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The veteran tapped his stick loudly on the ice. The final note of the national anthem faded through arena like a retreating ghost, chased away by the stark contrast of booming anthem rock music and the excited passion of raucous fans. He shouted encouraging words, a battle cry to his teammates who moved to their positions for the opening faceoff. Their expressions were grave as if they had been called to identify the body of someone they barely knew and were still processing how to mourn the passing. The veteran knew the opposite to be true; hockey brought out the best and worst in players. But it did so because of the deep love they held for the sport. Though they looked as serious as if they faced the shock of death, he knew each of them realized few were so blessed as they.
He slapped Sully, his left wing, on the shoulder, causing the man’s pads to wilt slightly under the friendly blow. The veteran told him, “Let’s go get ‘em.” By way of reply, Sully flashed a quick grin showing off a still intact set of teeth before remembering this was a somber occasion.
If the team was his family (which in many ways it was) Sully must be his twin brother. He’d been fortunate enough to play most of his career with the man. On the ice they knew each other’s moves as easily as dancers in a well practiced routine. Sully was like a water strider when he moved on the ice. Tall and lean, he was all legs and arms, moving with an economy of effort that belied how fast he was actually going. Many an opponent had realized this only when the puck was gliding past their goalie’s outstretched glove. It was Sully’s skill that allowed the veteran to score prolifically during his career.
While the casual observer wouldn’t have noticed, nothing was as simple for the veteran as it had been the previous season. Despite an increased exercise regime, it took him longer to recover after each practice, joints stiffer, muscles softer. Things that were once easy often came with great effort. The fans might not notice. He could still score and did so frequently, in fact almost as frequently as he had in the previous season. Yet it was apparent to some of his opponents that the numbers lied, this he knew. He was thankful for his friend, brother and teammate, knowing without his skill and their shared prognostic connection his decline would be apparent to all.
It had all started with his legs. His stride was less explosive. He couldn’t turn the corner on the defense as easily as he once did. The snap on his shot wasn’t as crisp, the release a little slower, the placement slightly less precise. He knew that this season would be his last. Everyone on the ice was suddenly younger, stronger, faster and more skillful—he was tired. Really, everything in hockey came down to the legs. He’d hang up the skates before the statisticians and fans could bemoan the decline of skills. Maybe he’d coach, anything to stay in the closest family he’d known for the last eighteen years.
On this night the stands were an ocean of white bedecked with rare patches of the visiting team colors. He’d found it odd that on special nights they gave away shirts in visitor’s white. Even stranger on this particular night, those who supported the visitors wore predominately red jerseys, the same color his team donned before taking the ice. It was as if the partisan crowd was confused as to who they were cheering. Regardless the crowd flowed like ever changing clouds on a gentle breeze and roared their delight as the opening faceoff approached. They nearly drowned out the music joining in chorus with the silvery rumble of the rink announcer as he intoned his catchphrase to start the game. He drew out each word making it a symphony unto itself, “I-t-’s . . . h-o-c-k-e-y . . . t-i-m-e-!”
Moments earlier, they’d retired the number of the man who wore the captain’s “C” before him. The veteran thought fondly of his mentor—the man who had taken him under his wing when he’d come to the league a nineteen-year-old rookie thinking he knew everything about the game. How young he’d been! Despite the copious supply of arrogance he’d packed in his suitcase, there was a sense of awe at not only meeting the man who he’d idolized as a child, but playing on the same hallowed sheet of ice with the legend of his youth. The lesson of how little he really knew about the game came quickly while suddenly playing opponents who were all as good or better than the best he’d ever faced. If not for the wise tutelage of his mentor who showed him how to be patient with himself, gracious for the coach’s input, realistic in his introspection and generous with his teammates, the first year of pro hockey might have destroyed him as he sought the delicate balance between confidence and pride.
He turned his eyes upward, where earlier had been hoisted the banner bearing his predecessor’s name and number. The captain subconsciously touched the letter C, now stitched on his chest. It wasn’t the same piece of fabric that his mentor had worn. It wasn’t even the same piece of fabric that had adorned his jersey for the fourteen years since his friend and tutor had retired. Still, there was a connection. The symbol had been worn with pride by dozens of men before him—each a leader and a mentor in their own right. He regarded it as a symbol of the wisdom that each of them had passed down through the ages, making those who followed better players from the legacy they shared. He considered who might wear the letter next season.
Plenty of young players had come into the system and failed. To a player, those who fell short were filled with equal parts vim, vigor and pride. They pointed fingers every direction but at themselves when things went wrong. It was the goalie’s fault, or the defense didn’t transition right, the center didn’t finish, or the wingers made bad passes. After eighteen years in the league, he could determine the players who wouldn’t make it before the the first week of training camp ended just by listening to the way they spoke. The washouts always bragged about what they’d done right in one breath and complained what everyone else did wrong in the next. The good ones, congratulated teammates, realized their own weaknesses and asked the right questions of their peers and coaches.
