7. The Weight of Return

April 2010

Quiet After Glory

At Yost, I dress slowly, tugging on the Wolverines workout shirt, and for a moment I let myself just be another student-athlete. Rolf is just putting away the Zamboni and helps me position “Chris Osgood” in front of the net. For an hour I practice slap and chip shots on goal, striking the seams to score. After a while, the guys arrive and tap their sticks against the ice as I glide around the rink. A grin breaks across my face despite myself; hockey guys don’t do flowery speeches; this is our language. The tap of sticks is all it takes to remind me that whatever the press says, whatever the fans whisper, here I’m still one of them. “Gold medalist!” one of the freshmen shouts and the whole rink laughs. I shake my head, cheeks heating, “Shut it,” but I’m smiling because the teasing feels like home.

Practice is hard, harder than I expected after weeks in Vancouver. My ribs still complain when I pivot too sharply, but I grit through it. Every shot I block, every pass I snap, every lap around the rink—it feels like cleansing fire. For a few blessed hours, I am not Canada’s hero nor the University of Michigan’s Golden Boy, I’m just Michael, grinding it out. After practice, in the locker room, I hear my teammates talking, not to me, but around me. Kristen, Emma, the broadcasts, they have seen the pictures, read the stories, and I brace myself for the inevitable ball busting, but instead, Shawn claps me on the back.

“You did great man, hell of a game against Russia.”

It takes me a second to answer, my throat feels tight, so I nod and say, “Thanks it was a team effort.” I pack-up my gear and head-out to class, in the evening, when I return to my condo it feels too small even a little claustrophobic. I pace the living room restlessly and finally decide to go back to Yost to burn-off the nervous energy. Although it is nearly midnight, the rink is never fully asleep, the lights half-on and the ice gleaming. Lacing my skates, donning my pads, the ritual grounds me. The first cut of blade on ice is a sigh of relief, out here, I don’t need to think, just move. Crossovers, stops, shots into the empty net echo like gunfire. The boards answer back, indifferent, and honest. For an hour I skate alone, chasing exhaustion and by the time I unlace, I am ready for sleep.

The Meeting

The next morning, I’m back at the rink bright and early, no teammates, no reporters, just me and the ice, I like it this way. But today, the quiet is spoiled by a folded note taped to my locker, I read it:

Michael — AD’s office. Today @ 9:00 AM. Important — Coach.

No explanation, no context, just orders that curdle my stomach even before the day starts. By 8:55, I’m outside the Athletic Director’s office. Angie Dawson stands waiting, blazer sharp, tablet glowing in her hands. She gives me the kind of look a doctor offers before delivering bad news. “You’re on time,” she says, flat. “That is the first win today.” I ignore the jab, the double doors open. Coach Benson stands there, coffee in hand, his eyes carry reassurance, but they do not soften the knot twisting in my chest. He waves me in.

Inside, the office is a shrine to Michigan sports: framed jerseys, helmets, trophies and behind the desk sits Athletic Director Langley, smile polished to perfection.

“Michael Stewart,” he says, rising with practiced warmth. “Our Olympian. Our Wolverine. What a story.”

“Thank you, sir,” I reply, careful.

Langley steeples his fingers. “Michael, you have brought tremendous pride to this university, but with pride comes responsibility. Donors are calling, reporters are circling, and recruits want to know what it feels like to share the ice with you. This is bigger than hockey, you are the face of University of Michigan Hockey.”

I shift in my chair. The face, not a student, not even a defenseman, just a billboard. Langley keeps going, “we need you for a few appearances—press events, donor galas, halftime ceremonies. Nothing unreasonable.”

Before Angie can pile on, I cut him off. “No. I’ll do one press conference. That’s it.”

The words land heavy, Coach Benson stays quiet, watching, Angie arches a brow and AD Langley tilts his head, thinking, I can’t force him, he is on an academic scholarship, then he says “One, hm?” “Yes, I came here to study computer science; Hockey is just a bonus. I will attend one press conference, but I will not take part in an extended Dog and Pony show.”

Angie exhales slowly, then leans back in her chair “One press conference is workable as long as we have your full cooperation.”

Langley nods, though his eyes still measure me carefully. “Alright, we can agree to that, but Michael, you should understand—we may need you on rare occasions for something extraordinary. If that call comes, I expect you will answer it.”

I hesitate, then nod once. “Extraordinary, not ordinary or routine I qualify.”

“Fair enough,” Langley says, the smile returns, smaller, but this time more genuine. Coach Benson clears his throat, “good, then let’s leave it there, he has class.” I stand, tension loosening from my shoulders. Angie gathers her tablet, her voice more pragmatic now, “we will brief you before the press conference, to make sure the message is clear. After that, you can focus on the team and your studies.” I notice her statement puts the team before my studies and silently vow to protect myself.

“That’s all I want,” I say, Langley rises, offering his hand again. “Then we are agreed, thank you for your time, Michael, and congratulations again.” I shake hands, cautious but polite. In the hallway, Angie walks beside me, heels clicking, “one press conference, you drew the line. That is fine but remember, lines can shift if the stakes change.” I already can feel my boundaries being tested.

“I’ll remember,” I say. Benson joins us at the stairwell, clapping my shoulder, “you handled it well, firm but fair.”

“Didn’t feel fair.” I admit and he smiles, “That is because you are thinking like a player, they are thinking like administrators. Different games. You found the middle today, that is a win.” I nod, but the sour taste lingers.

Media Siege

It starts even before practice ends. Reporters pack the glass at Yost, their faces pressed against the boards like kids at free skate; except these kids have cameras, microphones, and no patience. Every stride I take, every shot I rip, they’re there, lenses following. When the horn sounds, they don’t wait and swarm the players’ tunnel. Coach Huntley shoves through first, broad shoulders clearing a path, but even he can’t hold them back forever.

“Michael! —do you regret missing the Frozen Four while playing in the Olympics?”
“Michael, how does Donna Summerville feel about you now?”
“What about the other women? Who’s next?”