I’m just an object,
A game,
I’m used for entertainment,
I hear them chanting, “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby”,
No one notices me,
Sitting here on this cold ice,
Beaten up by hockey sticks all day,
I may seem tough on the outside,
But what they don’t see,
All the long nights sitting in the bucket, Thinking about the beating i’ll take tomorrow, What they don’t get
Every shot that is fired,
I feel,
While they are busy watching Bobby fly through the air, I trickle out of the net,
Trying to recover from the last shot of the day, Knowing that tomorrow will be the same,
If only they could be puck for a day,
Then they might understand.