It was the great ones, those who made the players around them better, that were the hardest to read. These rare individuals often trod a narrow path confident that they knew the game but dangerously cocky. They questioned little, innately knowing more than anyone so young should understand; they played to their own strengths and weaknesses; they saw everything on the ice with clarity. Perhaps most importantly, they shared their knowledge of all things hockey with anyone wise enough to listen. These were the players who needed to be gently nudged away from arrogance without chipping away their confidence. Uncertainty was just as crippling in a player as pride.
The captain glided to the faceoff circle, checking that his goalie and defensemen were ready. He noted their exact positions as the linesmen moved into place for the start of the game. The referee, puck in hand, pointed to each goalie before nodding slightly to him. They’d been on the ice together more times than the veteran could count—so often that they called each other by familiar nicknames when discussions of hockey rules and their implementation in the moment were required. Though the refs were far from perfect, the veteran was pleased that Remy was one of the two referees on the ice. He’d moved up from linesman to referee about the same time the veteran earned his captain’s spot. In a way they’d come up in the league together. Though their positions were sometimes adversarial, there was a mutual respect.
Looking over the other team, he noted that the opposition had changed up their starting defensive line. They’d moved up a speedy youngster to replace the side of beef they usually paired with their lanky, blue-line sniper. He had anticipated it might happen. It made sense. It was a sign of respect for Sully’s speed and passing skill. Sully might have dipped and spun and left the usual right defenseman gasping for air and checking his own shadow.
His attention turned to the kid lining up across the faceoff dot from him. He was young, really young. Geez, he still had a couple pimples. The veteran wondered if he himself had ever been that young. Aside from the pimples, the kid looked every bit the part of the company poster boy he already was, regaled neatly head to toe in the brand paying all his bills this season. His skates, bristling with whatever technology big hockey was touting, practically gleamed. Helmet, gloves and stick proudly shouted the company message of, “Buy us and you can play like this kid.” The veteran almost shook his head at the sight, suspecting the company logo was embroidered on everything the kid wore all the way down to his skivvies.
The rookie looked at him through a tinted half visor, yellow as if he needed more contrast to see though some nonexistent haze. Don Cherry would be somewhere groaning about the visor in terms that were insulting to anyone outside of North America. The kid grinned at his older counterpart then gushed, “Wow, it’s amazing to be on the same ice as you, Captain!”
The veteran scrutinized the kid. It wasn’t the first time a rookie had been excited to meet him. None had ever embarrassed themselves before the opening faceoff though. The veteran thought back to the hours of game film he’d watched. The rookie had squared up with half a dozen of the best centermen in the game and never broken his game-face once. He didn’t remember the kid gushing at any of them. It was as if the rook was trying to stroke his pride just to knock him off his game. He’d take his compliments afterward if they were due. What he’d done yesterday didn’t mean anything in this game. There weren’t any goals awarded for showing up. He nodded to the kid, nonchalantly.
The rookie continued speaking his smile twisting into a half grin of contempt as he chirped, “I mean, it really is amazing. I think was five the first time I saw you play. How are you even still alive?”
Now this youthful banter the captain understood. While a small part of him wanted to punch the kid in the face, he pushed his anger down, funneling the energy into his legs and belly. Calmly he told the rookie, “So what you’re saying is you were in diapers when I was winning championships, you sure you want to brag about that kid?”
If the rookie had spent countless hours composing more banter to share, it was interrupted by the shrill announce from Remy’s whistle. The kid lowered his stick to the ice. The captain watched his hands. He’d watched film of the last hundred faceoffs the kid had taken. When the rookie flipped his bottom hand, he knew he was going to try to pull the puck back. The kid turned the stick lightly, then settled it—his tell. If he won the draw cleanly, the puck was going to the left defenseman.
The captain bit back the urge to tell the kid, “Watch and learn.” Instead he settled in his faceoff stance, looking the kid in the eye for a moment before putting his own stick on the ice. There were times in his career when the puck dropped as slowly as a puff of goose down. He remembered those moments with clarity, some ingrained on his mind so vividly he could still see every line that a skate blade had etched into center ice, smell the stale beer, cold ice and fried food of the arena, hum along to the pounding beat of the music that had been playing, hear the roar of the crowd, but mostly feel the cold stick in his hands and the impact as puck rocketed off in the exact direction he chose. Those days were long behind him now. As he slowed down, the game seemed to increase in pace around him. He had no expectation of things moving slowly today, but he knew exactly what the kid wanted to do.
