Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With the playoffs around the corner, Coach Miller informs me I’ll be the starting goaltender for game one against Denver. If I have any dreams of helping my team make a deep run for the Stanley Cup, then I have to be as prepared as possible.
With the remaining days of the break, I fall back into my usual routine: working out, managing my diet, and reviewing footage from the regular season games against Denver, our first opponent in the playoffs.
Goalie homework’s an important part of the process.
You can learn so much by studying your opponents and critiquing your own technique.
Normally I would be going over these replays with the Comets’ goalie coach and Sandoval, but they’ve elected to treat the break as an actual break, so I take on the task alone.
There’s so much to do, and there aren’t enough hours in the day.
Some would call it dedication, others would call it obsession.
Hours upon hours of footage, skimmed, stopped, and slowed down to analyze on a minute level.
This is what the other teams and coaches will be doing ahead of the playoffs: studying the goaltenders, looking for weaknesses, looking for advantages.
In the regular season, we faced Denver three times, beating them twice, losing to them once.
The loss wasn’t a blowout; it wasn’t a tug of war battle between two equally offensive teams. Denver’s style is defense oriented, so the scores remained low each game.
My teammates struggled to solve Denver’s goalie, so when it was time for me to defend my own net, the stakes seemed higher because each game felt like it would be decided by whoever scored first. The loss ended up being sixty minutes of critical saves which amounted to nothing because of one missed puck.
I gave my best effort, but it wasn’t enough. That’s what stings.
I’ve had my fair share of difficult games from a goaltending perspective.
Countless soft goals I should’ve blocked, countless others I’m not sure even the best goaltenders to have ever lived could have stopped.
You shouldn’t punish yourself over every goal scored on you, but there are some which linger.
The playoffs should be a giant reset button for the season, but I’m not so certain.
Another perspective might help. How did other goalies fare against Denver? Did Eric struggle this much against Denver’s offense? I pull up the VODs from the Seattle vs. Denver regular season games, desperate to uncover the truth.
What I find leaves me more unsettled and nervous ahead of the upcoming series.
Not only are the Seadogs capable of striking first against Denver’s goalie, but Eric’s able to hold out and defend their lead.
The Seadogs defense appears to be more organized, more consistent, more reliable.
Eric has strong defensemen on the ice with him at any given moment in the game.
Even their third line appears sturdy, unlike my own on the Comets.
Their defense isn’t impenetrable, but they make fewer costly mistakes.
It’s less than forty-eight hours before game one, and I’m falling prey to my doubts.
Our defense isn’t strong. Denver’s going to score on me, it’s inevitable.
I can’t achieve a shutout for seven games straight.
This is the kind of issue I should bring up to my goalie coach, but I can’t.
He’d tell me to go work out until I can’t be nervous anymore.
When my phone pings and lights up inside my dark bedroom, I jolt upright, startled by the sudden noise.
I run a hand over my face and glance out the window.
Night has already fallen on Chicago. God, what time is it?
The readout on my digital clock says it’s nearly midnight.
I’ve been hunched over my computer for hours, putting the VODs on loop to torture myself.
I reach over to the bedside to turn on my lamp and wince from the sudden light. With a groan, I shut off my laptop and nudge it away, irritated by the sight of it. What a total waste. There were probably a million other more important, more productive ways I could have spent the day.
I fall back against my bed and finally check the message that pulled me out of my stupor. It’s Eric, sending me his well wishes.
Eric
Hope you’re feeling better. Good luck against Denver!
I smile up at my phone, unable to be grumpy over a text from Eric. It’s sweet of him to reach out before the playoffs. I’ll need whatever support I can get.
Me
Doing better now that you’re here to save me from VOD hell
Been reviewing some footage from our games against Denver all day. Ended up looking at some of the Seadogs for comparison
Eric
Oh yeah?
Trying to uncover my secrets?
Me
Maybe
You make goaltending look so easy
I wish I was half as good as you
Yep, go figure. That’s another one of those texts I wish I could take back the moment it’s sent into the ether.
