Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Media availabilities. The one part of the job which manages to be more intimidating than actual goaltending.
Seconds before fielding my first question, my phone vibrates twice in my hoodie pocket.
Instead of checking the message, I ignore it, keeping my attention fixed on the room full of sports journalists.
Some of them are familiar faces who follow the team during the regular season, but the majority are from national American and even Canadian media.
“What was it like being pulled?” a Chicago sports reporter asks.
I knew this would be the most obvious question, so I practiced my answer in front of my bathroom mirror earlier and made sure to train my expression.
“It was embarrassing. No one wants to be benched, whether it’s the regular season or the playoffs. You work hard so you can play your best each game, but the truth is sometimes your best isn’t enough.”
“Over the course of the series, do you think there was more your teammates could have done to slow down LA?”
Last night, so many of my teammates were eager to point fingers and shift blame for the game four loss—but that wasn’t a new phenomenon.
Our team identity has been riddled with problems bubbling under the surface since before the playoffs.
Being shut out completely during the Western Conference Final was the final nail in the coffin.
It would be so easy to join in on the toxic dressing room culture.
I could point to our defensemen for their lack of, well, defense.
Our forwards made sloppy passes which led to terrible turnovers in the neutral zone.
There were even a few that should have never happened right in front of my crease.
We had a piss poor penalty kill and an even weaker power play.
We struggled to get our offense going, so we hardly put any points on the board across the series.
The team was so afraid to lose to Los Angeles, we forgot how to play to win.
“At the end of the day, I have to stop pucks, and I didn’t,” I answer, choosing to take the high road and not fall prey to such a divisive question. “I just have to work on my own game and learn from this experience.”
Another journalist chimes in with the next question. “Speaking of the future, James… You’re an unrestricted free agent this summer. Are you planning to resign with Chicago despite this series’ outcome?”
In the midst of everything going on, I hadn’t thought about how this loss could possibly affect my future with the Comets.
“Uh, well,” I try to find the right words in spite of my wavering voice and tightening throat.
I knew this interview would be hard, but I underestimated how much it would affect me in the moment.
“Chicago is the team who drafted me and eventually gave me the opportunity to play in the NHL. I’d like to keep playing here. ”
The Comets’ communications manager signals to the audience that only one more question will be allowed for time. She picks a journalist from the sports column at The Pacific.
“This is your first season playing without your mom, James. You’ve talked in the past about how much of a role she’s played in helping you reach the NHL. Is there anything you wish you could say to her after this series?”
This isn’t an interview anymore, this is an ambush. Shouldn’t our media person be screening these questions? Maybe the majority of these journalists wouldn’t have asked such a sensitive question, but now that it’s out in the open, the dozens of journalists staring back at me expect an answer.
I take a deep breath and bite the inside of my cheek to keep my emotions in check. My fingers flex against the podium, gripping the sides tight. Professional athletes don’t break down and cry in the middle of interviews no matter what.
“I’d… I’d say I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more. That I’m sorry for letting her down.”
The room grows quiet, tense. No one else has anything to say—especially the journalist who asked the inappropriate question in the first place. From their inability to meet my eyes and awkward fidgeting, no one wants to be here anymore.
“Thank you everyone for your time,” the Comets communications manager says, cutting in. “This interview is over.”
For the second time in two days, I come home and head straight to bed to hide under the covers and scroll hopelessly through social media.
My feed is riddled with clips of my teammates’ own postgame interviews.
More blame shuffling, more lack of accountability, more frustration.
No one’s spared from the crossfire, but I continue to take the brunt of it.
Suddenly my teammates have become armchair goalie coaches who think stating the obvious will absolve them of their own failures.
Thank God training camp isn’t until September, because we all need a break from each other.
My own interview has its fair share of dissection and speculation from online hockey fandom.
At least the collective anonymous masses seem to be in agreement: the question about my mom crossed the line.
For me, it lampshaded my failure. I wasn’t able to win the Cup while she was alive.
