Page 115 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Stay here another minute,” he says soothingly. Then he actually kisses my forehead, like I’m a kindergartener who’s upset over the last cookie. “Breathe.”
“Okay, okay,” I pant.
He steps back from me at the exact second the doorknob turns. Loud voices filter through the gap as Kapski sticks his head inside. “Uh, Coach?”
“He needs a minute,” Jethro says firmly, ushering Kapski out and then following him. “But I got something to say.” Jethro gives a piercing whistle. “Hey, hey. Can I have a minute of your time?”
The room quiets down immediately.
“I don’t speak up much around here,” Jethro says. “Because you kids seem to know what you’re doing, and also my record kinda sucked when I got here.”
I move to the doorway to check my players’ faces. I see a mix of confusion and worry.
“Today, though, I’ve got the kind of experience that matters. My sister is an addict. She overdosed on my bathroom floor once. But she’s still around, putting gray hairs on my head.”
There’s a stunned silence. Then Stoney says, “We shoulda seen it, though. Before he ended up shaking on the floor by the toilets.”
“Maybe,” Jethro says. “But I’ve been down that road, too. I’m a champion at blame as well as hockey. I’ve seen guys more fucked up than Pierre go to rehab and win a ring the next season. When he wakes up tomorrow morning in a hospital bed, with his family looking terrified, what do you think he wants to hear? That we blew the game worrying about him?”
Nobody says anything. But they’re listening.
“Panicking won’t help,” Jethro continues. “We’ve got an hour to remember how to be great. It’s the finals, guys. Our teammate messed up bad. He’s going to have a lot of regrets about tonight. You’re probably angry at him. Maybe you’re mad at yourself for not paying enough attention. But if you blow up your focus, it’s not helping him at all. Don’t make it worse for him tonight, okay? Let’s just get this done.”
From the doorway, someone starts clapping. It’s Doc Baker, the team psychologist. Then Coach Demski joins in. And Kapski.
Then the whole room.
Okay. Well. Jethro is better at this coaching thing than I am tonight. He just did my fucking job for me.
I look at my watch and step into the center of the room. “Warmups in nine minutes.”
“Suit up!” Kapski shouts.
Slowly, my guys pick up their rattled selves and go back to game prep.
FIFTY-ONE
Jethro
Three hoursafter my big speech, we’re up 3-1 with two minutes left on the clock.
We’re playing so well I could cry. Passes are sharp. The defense is on point. We hit that moment when the speed of play accelerates to blistering. Carolina is skating for their lives, and taking chances.
I see a play developing at the blue line, with a well-guarded pass to Carolina’s sniper. My mind is essentially a supercomputer at this point—weighing angles and measuring outcomes at the speed of light.
There’s no time, and I have to commit to a strategy before I can see the release. I dive to the right just as he fires at the same exact corner I’m covering.
Smack. Right into the glove.
Our bench erupts. As the ref takes the puck from me, I get a look at Clay. He’s waving his hands over his head, smile bright.
I turn my head, panning the crowd. Time slows down. The fans are a smear of Carolina red, with dots of Cougar blue. Their screams of frustration are an aural blur.
“Great save!” my captain says as he drives toward the face-off circle.
It was, in fact, a great save. My life’s work is so well captured in this one moment. The sweat and the muscle burn and the shriek of the crowd. The glory on my teammates’ faces.
I’m thirty-seven years old. I’ve seen everything that hockey can do.
