Page 239 of On His Team

1-1.

The second period is where the game starts slipping. Michigan gets their second off a turnover at our blue line, and then eight minutes later we spend almost an entire shift trapped in our own zone. By the time they make it three-one, all five of us have been out there too long and everybody knows it. Benson gets one back before intermission.

3-2.

We go into the room down one.

Nobody says we have come back from worse. That is already sitting in everybody’s head.

The third starts with us playing better. For six or seven minutes, we have more of the puck. Blue gets a clean look from the left circle. Stanley catches the outside of the post hard enough that half our bench stands before the puck kicks wide. Benson drives through the middle and gets dragged down badly enough that he turns toward the official and stares.

For a second, I think he is going to lose it. He skates away.

Then Michigan gets another one.

4-2.

There are twelve minutes left. The building changes after that. Their crowd starts believing it. You can hear it in the noise before every faceoff, in the way they rise when Michigan carries through neutral ice, in the little edge that gets added to everything.

We keep playing.

Coach shortens the bench. Benson and Stanley start getting shifted around. Mackey and I are over the boards twice before I have fully caught my breath from the shift before.

By the last two minutes, Percy is out, and we are six on five.

We get possession, lose it, win it back. A point shot hits somebody in front and misses wide. Michigan clears but misses the empty net. We come back in with less than a minute. Benson gets the puck low. Blue takes it behind the net and tries to force something through traffic. It doesn’t go. The puck kicks toward the wall, and I step down to keep the play alive.

Ten seconds.

It comes back toward the line. I send it across.

Five.

Michigan gets a stick on it.

Then the horn goes.

For a second, I don’t move.

The arena explodes around us. Michigan’s bench empties. Their goalie disappears under a pile of bodies. Gloves hit the ice. Guys are screaming. Everybody in maize is standing.

I stay near the blue line with both hands on the top of my stick and watch it happen.

4-2.

Big Ten champions.

Not us.

Mackey skates over and bumps his shoulder into mine. “Come on.”

I nod.

We go through the handshake line. Say good game. Listen to people tell us good luck next week when nobody knows yet if next week exists. Then we leave the ice while Michigan stays.

The worst part is walking away while somebody else keeps celebrating. The room afterward is quiet. Nobody puts music on. Nobody is throwing tape or arguing about a play or pretending this is just another loss.

Coach gives us time before he says anything. When he finally does, he keeps it short. He tells us the season is not over until somebody tells us it is. He tells us the résumé should be enough. He reminds us that tomorrow is tomorrow, and tonight we deal with this one.