Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Remember the comment Callahan made about the Florida teams sucking?
Yeah, about that.
Miami wasn’t a problem, but their hockey cousins on the other side of the state are a completely different story.
With less than thirty seconds to go in the third period with the score still tied at zero, our offense is battling to end this game in regulation.
With our top offensive line on the ice, this should be the game-clincher for the Comets, but Tampa’s making us work for it by defending their own net with every intention to push this game into overtime.
A fumbled pass between two of my teammates leads to a turnover with the puck in the neutral zone, and suddenly a Tampa player rockets towards me on a breakaway, riding lightning underneath his skates.
A mad scramble ensues as one of the Comets’ defensemen chases after him, swinging his stick in an arc to disrupt his play—and he does, just not in the way my teammate probably hoped.
What comes next happens in the blink of an eye. One second, I’m tracking the puck, the next, I’m flat on the ice, with a Tampa player and my own defenseman piled on top of me. A sound I’ve dreaded hearing since the beginning of the third period booms through the arena—the home team’s scoring horn.
Skaters dressed in bright green jerseys come up to the net to help their teammate get back onto his feet—they’re all smiles and cheers. My own teammate has already gotten up and left me behind, nowhere to be found.
I crane my head towards the jumbotron to confirm what I can’t believe: 0 to 1.
The replay shows big, flailing Florida man skating towards me with my teammate coming in to intercept him.
He shoots the puck, I stop it with my blocker, but then it ricochets off to the side.
Making no attempt to prevent the looming collision, he crashes into me with my teammate following thanks to his momentum.
We’re a multi-car accident jammed up in the crease, but the puck is still loose because of my original save.
Abandoned off to the side, visible for the refs, there’s no whistle stopping play.
In the final seconds of the game, Tampa’s trailer skates up and tips it in over the body pileup.
How the hell was that not goaltender interference?
I push off the ground to stand at full height. I shake my head, hearing something rattle in my helmet. I glance over to the bench where my coach watches my teammates come off the ice. A vein threatens to burst in his neck, but he’s not shouting at the referees to challenge what just happened.
Even though my own blood pressure’s starting to rise thanks to the mess, I have enough sense to read the room—the sea of Tampa fans cheering, the elated players huddling around their teammate who made the opportunistic shot. My shoulders sag, and I let out a sigh.
Who am I kidding? No ref’s going to wave off the goal for goalie interference in this situation, not while on Tampa’s home ice.
The TV broadcasts have probably already moved on.
The game’s over. Defeated, I follow my teammates and skate off the ice to head for the tunnel, handing off our sticks and gloves to our equipment staff on the way.
With each step towards the away team’s dressing room, more and more dread piles onto my shoulders.
As the last in line, I could just keep walking and never stop, leaving the arena and going on a journey until I made it back to Chicago.
My tired legs aren’t buying the idea. I just want to get out of my gear and breathe fresh air.
I take a left at the fork in the tunnel and reach the away team’s dressing room to face the inevitable.
When we step inside, everyone braces for impact. Everyone’s trying and failing to appear unfazed by the game’s outcome, but the disappointment is undeniable. Palpable. All heads are tilted downward, too embarrassed or afraid to make eye contact with each other.
In the middle of all of us pulling off our gear, Coach Miller bursts into the room to begin his post-loss ritual.
The vein in his neck hasn’t ruptured into a bloody mess, but that doesn’t mean he’s calmed down.
Quite the opposite. He’s a no-nonsense man with a brutal temper, and he believes bad plays deserve punishment.
He’s the kind of coach who’s not afraid to single someone out and shove the brunt of the loss onto them.
Tonight, Miller takes a different approach and chooses several players as the targets of his ire. The two players who fumbled the pass and the defenseman who failed to stop the Tampa player. I wouldn’t be surprised if the home team could hear him shouting each and every obscenity at them.
When Miller’s gaze narrows to me, I expect to be the next to hear an earful.
After all, the puck stops at the goalie.
My stomach ties into knots, my hands clammy with sweat.
I can already form the words in my head: Why didn’t you get up faster?
