| |
We head back to Winnipeg for Game 5. If we win tonight, we win the Cup.
We know it's gonna be a battle. It's hard to close out a series at an opponent's hometown rink – if nothing else, they know in their hearts and minds that they're going to lose the series. But teams often manage to regroup enough so that they don't lose the series at home.
So we know perfectly well what we're up against: a determined team making a last stand.
And we have our chances, but the Hockey Gods aren't on our side tonight. We catch a few bad breaks – pucks deflecting off of defensemen and finding their way into our net, a few of our shots hitting posts, a few bad penalties that hurt us – and we're trailing 3-0 heading into the third period.
Cal manages to score half-way through the third, but it's too little, too late, and we can't get a rally going before the game ends.
We're disappointed, but not surprised. And we're not down on our luck. Coach Stevens sums it all up for us with a speech in the dressing room after the game.
“Alright, boys, we lost this battle but we ain't lost the war yet. We knew they were gonna play hard tonight – that they might even empty the tank just to win tonight. We knew they'd to their damnedest to make sure their fans didn't have to see us celebrate with the Cup. We're heading back to Chicago, up 3 games to 2, all we gotta do is win at home and close 'em out. We got this, boys. Don't get down on yourselves and we've got it wrapped up.”
With a day off between games, we travel back to Chicago that night and wait. We're antsy and we can't wait to get out there.
***
AT LAST THE NIGHT COMES. We're fired up, but nerves are strong again. As great of an opportunity as we have tonight, we know that we can't afford to lose it. If we lose it, we have to head back to Winnipeg for a Game 7.
So we attack the Jets with everything we've got. The beginning is jittery. Both teams trade chances. But we score the first goal, and the sense that this really is our Cup comes flooding back to us. And the life force just drains out of the Jets after that first goal.
Coach was right – the Jets are gassed. They gave everything they had left when we played our last game. As soon we score that first goal, the Jets know they're done. They're already defeated mentally – all we have to do is make sure it stays that way.
We score two more times to end the first period. And that'll be all. The Jets will clamp down defensively so they don't get laughed out of this game – but it comes at the cost of their offense. They wave the white flag, and the clock ticks down to those last few minutes.
With a minute left to play, us Hawks are on the bench, barely able to contain our excitement. The crowd has been standing and applauding for five minutes straight, chanting, “We want the Cup!”
I can't handle the emotion. It's been such a crazy year. Scratch that – career. I'm bent over on the bench, my head almost between my legs, hyperventilating. Tears run down my cheeks. The boys sitting on the bench around me slap me on the back with their gloves.
“We did it, Cap!”
“Vance! Can you believe this shit!”
And, of course, Callan – who sits next to me, grinning from ear-to-ear, taking it all in. He bends down, his head next to mine, and whispers.
“We're really gonna do it, Ty. We really did it. You and me.”
“Yeah,” I laugh through tears. “You and me, bud.”
The horn sounds. The crowd goes nuts. Me and the boys jump over the boards and rush at Brickley, where the main celebration takes place. We throw our sticks into the air and throw our gloves, all our equipment comes flying off, and we jump in a dog-pile on our goaltender.
We're lost in that mass of bodies. All of us become one – one giddy, howling, squealing mass of grown-ass men. Call it whatever you want. It's unlike anything I'd ever experienced.
But at last we have to pull ourselves apart – because the Jets are patiently waiting to shake our hands. Their sentence for losing is to watch us celebrate, staring at us with utter sadness and misery in their eyes.
I know how that feels.
We line up and shake hands, compliment them on a hard-fought series. Burkhardt is first in line. I shake his hand and pat his shoulder.
“Good series, Burky.”
He shakes his head at me and sighs. “Fuck, man. I gotta give you credit. You did what you had to for the win.”
I pat his shoulder and shake the next hand.
It's Fresno. My old line mate for all those years. His brow is heavy with sadness, his cheeks welling. I really feel awful for poor Fresno – being on the losing side twice now.
“Fuck, Fresno,” I frown at him. “I'm sorry man. I wish you could've been here with us.”
“Ahhh, calisse, don't worry about me. I'm happy for you and the boys, Vance. Enjoy your moment.”
After we shake hands with all the Jets, the league commissioner comes out. He has the Conn Smythe with him. The trophy for the Playoffs MVP, and the trophy I once 'disrespected.'
The commissioner speaks. “With 18 goals and 20 assists ... the Conn Smythe award goes to ... Callan Jones!”
The crowd bursts into a cheer for Callan. He starts to skate off to receive the trophy, but I pull at him and stop him for a second.
“Pst. Don't forget to pick it up.”
He laughs. “I won't.”
Callan picks his trophy up and skates it around the rink, soaking in his fanfare.
And then it's time for the real reward.
The Stanley Cup is carried out next. The crowd cheers at the sight of the iconic silver trophy. The commissioner gives a speech, one I can't really pay attention to, because I'm so caught up in the moment. But I hear him when he calls my name, as captain of the Hawks, to receive the Cup.
I skate up, receive the Cup, and hoist it over my head to a crowd's roar. Cameras flash. I kiss the Cup, the silver refreshingly cool on my lips. I skate it around the rink before it's time to pass it off. I hand it to Callan.
“Yeeeeeah!” he yells, raising the 35-pound trophy into the air and skating in a long, looping line around the rink. The crowd goes crazy for him.
Soon, the on-ice festivities have ended, and we're back in the dressing room. It's been over an hour since the game ended, but we haven't taken a single thing off yet. Jerseys, skates, our sweaty gear – everything stays on. We fill that Cup with champagne and take turns drinking out of it. Nelson passes around a box of cigars and soon the room is clouded with smoke.
The hours will pass until it's early in the morning, but we won't dare leave that dressing room. The media folk will hang around in the hallway outside, listening to us scream and holler, waiting to get a glimpse inside the room when somebody happens to go through the door. The whole world waits for us outside – but right now, it's just us, and we don't wanna leave each other.
And we'll be up until it's far, far too late, and we're far too wasted on champagne, raucously telling stories and rehashing and reliving every battle, every fight, every goal that led us here. We'll soak in glory for as long as we can – until we're too drunk and tired to go on and we're fighting back heavy eyelids – because it's a once in a lifetime thing. This moment, with these guys, only comes once – and then it's gone forever. Only a memory that could never do this moment justice, could never recapture this feeling.
We're a band of brothers, as close a bond as a group of men can share. Amid the good vibes, the excited buzz, Cal and I might forget for a moment – and we might sit too close to each other in that smoky dressing room. But nobody bats an eye that me and Callan are 'different.' Nobody casts us out or tries to shame us. Nobody cares that we sit close, our arms around each other.
And with everybody partying around us, I think ... everything's gonna be alright.