We all head to the bench and my goaltending coach, Will Vomero, taps me. “We’re pulling you for the last minute and a half. Get ready to haul tail as soon as Sean wins the face-off.”
It’s a typical move in hockey, especially down one goal with a face-off at the offensive end, for the goaltender to leave the ice and make way for an extra player, establishing a six-on-five scenario.
I’m standing in the middle of my zone, closer to the bench than I would ever dare if it wasn’t for the set up.
When we win the face-off, I rush to the bench and watch helplessly as my teammates try to get back the second goal I had failed to stop.
We can do this! I know it. The Mavericks beat the Sharks every game we played against them this past season.
But those were Jeremy’s wins.
I shake off the bitter thought and teeter at the edge of my seat, willing my teammates to find the back of that net.
But our efforts are too little, too late. We lose the first game.
There’s nothing to be done but shuffle to the locker room so the coach can scream over our heavy hanging heads.
***
“You’ve had a great run. It’s perfectly normal to take a break. You know that more than anyone,” Will appeases me as if he’s comforting a child.
Of course, I know what it is to give the main goaltender a break. I’m usually the replacement, not the top guy.
What he really should say is that I blew the first two games of the series.
Over and over again, the feeling of the puck grazing my glove as I failed to stop it haunts me.
Like the first one, we had lost the second game by a single goal.
Tonight, I’m being swapped for a kid from the farm team, barely out of college. Game three will start with twenty-year-old Soren Jovanovi—something, something. No one knows howto say the kid’s last name. Whoever had to stitch Jovanovicevic at the back of his jersey probably got a migraine. I get one just looking at it.
We’re in Florida now, set to play games three and four in our opponent’s arena. The entire plane ride from Columbus to Miami, I kept to myself. Bitter guilt made it impossible for me to look at my teammates. They would never openly blame me, yet everyone is thinking the same thing.
Jeremy would have found a way to secure a shutout in a playoff game.
Goddamn his injury, which came at the worst possible time: at the end of a season in which he carried the Mavericks to the top of the league. And here I am, pissing it all away.
Although he couldn’t travel with the team for health precautions, Jeremy reviewed game footage with me before the trip. He offered encouragement and advice because he’s a great teammate and a nice guy. It turns out, he’s also a world-class bullshitter.
“Your rebound control has never been better.”
“Love the way you challenged the shooter here.”
“Talk to the boys while you’re out there. Tell them where they need to be.”
“Great save on that angle shot. Trudeau will keep challenging you from that corner. Good anticipation.”
Blah, blah, blah when what I really needed him to tell me iswhen the fuck is he coming back?
Not any time soon, if we keep losing.
Tonight, as I sit on my usual spot on the player bench, my hair unruffled and my jersey unsoiled, I don’t have the usual feeling of contented cheer. I’m more stressed than I would be if I was the goalie on the crease.
Poor Soren is shaky out there.
Our guys had to use their bodies to block at least six shots which would have surely found the back of the net. Sergei took one in the stomach because he sprawled across the ice to block a slapshot. Crazy motherfucker. Sean had to go to the locker room because he took a puck right at the inside of his knee where the padding isn’t as thick.
We’re dropping like flies.