With her passing, I thought I could honor her legacy by achieving it the season after.
With how far the Comets had made it into the playoffs, I started to believe the dream was possible—I thought this would be the year we went all the way.
I thought I’d raise the Cup over my head and dedicate the win to her.
I was wrong. My life isn’t a fairytale. Miracles aren’t real. The season was meaningless.
A throbbing headache forms behind my brow.
I’ve hardly had anything to eat or drink in the last twenty-four hours.
I retreat to the kitchen and scrounge for something to take the edge off.
I haven’t gone grocery shopping since returning back to Chicago, but I gather the ingredients to make one of life’s basics: a grilled cheese.
While waiting for my sandwich to cook on either side, I turn on the coffee maker and hover over it, wishing it would brew faster.
Maybe a warm jolt of caffeine will make me feel better.
As I place my sandwich onto a plate, my phone starts to ping from the other side of the kitchen, one chime after another.
I ignore it and pour myself a cup of coffee.
It’s probably my dad, maybe Eric. Yet the notifications don’t stop.
Something is blowing up. I drag myself away from the coffee maker to chuck my phone across the room, but when the lock screen lights up, I freeze.
Robbie
Okay, so, don’t freak out.
I’m going to find out what’s happening.
I’m SO SORRY about this.
We’re going to get through this, James.
Robbie and I have a more casual relationship since he was an old friend of my mom, but these messages are unusual even for him. Beyond his messages, I have countless notifications from each of the social media apps I use.
You have 432 notifications waiting for you. Go check them out!
Cold dread drapes over my shoulders. A vein pulses in my forehead, and I lean back against the counter as a wave of dizziness hits. What the hell is going on?
Sick curiosity compels me to return to the social media app. I have, in fact, been tagged countless times in countless posts from strangers and hockey media alike, all revolving around the same video with a thumbnail featuring Comets Head Coach Miller.
I tap the video, and it begins to play. To my surprise, it’s not a formal exit interview arranged by the team.
It’s a segment from Hot Takes, Cold Ice, featuring two of ESPN’s usual commentators: Doug and Paul “the Wall”.
Bringing on players, coaches, and other personalities in the business isn’t unusual, but something about Miller appearing on this type of program makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“…Can you elaborate more on your decision to pull Harrison in the first period yesterday?” Doug, the host, asks.
“It seemed like there was a scramble after the TV timeout over what you were going to do. One minute Harrison’s heading out, the next he’s pulled.
The moment shocked all of us. Walk us through it. ”
Miller, who isn’t there in studio with the hosts, folds his hands in his lap and crosses his legs, as if this pose will somehow make him look more confident and severe on the other end of the video call.
“Look,” he begins, voice even and measured, “I should have pulled him much sooner in the series.”
“Can you explain what you mean?” Paul asks, leaning forward in his chair with a pensive expression.
Coach Miller sighs. “I believe Harrison wasn’t giving enough to the game itself.
His team was on the brink, counting on him, and he failed to block the goals we expected of him.
His performance in this series was nothing short of disappointing.
We needed NHL goaltending, but this team received an AHL effort. ”
My jaw drops, and my hand grips my phone tighter. Is this happening? Did he really just… He couldn’t have just… Did my own coach just insult me on live television? Even the show’s hosts have been rendered speechless, left as stunned and taken aback as I am by his comment.
“That sounds to me like you are blaming him for the series loss,” Paul accuses.
“I’m not blaming the losses solely on Harrison,” Miller scoffs, “but this team cannot afford dead weight inside the net.”
Paul gawks. “Calling your franchise goaltender dead weight is certainly a bold statement!”
“I respect the effort Harrison has made with our franchise over the years. We thought he would be able to rise to the occasion this time, but not all goalies are able to play at this level. It’s possible Harrison isn’t ready to take this next step. He may never be.”
“He’s an unrestricted free agent this summer. Are you implying the team might not resign him?”