Page 98 of The Last Guy On Earth
After the door closes, I lean back and shake my head.Enjoy the journey.
Thanks, pal. Now when I feel anxious before the game, I’ll be worrying that it’s contagious.
Demski wasn’t wrong about game three. Seattle comes out of the chute with their fangs out and ten thousand hometown fans on their feet before the puck even drops. Their energy is electric, bordering on desperate.
I watch Jethro settle into his crease, tapping the posts. We’re up two games, but playoff hockey is a different beast entirely. One bad bounce, one moment of lost focus, and the tide can turn in an instant.
Hale knows that, I remind myself.He’s been here before.
As the first period gets underway, Seattle comes out flying. Their forwards are everywhere, swarming our zone like angry hornets. Jethro makes his first save less than thirty seconds in, kicking out his right pad to deflect a low shot from Seattle’s top scorer.
“Nice one, Hale!” I hear Kapski shout as he clears the rebound.
But Seattle won’t be discouraged. Five minutes in, Jethro’s up to six saves. Our guys are on their heels, struggling to match Seattle’s intensity.
Then it happens. Seattle’s star center threads a perfect pass through traffic. Their winger one-times it, the puck a blur as it rockets towards the top corner. Jethro pushes off hard, stretching every inch of his frame.
For a split second, I think he has it. Then I see the red light flash behind him.
The arena explodes, and so does my brain. Jethro slams his stick against the post in frustration. It’s only one goal, but it feels like more. Seattle’s played us even through the first two games. Now they have the crowd behind them and first blood.
“Shake it off, boys!” I hear Kapski yell, trying to rally the team. “Plenty of hockey left!”
But Seattle is alive with hope. They keep coming in waves, and it’s all my D-men can do to keep us in the game. And Jethro makes save after save, some more desperate than pretty. By the end of the first period, the shots are 18-4 in Seattle’s favor, but somehow, we’re only down 1-0.
As Jethro skates off the ice, our eyes meet. His jaw is set, his expression grim. He knows this is no way to win.
I give an impassioned speech during the intermission that I probably won’t remember later. Lots of hand waving andyou can do this.
But the second period starts much the same way. Seattle is relentless, and we can barely get the puck out of our zone. Ten minutes in, Jethro’s made another dozen saves when disaster strikes—their defenseman winds up for a slap shot from the point. DiCosta skids over to block it, and the puck deflects off his shin pad, changing direction completely. And before Jethro can adjust, it’s in the back of the net.
2-0 Seattle. And an own-goal.
DiCosta gives a shout of frustration. And Jethro’s face is bright red when he lifts his mask for a drink. It’s not anyone’s fault, really, just a bad bounce. But I can see the anguish radiating off both of them.
Finally, our guys seem to wake up. We start to push back, generating some offensive pressure of our own. With twominutes left in the period, Newgate threads a beautiful pass to Pierre, who buries it top shelf.
2-1. About fucking time.
I give another sermon in the dressing room on the theme ofwe’re still in this thing.
But Seattle is still in this thing, too. They fight us for every inch of ice, every loose puck. Jethro makes a couple of big saves to keep us within one. Then, with ten minutes left, the refs miss a blatant high stick on Wheeler. No call.
I’m livid, shouting at the officials. It should have been a power play for us.
Instead, Seattle is back in our faces. Their forward drives hard to the net, and in the ensuing scramble, the puck somehow squeezes through Jethro’s pads and over the line.
3-1 Seattle.
Jethro’s furious. At the non-call, at himself for not squeezing the pads tighter, at this whole damn game. He whacks his stick against the crossbar, earning himself a warning from the ref.
We pull him with two minutes left, desperate for a miracle. Hale glowers from the bench while Seattle’s goalie stands tall, buffeting our shots.
When the final horn sounds, the scoreboard reads 3-1. As the team files off the ice, I can see the disappointment etched on every face. We let an opportunity slip away. We could have put a stranglehold on the series. Instead, we’ve given Seattle life.
In the locker room, I keep my post-game speech short and to the point. “We got outworked tonight, plain and simple. But it’s one game. We’ll get our revenge in forty-eight hours.”
The post-game rituals seem to last forever. But when the room clears out, I catch Jethro’s eye. He’s sitting in his stall, putting on his shoes, his expression still pissed as hell.