Eric
What do you mean? You’re plenty good all on your own. Where is this coming from?
Where is this coming from, Eric? Well, it’s always been here, hiding underneath the surface. Did you really think I was as confident as you?
Me
Just nervous
Our previous games against Denver were a lot closer than I remembered them being
It’s stupid, I know. It’s not like this is my first time in the playoffs, but this one feels different
Eric
You’re not stupid. Everyone gets nervous, even me
I roll my eyes and shake my head. Even you, Eric? I highly doubt that.
Me
Says the two-time Stanley Cup champion and multi-Vezina winner
Eric
You and I both know I wasn’t always a Stanley Cup champion
Me
But you are. That’s the difference between us
Instead of typing up a novel, Eric calls me.
Even just seeing his contact picture on the screen makes my stomach churn.
If he’s skipping past texting and going straight to calling, I must have struck a nerve.
I answer the call, put it on speakerphone, and carelessly toss it onto the bed beside me so I can mope while listening to Eric.
“James,” he starts, and the way he says my name with a hint of force causes my heart to flutter. “Where is this coming from? I’m not a brick wall. The Seadogs lose just like every other team.”
I can’t deflect with a quip or a joke, not over the phone, not while I have his attention in real time. I have a feeling Eric’s not going to hang up until I explain myself.
“I’m just…” I trail off and let out a sigh. “I’m just trying to figure out how you get over missed pucks so easily.”
Watching Eric in the net, he behaves differently from other goalies around the league—especially myself.
When a puck gets past him, he doesn’t deflate, he doesn’t angle his head up to the rafters to let out a groan of frustration.
Sure, maybe he’ll glance over his shoulder to see what happened faster than he could process, maybe he’ll push off the ground and brush shaved ice off his gear, or maybe he’ll turn around and squirt water from his bottle onto his face to cool off, but his body language remains stoic, impervious.
Even on rare “bad” nights where he’s off his game, he doesn’t fall apart in defeat.
“If you’re asking how I don’t let goals get to me, well, they do get to me, but I don’t let those feelings linger for more than a few moments. You can’t let them. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
Easier said than done, but I’m smart enough not to say that out loud. Eric’s not the first person I’ve spoken to about this to make that observation.
“A puck goes in. Okay. It’s already happened.
I can’t do anything about it. All I can do is block the next shot, then the next, so on, so forth.
If you keep punishing yourself for a past mistake, you’re not going to be ready to take on the next challenge.
You’ll just keep falling behind. None of this is easy to overcome.
I’m speaking from a place of experience.
You have to make a concerted effort to rewire your brain, and you have to make sure those reconfigured wires stay strong.
It’s a constant cycle of repairing the connections. ”
“You always seem to handle losing like it’s no big deal.”
Eric laughs in the face of my absurd statement. “James, I never want to lose. No professional athlete does. Losing is always a big deal, but it’s a lesson.”
“Aren’t…” I hate the way my voice grows tight, strained. “Aren't you afraid of letting your team down?”
“No, because I can’t let fear or doubt cloud the way I play. All you can do in the crease is trust yourself and your team to play to the best of their abilities.”
Eric pauses, and I can picture him on the other end of the call, brows furrowed, lips pursed. He’s a problem solver, someone who wants to help in whatever way he can, even if he can’t.
“At the end of the day, you can’t block every shot on your own, James.
There are a million little things going on in the middle of a game, and those factors build up over time to influence outcomes.
If your defense isn’t on the same page as you or there’s a breakdown in trust at any level, there’s going to be a risk of stuff getting through, and it could lead to a loss if your offense can’t get going.
You can’t control your teammates, but you can control your own game and mental state. ”
Eric’s words sink in. Deep down, he’s right. He’s repeated everything I’ve already read in hockey psychology books and player forums online. The problem isn’t the advice itself; the problem is me and my own mentality.
“Thanks for the insight,” I say, sighing heavily, “I appreciate it.”
In an ideal world, I’d take Eric’s advice and transform my mentality overnight, but I’m not the kind of man who can produce miracles.