Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
[A group of four men sit at the ESPN commentary desk: Doug, Levi, Paul, and Miles. Doug has startling neon green hair, and the rest of the panel is trying and failing to keep their composure.]
Miles: I think the green hair suits you, Doug. Right fellas?
[The other three men on the panel burst into laughter.]
Doug: Hey, hey! A bet’s a bet, and I’m an honest man. Los Angeles is proving themselves capable at every turn. I’ve got no problem admitting I was wrong, especially with how exciting their games have been.
Doug: Just a few more games, and then we’ll know who will be in the Stanley Cup Final.
[Doug leans back in his chair and gestures to the rest of the panel.]
Doug: Who do we think will come out on top in the Western Conference: Los Angeles or Chicago?
Levi: Folks, you already know where I stand. Los Angeles all the way. What about you, Paul? Have you converted now that Seattle’s out of the race?
Paul (smiling): Not quite. I’m siding with Chicago, with some caveats.
This will be a true test for their goaltender James Harrison and his team.
They will need to match the pace and intensity of Wes Harper and the rest of the Grizzlies.
They need to deny Harper with strong backchecking and aggressive defense.
Make him feel as if there’s no free ice.
Levi: That’s been a challenge for every team in Harper’s way.
Paul: Precisely, which is why the Comets can’t become discouraged early on if a puck or two slips through. If Harrison receives support from his team, I believe Chicago can overcome this last hurdle.
Doug: Given the way all the previous goalies in Harper’s way fared, we should be worried for Harrison.
Paul: Getting scored on is inevitable as a goalie, which is why having strong mental fortitude is what makes the difference between a decent goaltender and one worthy of winning the Cup. A good goaltender must have short-term memory.
[Doug tilts his bright green head towards Miles on his right.]
Doug: What about you, Miles? Who’s winning the Western Conference?
Miles: Oh, LA all the way baby. Levi was right. Harper and his teammates are going straight to the moon.
The away team’s dressing room inside the Los Angeles sports arena holds memories. Months ago, I sat on this same bench beside Eric ahead of All-Star Weekend’s exhibition games.
Months ago, Eric shared his pregame music playlist. Before every game since, I’ve listened to this exact set of songs, inviting the music to calm my mind and take me on a journey. I haven’t told this to Eric, too afraid to admit this new tradition has helped me feel connected to him.
I miss him. We couldn’t spend much time together before or after the games during our series, but being in his vicinity was enough. Knowing I was on his mind, his competitor in the other net who pushed him to play better and better… It brought us closer in ways few could understand.
The series against Los Angeles will be different.
Tougher, some would argue. My team’s coming off a seven game stretch while LA has had days of rest and time to prepare.
We’re tired yet eager to get back onto the ice to prove ourselves to a whole new team.
Los Angeles’ young blood has propelled them forward, begging the question: which team, if any, will be able to stop them?
My phone vibrates within my hand with a text message, pulling me back to earth in the middle of a song. Will it be Eric this time? Will the dead air between us come to an end?
Dad
Look who’s ready for the game to start!
A selfie of my dad lounging on the couch joins the message. My dad’s wearing an oversized Comets jersey with my number. No laptop, no student papers to grade, no books, no distractions in sight; just a spread of junk food on the table and the game’s broadcast on the TV.
Dad
Good luck tonight. We love you so much. You’ll do great.
My heart pangs as I read those words. Mom always said them before she and dad would give me one last hug before a game.
Me
Thanks. Love you too
With only a few minutes before the game starts, I swap out my phone and earbuds for my remaining hockey gear.
My fingers brush over the back plate design on my helmet.
My mom and I planned this journey for years.
This is the farthest I’ve ever made it in the playoffs.
She was instrumental in helping me get this far, and I wouldn’t be here if not for her support.
The Western Conference Final is the last degree of separation before the hardest test of my career. One more hurdle. I can do this. I have to do this.
I pull on my helmet and rise from the bench to join my team.