When Remy tossed down the puck it moved like it was shot from a cannon. The rookie pulled the puck back where the veteran had slipped his stick. It touched perfectly, just enough to slow it. He put his shoulder into the rookie throwing him off balance then sidestepped him. He was aware of the speedy defenseman drifting toward Sully who had slipped by their right wing almost unchallenged. Bernie, the lanky defenseman, moving up for the puck was the only thing between he and the goalie. Last year, the loose puck would have clearly been his; this season, it was two strides away—two strides less explosive than they were last year. While the captain had the rare fortune to play his entire career with one team, Bernie was well traveled, on his fifth squad in seven years with the league. He was a good player, but often irresolute in his confidence. His primary failing was indecision. This, the captain knew, could be his one advantage.
The veteran willed himself to believe he could beat Bernie to the loose puck, overcoming the doubt that so frequently crowded against his own confidence of late. He pushed, two strides. Those two strides, if once explosive like a bomb, felt like the whimper of a firecracker to him. He quickly glanced in Sully’s direction, despite knowing instinctively that Sully was in the clear. No, the glance was for Bernie’s benefit, a gambit to sow a grain of hesitation. The puck was inches away from his stick now, equally close to his opponent’s grasp, but he knew the gambit paid off. Seeing he was outnumbered, Bernie glanced up ice to determine where to pass a puck that wasn't yet his. The captain lunged, poking the puck beyond his reach, then turned away from the inevitable hit, his opponent’s only remaining option. He spun like a matador avoiding the horns of the bull by the narrowest of margins.
The captain left Bernie surprised to be checking merely the breeze where his opponent once skated. Four strides and a spin into the game and he was in the clear. He’d beaten two opponents, slipping a body check that he was sure would have been shown on instant replay for months to come. It was briefly disorienting that he could have made such a move and remained on his feet, let alone untouched. Quickly, he pointed himself toward the goal.
The puck was drifting lazily between the top of the circles. Two strides, this time there was a little more response from his old legs. The puck tapped on his stick. One thing he still had was soft hands. Upon retrieving the puck, he’d never look at it again until it left his stick. It was down to him and the goalie now. They’d faced each other dozens of times in the past. He knew that once they would have squared off as equals in this situation. Now the captain knew that he was slightly over-matched, the odds were in the goalkeeper’s favor.
This goalie knew him well enough to anticipate his every move. He’d seen it all before. The captain thought about the last time he scored on this goalie. It was a backhand fake to a forehand move toward the end of last season. The goalie would remember that move, but would he expect it twice in a row? The veteran had another idea from the hours of tape he’d watched on his own shot.
He deked backhand to forehand for the shot. The goalie moved to cover that side of the net. The captain knew there was nothing to shoot at and he was running out of room. He dipped his shoulder pulling the puck back into his shooting position. He’d watched himself dip his shoulder on the hundreds of shots he reviewed on video, a little hitch in his technique. It was a bad habit that the wise observer would realize forecasted his imminent shot. The goalie dropped to the ice, committing to the save an instant too soon. The captain, in a shower of snow and ice, pushed himself into a spin reversing the puck all the way around to his backhand side. His legs were not as cooperative as they once were. Correcting his balance wasn’t as easy with his waning strength. It all started with the legs, and despite soft hands the falter in his balance caused the puck to bobble slightly. He was forced to glance down to secure it before snapping his head around to see the net.
The captain expected he’d have to put the puck high to score. He pulled it the rest of the way around, as he fought his legs for balance. He knew the bobble and his footwork had cost him. The release was poor. Instead of the satisfying feeling of watching the spinning puck fly over the keeper’s shoulder, it skittered along the ice. He followed it, repositioning his feet and stick for the rebound he was sure was inevitable. Then he realized the net was wide open, the goalie still flailing to fight off a forehand shot that never came. He had baited the hook more perfectly than he expected using his own weakness to his advantage.
When the goal light flared red and the siren roused the delight of the fans, the captain tried not to act surprised. Remy was pointing to the goal, signaling he had scored, which made it real. Sully had his stick in the air. His team was whirling about him, slapping him on the back. The bench erupted with his teammates pounding their sicks on the dasher boards and screaming their adulations. The crowd had become a joyous cacophony of sound. Still the rafters shook with joy as the loudspeaker boomed with the announcer’s voice, splitting through the other noises like an ax through a dry piece of firewood. “With a new team record for the fastest goal to start a game . . .”
His legs felt a little stronger as they carried him back to center ice. The rookie glided to his side of the dot and stood outrageously silent, waiting for the officials to resume the game. The captain remembered fondly that not all of his mentors were his teammates. As the rookie flipped his hand over on the stick then turned it slightly and settled it on the ice, the captain smiled and told him, “Kid, it’s a good thing to know your own tells.”
