If hockey kept such records, this would have gone down as the greatest pile-on in history. The second the red light went on, the Screech Owls poured onto the ice like a pail of minnows dumped off the end of a dock.

Travis felt as if he had left the ice surface at the blueline and hadn’t landed until he was at the crease, his stick and gloves and helmet flying as he soared and slid towards the greatest Canadian hero of the moment: Wayne Nishikawa.

“Hey!” Nish screamed as the first Screech Owls hit him. “Watch the hair!”

But no one paid him the slightest attention. Dmitri pushed off Nish’s helmet, Lars wrapped his arms around him, Sarah–trying to protect her bleeding wrists–fell onto him, laughing.

“The hair! The hair!” Nish screamed.

Even Muck piled on. In all the dozens of tournaments the Owls had played, Travis had never seen Muck do much more than smile or nod or, a couple of times, shake the hands of the players as they came off the ice. But Muck was digging down from on top, his big face open wide in a laugh that had no sound.

Muck found what he was looking for: Nish’s head. He grabbed it in a hammerlock, then sharply rasped the knuckles of his free hand through Nish’s pride and joy.

“Not my hair! Lemme go!”

Travis could see Nish’s beet-red face from where he lay in the tangle. He could tell the last thing in the world Nish wanted was to be let go. He was the hero of the hour–and he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

Travis felt a body pushing up from beneath him. He thought at first it must be Sarah, trying to protect her wrists, but when he turned he realized it was the little Russian goaltender, still trapped in the Owls’ pile-on.

The goalie was crying. Travis could see through the player’s mask that his eyes were red and swollen and wet. It must have been horrible for him; not only had he let in the goal that lost the tournament, but then he had been forced to be part of the celebration.

They hugged Nish and roughed up his greasy hair and slapped his shoulders and his back, and finally the knot of legs and arms and heads undid itself and the Owls began collecting their gloves and sticks and helmets for the post-tournament ceremony.

Dmitri’s stick was over by Travis’s left glove. As they bent down, Travis asked a quick question.

“How do you say, ‘Great game’?”

Dmitri looked up. “‘Great game.’ Just like that.”

“No, no, I mean in Russian.”

“Oh…. Try, ‘Horoshosvgeal.’”

“‘Horse-os…’”

Dmitri shook his head, laughing. “‘Horosh-osv-geal,’” he repeated carefully.

“‘Horoshosvgeal.’”

“That’s it.”

They lined up for the handshake. Jeremy went first, Travis last, then Muck. The Russians were very gracious, some of them smiling. Travis came to the goalie who’d been crying and reached out with his arm and grabbed the goalie’s shoulder instead of his hand and brought him to a stop.

“‘Horoshosvgeal,’” Travis said.

The goalie stopped. He blinked, his eyes still red. Then he smiled.

Travis came to Slava, who hit Travis on the shoulder and smiled when he saw him.

“‘Horoshosvgeal,’” Travis said.

Slava looked back, then roared with laughter.

“Thank you,” he said in English. “And the same to you!”

Slava came to Sarah, who couldn’t shake hands because of her wrists. He smiled, and suddenly–much to Sarah’s shock–grabbed her in a big bear hug, lifting her off the ice. The rest of the CSKA players rattled their sticks on the ice in recognition. Perhaps better than anyone, they knew the job Sarah had done on Slava.

Some of the crowd was on the ice. Annika and her Swedish friends came running and sliding and cheering over to the Owls. Annika jumped at Nish and wrapped herself around his neck. They hugged, but Travis noticed there was no kiss. Nish obviously felt safer with a half-inch of bulletproof Plexiglas between them.

 

The tournament organizers had rolled out a red carpet for the final ceremonies.

Two young women followed behind Borje Salming carrying medals on velvet cushions.

One by one Salming placed a medal around the neck of each Screech Owl and shook the player’s hand. When Sarah couldn’t shake, he leaned over and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, which brought a cheer from the crowd.

Borje Salming came to Travis and smiled as he put the medal around his neck. “Good game,” he said as he shook Travis’s hand.

Travis was speechless.

Nish was standing next to Travis. Salming gave him his medal, shook his hand, and then patted his shoulder.

“Good defenceman,” Borje Salming said. “Just like me.”

Nish, of course, was never speechless: “We have the same hair,” he said.

Borje Salming looked at Nish as if he had lost his mind. Nish just stood there, grinning.

“Hey,” Nish said, when Salming had moved along, “I had to say something, didn’t I?”

Silver medals were awarded to the Russian team and then the bronze to the Djurgårdens peewee team that had come in third. They then announced the Most Valuable Player for each team. Slava Shadrin won for CSKA and the crowd gave a huge cheer as Mr. Johanssen made the presentation. The Russian delegation then came out onto the carpet and the Most Valuable Player for Canada was announced.

“Wayne Nishikawa!”

Nish looked startled. He dropped his stick and gloves and began skating over, but suddenly stopped. He was right in front of Sarah.

“This should have been yours,” he said.

Sarah smiled. “You scored the winner,” she said graciously.

Nish smiled back. “You got us into the shootout.”

The Russian leader handed him a wrapped present, and Nish took it and then reached out his hand to shake.

The man shook his head. He leaned over instead and kissed Nish on one cheek. Then he went for the other but missed as a startled Nish jumped back, a look of shock on his face.

The Russian laughed and shook his head.

Nish stopped again as he passed Sarah. He handed her the MVP award. “I wish you’d won it in the first place,” he said, trying to wipe his cheek with the sleeve of his Owls sweater.

The Globen Arena burst into wild cheers.

Behind Travis, Annika screeched: “EEEE-AWWW-KEEE!”

They then stood by the thousands in Stockholm’s Globen Arena. And at the far end of the rink a red-and-white Canadian flag began its long climb up a guy wire towards the rafters.

Travis was barely aware that the anthem had begun, but soon it seemed as if the music of “O Canada” had filled the huge stadium and was pounding in his heart. Behind the great swell of music, he could hear people singing along. The Canadian parents…then more and more of the Swedes.

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

There was another sound a bit behind him. It was a sort of low drone, but growing louder.

He turned slightly to his left. It was Nish, singing off-key, his eyes staring straight up at the flag.

Nish was crying. Big, fat tears were burning down his cheeks and falling freely onto his sweater. He was singing and crying at the same time, and he didn’t seem to care the slightest that he couldn’t sing a note.

 

THE END