Dreaming isn’t enough. Every professional athlete aspires for the same end goal: to achieve the highest level of success in their particular league. You can push yourself, you can sacrifice everything—your heart, your body, your mind—and it can still fall short of being enough.
After three games against Los Angeles, the Comets are down three to nothing in the series. Ahead of game four, Chicago is in dire straits. Do or die on home ice. Backs against the wall.
Funny how I went from experiencing seven games of some of the most enjoyable hockey I’ve ever played to three games straight of abject misery.
Hockey’s all about momentum, and your team’s either building on it or you’re chasing after it, hoping your opponent slips up. The Comets are eating dust as we desperately pursue the speeding bullet train known as the Los Angeles Grizzlies.
Unfortunately, while the last three games have appeared to be competitive at a surface level, our effort hasn’t translated into a win thus far. We’re always a step behind Los Angeles, searching for an edge over their star player’s exponential momentum.
At every level, the Comets are outmatched.
Los Angeles has the youth and the speed to play a 200ft game, capable of speeding from one end of the ice to the other to chip and chase after the puck.
Their tape to tape passes connect with little turnovers, pushing the puck like a pinball from one player to the next to generate dangerous shots on goal over and over.
Whenever the puck’s loose after a rebound, it must be a fan of LA, because it always seems to bounce in their favor.
I’m facing similar pressure from my end of the ice.
I’m putting everything out there to try to diminish the Grizzlies’ momentum.
Sweating buckets under my gear. Taking every opportunity available to drink or squirt water on my face to keep from overheating.
Overworking the muscles in my eyeballs to track a tiny piece of black rubber from one end to another through traffic.
Peaking around bodies screening me from sightlines.
Contorting my body to create as much surface area and seal off gaps whenever there’s a mad scramble for the puck in front of my net.
It’s not as though my team’s not trying.
There’s effort in every play, but there’s a building desperation to translate scoring chances into actual points.
I can see the frustration on their faces during TV timeouts, line changes, and intermissions.
Several expensive hockey sticks have been snapped thanks to this series.
Inside the dressing room, no one’s spared from the friendly fire. Coach Miller tears into each of us, grilling our mistakes, demanding we “fucking figure it out” before we make a mockery of ourselves and face being swept in the series.
Finger-pointing, blaming, and jeering emerges from my teammates without clear leadership and a plan on how to salvage the series.
I’m an easy target as the goaltender with no shortage of contempt thrown my way, all distilled down to the age-old question: How come you aren’t stopping the puck, Harrison?
I am stopping the puck. Anyone who can read the jumbotron game after game can see this. In game one, I stopped 31 of 33 shots. Game two, 40 of 43. Game three, 38 of 40. I’m being shelled. There’s five Comets on the ice for the majority of the sixty minutes. There’s only one goaltender.
I have plenty of questions for my teammates too, even if I don’t air them aloud.
Why do we always take so many stupid penalties?
Why is our penalty kill terrible? Why do we allow so many bad turnovers in the neutral zone?
Why can’t we communicate effectively? How come our forwards can’t find the back of the net and put some pressure on their goalie for a change?
We’re as much against each other as we’re against Los Angeles, and that’s doing nothing to improve our chances.
This is the Western Conference Final, the last obstacle before reaching the penultimate challenge: the Stanley Cup.
Sacrificing parts of yourself to achieve the end goal comes with the territory.
My mom always said her collegiate team’s championship run was a grueling grind.
It was a mountain of a challenge, a test of endurance, camaraderie, and dedication.
You ask yourself, how bad do you really want to win? How much of yourself are you willing to give? she would always say when talking about overcoming adversity. And if the answers aren’t ‘more than anything else in life’ and ‘everything’, then don’t start the climb.
If the playoffs are the equivalent of ascending Mount Everest, then my team’s halfway up without any supplies. We can’t go back and start over at game one. All we can do is keep moving forward and cling to survival.
Half-way through the first period of game four, my effort in the net falters. Within five shots on goal, I’ve let two pucks in. Both goals were within a minute of each other. Not a great fucking start to our game to stay in the series against Los Angeles.