4. Canada vs. Russia – Olympic

February 2010

Prologue
The bus rumbles beneath me, air thick with the banter of teammates riding out another road game. I sit midway back, earbuds in, notebook open on my lap, trying to sketch algorithms, but the lines blur into nonsense. Hockey has always been my release from code, but tonight I can’t focus on either. A shadow falls across me, and I look up to see Coach Benson bracing himself on the seatback.

“Stewart. up front, someone wants a word with you.” I blink, caught off guard. “Now?” Coach nods his head and says, “Now,” though there’s something softer in his eyes, almost pride. Sliding out of my seat, I feel the curious eyes of teammates follow me as I walk up the narrow aisle. My phone buzzes in my hand and I press it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Michael Stewart?” The voice is crisp, familiar— Steve Yzerman, General Manager of Team Canada. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve heard the news about Pronger? His concussion takes him out of our lineup, and we’ve met as a staff; pack your gear, you are playing for Canada.” The words hit harder than any bodycheck, and my hand grips the armrest just to steady myself. “I—are you sure?” I ask. Yzerman chuckles, “you’ve earned it, Coach Babcock will call you tonight with details. Congratulations, son. You’re wearing the Maple Leaf.”

The line goes dead. I lower the phone slowly, staring at nothing until Coach Benson prods me. “Well?” For a moment I pause and then say “Team Canada, I ... I made it.” The bus erupts, teammates cheer, laugh, slap the seats and whistle, voices ringing with disbelief and excitement. “Holy hell, our boy’s going to the Olympics!” one shouts. Another adds, “Better start practicing that anthem, rookie!”

I sink into the front seat, dazed, forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching the blur of headlights streak by. I dreamed of this moment skating on the rink my father built behind our house in Northern Ontario, shooting pucks under a yard lamp, frost in the air. Now it’s real. I close the notebook in my lap, no longer able to focus, my fingers clutching my stick across my knees, knuckles white as if it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

First Period – Gold Medal Game

The puck clangs against the boards like a gunshot and Russia comes out flying, skating not as men but as a wolf pack. Ovechkin barrels across the blue line, lowers his shoulder and plows into Duncan Keith with a thud that shakes the glass. Keith crumples but scrambles back up, jaw set, eyes sharp. The puck skips loose onto Malkin’s stick and Brodeur has to sprawl across his crease to smother it.

The crowd roars with a mix of awe and terror; Canada hasn’t touched the puck. On the bench, I lean forward, jaw clenched, because everyone feels it: the gap where Chris Pronger should be. Chris would be out there punishing Ovechkin, clearing the slot, setting the tone. His absence presses down like a weight and our blueline wavers.