What was that shoddy save? Do you enjoy losing, Harrison? Do you enjoy letting your team down?
Instead, Miller says nothing. He turns back to the rest of the group, stroking the bottom half of his jaw in deep, brooding thought, and then he leaves.
A short time later, normal conversation returns to the dressing room.
Around me, everyone else has moved on, focusing on changing out of their gear and packing their belongings for the flight home.
Shouldn’t we be discussing what happened as a team?
The game wasn’t lost in the third period.
It was probably lost much sooner than that.
Why wasn’t the game winning goal challenged for goaltender interference at least?
Tonight’s loss wasn’t a fluke. Our team struggles to play a consistent full sixty minute game.
There’s miscommunication errors we’re told need to be solved by the coaching staff, but when and how that effort will take place remains undetermined when not even our captain makes a leading effort beyond barking at everyone when Coach Miller’s not around to do it for him.
If you casually watched our games through the season, maybe you wouldn’t see the hairline fractures under the surface. If all you did was look at overall league standings, you would think everything’s fine. We’ve made it to the playoffs for the last three years. For some people, that’s enough.
Maybe the playoffs will be different this time.
Everyone can’t wait to go home to Chicago, but the state of Florida has other plans.
A late spring storm delays our flight thanks to gusty winds, torrential rain, and lightning.
My phone weather app says there should be a break in the storm before midnight.
If we’re lucky, we’ll be leaving the tarmac by one in the morning.
With how tonight has gone, I’m not so certain if I should be relying on luck.
Many of my teammates have crashed for the night—spread around the terminal, sleeping upright, their heads slumped back while they snore.
Others have sprawled out horizontally across several chairs to catch some sleep.
It’s quiet if not for the gusting wind rattling the building and the distant clap of thunder.
All the fire and fury from earlier in the evening has burnt out.
I’m too wired after the game to sleep, so I grab a burger and fries from one of the fast food places in the terminal. As I wait for my order, my phone pops off with a series of messages. I quickly check and discover it’s my dad texting me in a frenzy.
Dad
I know you can’t respond immediately after the game, but I’m starting to get worried. Is everything okay?
Oh, shit. I forgot to text him back after the game to let him know I’m alright. He had messaged me shortly after the game if I was okay, and I’d gotten so distracted while undressing and being called in for a concussion check that it slipped my mind. I send him a message while waiting for my food.
Me
Sorry, I’m okay, dad
Couldn’t respond earlier. Had to get a check up after the game
After I receive my food, I find a free, reclusive table in the terminal’s waiting area just in case my dad decides he would rather talk over the phone.
Dad
Thank God! I hated having to wait to hear from you. I was so worried.
Me
Sorry. Our flight’s been delayed, so I was grabbing some food
And just as I’m about to tear into said food to ease my growling stomach, my dad sends another message.
Dad
I was watching the game. How come no one challenged that goal? Can players just run into you whenever they want? I thought there was a rule about that.
You and me both, dad.
Me
I don’t know
Sometimes it just plays out that way
Every ref interprets the rules a little differently
Goaltender interference is notorious for it
Dad
You could have been hurt.
I can only imagine how my dad must have reacted when he saw me flat on the ice. Tomorrow when we’re back in Chicago, I have to talk with the equipment manager to make sure my helmet wasn’t damaged.
Me
Sorry to keep you up, but I’m okay. You should get some sleep
Dad
I slept on the plane. I’m a little too wired after your game.
Me
Plane??
Dad
I told you I was coming to your neck of the woods a few days ago, remember? I said it was fortuitous since you’d be back in Chicago by then.
I wrack my brain, trying to recall the conversation he’s referring to. It takes a few moments, but I end up remembering what he’s talking about. My dad’s coming to Chicago to receive an honorary award from the University of Chicago for his new poetry collection and to give a few guest lectures.
Me
I’m sorry I forgot. I’ve just been so focused on the road trip. Sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up from the airport
Dad
I understand.
Are you sure you’re feeling ok? Did they do the full concussion protocol test?
Me
Yes, they did. I promise I’m fine
It’s not the first time I’ve been run into, and I’m sure it’s not going to be the last.
Dad