Next goal wins.
Said on every frozen pond on every dying day. From gloved hands, under woolen hats, over rippling ice, through a pair of shoes, into the snow bank. And dreaming of bigger games, bigger days.
Jack Hughes. Missing teeth, bloody mouth, digging out the puck, shuffling, skating, looping, opening. Zach Werenski clutching, clawing, controlling the puck, lasering the puck back across the ice. Hughes, a one time, all time, wrist shot to beat Canada’s Jordan Binnington in sudden-death overtime.
Next goal wins.
The United States defeated Canada in the gold medal game Sunday morning. Jack Hughes was the hero. The last-second, last-shift hero of a team full of them. Goalie Connor Hellebuyck sliding and stopping and smothering all but one shot from a Canada team that looked faster, shot more and controlled most of the game. Matt Boldy playing paddle ball with a frozen puck and a wooden blade, between two defenders to score the first goal, on the first shot for Team USA, six minutes into the game. Defenseman Charlie McAvoy stopping a puck behind Hellebuyck in the second period. And all the others. Hockey players.
“He’s a freaking gamer. He’s always been a gamer,” Jack’s brother, defenseman, Quinn said. “Just mentally tough, been through a lot, loves the game. American hero.”
I played hockey. I wasn’t a hockey player. Yesterday, a band of hockey players, two sets of brothers and one brotherhood, came together to earn the third gold medal for the United States. The years and places are chiseled in stone.
1960. Squaw Valley.
1980. Lake Placid.
2026. Milan Cortina.
I was around for two of those. The Miracle on Ice in 1980. Mike Eruzione with a wrist shot to oust the once-invincible Soviets. And yesterday, Mike Hughes, a wrist shot past the arch rival Canadian team. Less animosity. No less enormity. Both on February 22, 46 years apart. A dark day for my family. Sport offering a sliver of light.
