I spent last weekend at a hockey tournament in Knoxville where my team, in the championship game, beat a team we had no business beating. With the exception of two people, everyone on their team was under thirty. With the exception of three people, everyone on our team was over thirty. They were all fast and had clearly played and practiced together a lot. They had a team cheer and wore matching, deliberately mismatched socks -- everyone on their team wore one solid yellow sock, and one solid black sock in keeping with the yellow and black jerseys.
Our jerseys and socks reflected who we were: rink rats who travel around with hockey bags full of old jerseys from the various teams we've played on. At the beginning of each game our captain would say, "Alright, we're going with blue tonight." Everyone would dig into their bag looking for an approximately blue jersey. The extra blue jerseys were tossed across the locker room to those who didn't have one. We always made it to the ice with at least four Nashville rec-league teams represented. Our socks truly didn't match and, in many cases, were grimy and full of holes. One of the older guys was in his fifties and wore a similarly aged helmet that looked like it would do little more than a knit cap in the event of an impact. I knew most of the guys on our team in as much as I had probably played a game with or against them at some point. The exact team with which we arrived at the tournament had never played together.
Friday night we gelled quickly, crushing the first team we played by a margin wide enough to make me wonder if we were in the wrong league. Saturday afternoon we beat another team but by a much narrower margin -- one of the things about tournaments is that the games get harder as the tournament progresses. Saturday night we played the team that we would meet again in the championship. We tied them after a game that left us feeling more exhausted than they looked. Prior plans to stay out late at various bars and parties were scrapped as most people decided that they were going to find some dinner and crash.
Sunday morning most of us awoke to tired legs and an overall sense of fatigue. It took me several cups of coffee to begin to feel like I was fully awake. We checked out of our hotel, and more or less napped in the lobby, waiting to go to the rink for the final game. Driving over all I could think was that we really needed to turn up the energy if we were to stand a chance, but that didn't I feel like I had much energy left. In the cool locker room we pulled on damp hockey gear that hadn't had a chance to dry from the game eighteen hours earlier. I definitely did not feel pumped up. I learned later that the refs who had watched prior games of both teams thought, in spite of the previous night's tie, we didn't have a chance.
The game started and we came out strong, controlling the puck in their end and making shot after shot. After about two minutes the other team decided that they'd had enough, and our domination came to an end. Our strengths lay in the experience of our older players who could stick handle through traffic and set up plays. We also had an exceptional goalie. Their strengths were that they were all fast, didn't fold under pressure, and were really good at finding each other on the ice. This was a problem for me. I'm not one of the stronger players on our team mostly because I'm not particularly good at stick handling. My one skill is speed. Normally, I can chase someone to the puck and, if I don't get there first, at least pressure the guy into making a bad pass or coughing up the puck. But I wasn't faster than them, and they were still making good, crisp passes to their teammates who raced back to get open. When they were in our end, they would do a good job cycling low and getting someone open in front of our net. This was how they got the first goal. We came back quickly with a goal or our own to tie it up before the end of the first half of the two period game. I sat on the bench between periods trying not to think about how tired I was, how hard we'd have to work, and how my efforts seemed neutralized by their skill and stamina. I thought that whatever happens, at least we were able to hang with these guys for the first half of the game, we hadn't embarrassed ourselves. I felt like I was playing better hockey than I had in a long time and felt proud to be on our team of beer drinkers, divorcees, sales-reps and parents.
The final period wore us down. Shifts got shorter, our team was visibly getting tired. On several occasions we stalled out on their blue line because someone was just too exhausted to hustle to get back on-sides after the puck came out. With maybe ten minutes left they scored a second goal and a whoop went up from their bench like they had won the whole thing. One of our older players offered this concise pep talk, "Get to the fucking puck! Don't fuck around!" With maybe six minutes left we caught a break and found the back of the net, tying it up at two all. As the clock ran down the other team fought with extraordinary tenacity, at times our defense began to break down but we managed to hold them at bay.
When the buzzer sounded, I was happy we hadn't lost, but the three minute, sudden-death overtime seemed like an impossible task. No one was talking, everyone was trying to catch their breath. Our strongest center came out to start. He has formidable skills, but wasn't able to find an opening. A moment later his son, playing wing, flew in on a breakaway and didn't quite find the back of the net. The next line went and made no progresses in the face of their defense. Finally it was my turn. I went over the boards and the game wound up in our end. They were doing what they were strongest at, making clean passes through traffic and getting someone open. Then one of our defense picked off a pass. Their defense were wide and had pinched in. I curled around and blasted out of our zone optimistically hoping that our defense man with the puck could get it to me. He looked up ice, saw me, and threw the puck. It bounced just beyond the reach of their defense who were now fifteen feet behind me. I managed to get my stick out to touch the puck slowing it down enough to get control over it near the red line. I crossed the blue line, their goalie wasn't coming out to challenge me, and this gave me a second. I saw a spot between his legs (and didn't trust my skills enough to try a higher shot.)
I buried it between his legs in the back of the net.
It wasn't until I blew past the net and saw the puck that I realized the game was over and that we had won. I felt an amazing an unexpected sense of elation. I didn't think I cared about hockey that much. But I did, I really cared about hockey. At that moment I cared about nothing else. My teammates were pouring over the boards coming to give me a hug, and clap me on the back. The sense of gratification was so strong and so unalloyed. I was skating back to my team with my stick clenched over my head yelling, "Yes!" at the top of my lungs over and over. It was such an impossible but natural story: I scored the overtime goal that won the incredibly difficult championship game.
I hide my happy memories away for safe keeping so they don't wear out from overuse. Nevertheless, the memory of the precise mix of emotions I felt at that moment will eventually fade and become a fact in my history rather than something I can call up to bring me happiness. What will remain is the memory that what I felt was so strong that I couldn't hide it, and didn't want to hide it. I felt so happy, in fact, that I could do little besides yell at the top of my lungs incoherently.
Some years ago I realize that there is peace to be had in this life, but there was always a resignation associated with it. Yesterday offered the possibility that the peace might come with a sense of triumph and joy.
