They fingerpick on the guitar while I toe pick on the ice; my equipment doesn't fit as well as each note in each composition they write. After building brick walls in front of the net their slapbass slapshots destroy my defenses until their goals plague my crease.
While trying to set focus on my own game loud cheering emits from various venues for Mozart writing his first symphony at 6 Orson Welles directing Citizen Kane at 25 Johnny Depp originating that last line at 31 and Patrick Mahomes, whom I'm older than.
Competition is healthy, functional until the unstable heat of boiling envy releases the steam of resentment building pressure in the machinery until the screws pop out like marbles knocking each other out of bounds.
Daftly defining ego as the self and success as superiority and achievement as relative, I race against relatives; each pace they gain is a slap in the face in the rain stinging while slipping while blaming the elements precipitating my demise.
Gripping graphite too tightly vulcanized rubber goes wide shattering through plexiglass and into the rib cage of an innocent bystander dropping his concessions to climb the stairs to the sky box while I wait for repairs to be made.