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One
Then
People often asked me what it was like to not only be the kid of a hockey legend, a man who won numerous awards as a player and just as many as a coach, but also the kid brother of two of NHL’s most notable players.
It wasn’t bad.
But it wasn’t great either.
My family was super close, yeah, but the last thing I wanted was to be fucking compared to my twenty-seven year old brother. Yeah, Caleb was fucking great. Awesome. Glad you think that. Sure, his wife was a fucking knockout. Sydney was a great woman, yeah. They had a cute kid, yep.
Then there was Jonny.
“Oh, you didn’t want to play goalie because you knew there’d be no competing with Jon Jon Prescott,” people would say, as if I didn’t know who the guy was.
No, I didn’t want to play goalie because I didn’t particularly enjoy pucks fucking flying at my face.
And let’s be honest, Jonny only ended up in goal because he was no good at forward.
That’s not me being an ass, that’s the real story.
And then people went on and on about Jonny’s wife. Jenna was pretty, yeah, but she was a fucking bitch, and from the moment those two got married, Jonny stopped showing up to family things.
Like Jenna was more fucking important to him than his family.
So fuck you, Jonny. And no. I don’t want to be like you either.
I was Porter Prescott. I was my own fucking person, thank you very much.
As the years passed, as my brothers became more and more well known, as my sisters started to do their own things with the hockey community, I felt like my worth as a Prescott continued to diminish, as if I was just the kid brother who was bound to follow in every other Prescott’s shadow.
There wasn’t any way in hell I was going to do that.
I was a seventeen year old going-to-be junior at the same high school every one of my siblings went to—and no, I wasn’t held back because I was dumb. My parents didn’t think I was ready for kindergarten when I was five, and because I was the youngest at home, wanted me to excel in school.
Between my brothers and two of my sisters excelling at hockey, and McKenna excelling in academics, my siblings were brought up all the fucking time. As if there was no such person, Porter Prescott, without the five of them ahead of me.
I was fucking done.
I was done having to own up to my accomplishments; they were fucking mine! Not Caleb’s. Not Jonny’s. Not Myke’s or Ace’s. They were mine. It was me on the ice, my stick wielding the puck, my shot scoring goals.
Not theirs.
Before the year was up, I was no longer going to be “Baby Brother Prescott.”
No. I was going to be Porter Prescott period.
I was done being in the shadows.
