I've been running." "I dropped ten pounds." "My legs feel great." Then the puck drops.

About halfway through the first shift, someone twenty years younger blows by you like you're standing still. You immediately have two thoughts.

First: "I probably should've stretched."

Second: "Maybe I'm just pacing myself." You're not.

That's your top speed. And you know what? At least you lace them up every week. Beer league isn't full of NHL hopefuls. It's full of accountants, teachers, electricians, nurses, mechanics, firefighters, software developers, parents, and people who barely made it to the rink before warmups ended.

We all have jobs tomorrow. We all have knees that make strange noises. And somehow every one of us still thinks we can catch the twenty-two-year-old who played juniors last season.

Spoiler alert...

We're not catching him. But every now and then... Someone sends you on a breakaway.

For about four glorious seconds you feel like Connor McDavid.

The wind is in your face. The crowd of twelve people is absolutely losing their minds. Your teammates are yelling, "GO! GO! GO!" Your brain is saying, "This is it. I'm flying." Your legs are saying, "This is literally all we've got."

You arrive at the net completely out of breath, wondering why breakaways suddenly feel like marathons. Maybe you score. Maybe you miss by three feet. Maybe you pull something before you even get the shot off. Doesn't matter.

For those four seconds... You were at top speed.

And honestly... It felt pretty good.

Maybe we're not getting any faster.

But we're still chasing the puck.