Here I Am
One and Done
Back-up goalie – that’s what I am: the back-up goalie to Ryan Miller, who is practically God himself in Buffalo. If you had told me I’d grow up to be this when I was back in my home country of Sweden, I would not have believed it. If you’d have told me that I’d get my first shut-out in the National Hockey League against my idol, or even that I would be in the NHL, in America, I don’t think I’d pay it any mind other than to say, “That is ridiculous.”
But here I was. I’d made it. I was, I am, back-up to Ryan Miller; I made it to America and the NHL; I’d just won my first shut-out – my very first, but most important, shut-out. Tonight, I’d won that shut-out against none other than Henrik Lundqvist, my hero and fellow countryman.
And here I was, staring at myself in the mirror, a mixture of pride and panic in my blue eyes. Panic strictly because I wasn’t just the back-up anymore. Ryan was out injured, and the entire team was now on my shoulders.
This wasn’t my job. How many games was I expected to play in a row without getting fatigued? What if I couldn’t carry the team and disappointed everyone? I stared into my reflection, looking for answers.
But none came. As hard as I tried, as much as I searched, I found nothing but what I could see: a scared, even terrified, young man who was growing up much faster than he wanted to. My eyes grew wider with every frightened thought that ran through my head, and I tore myself away from my reflection.
“You’ll be fine,” I told myself resolutely after a few steadying breaths. “Don’t question a single thing yet…”
I took another glance at myself in the mirror and found a more composed, determined man looking back at me. Some of the brown (Almost fluffy, I thought to myself.) hair at the back of me head was sticking up stubbornly, and I hastily flattened it before turning away and heading back to the locker room to get my equipment put away, which I should’ve done first.
My goalie mask, or helmet if you want to call it that, sat atop my bag, which contained nearly all the rest of my gear and lay open on the floor. I couldn’t see it, but I knew there was a miniscule dent at the top of my helmet; I don’t, however, even know how it had got there. It was a testament to how much I’d been through as a hockey player, or so I thought.
I could almost feel the excitement of each fan in the arena and every single person. The crowd cheered with every save, gasped when someone (it didn’t matter which team) came close to scoring, and practically exploded when the only goal of the game was scored by Tim Connolly, not that they’d known then that it would be the only goal. Frankly, I hadn’t known either – no one had.
As a hockey player, I learned two things besides the sport itself. The first – that was how to read the emotions of an entire crowd and, essentially, feed off them. The excitement and tension you feel from a crowd can really make or break a game, and it’s something everyone should experience.
That second lesson I’d learned, though I’m not quite sure whether it’s much of a lesson or not, was how to tell people you were ready for whatever they could throw at you. If you can tell both your competition and yourself that you can take a burden, that you can do anything that is asked of you, you really can.
As I shut the locker room lights off behind me and started to leave, I muttered a few words to myself. “Here I am world. Show me what you’ve got.” Lesson well learned. I, that back-up goalie on a team that “wouldn’t make it,” was ready to play as many games as they could give me and play them confidently. We’d make it into that playoff spot we’d had our eyes on, even though we’d started the season on a track that was quite the opposite of a playoff run. No one could stop us now.
But here I was. I’d made it. I was, I am, back-up to Ryan Miller; I made it to America and the NHL; I’d just won my first shut-out – my very first, but most important, shut-out. Tonight, I’d won that shut-out against none other than Henrik Lundqvist, my hero and fellow countryman.
And here I was, staring at myself in the mirror, a mixture of pride and panic in my blue eyes. Panic strictly because I wasn’t just the back-up anymore. Ryan was out injured, and the entire team was now on my shoulders.
This wasn’t my job. How many games was I expected to play in a row without getting fatigued? What if I couldn’t carry the team and disappointed everyone? I stared into my reflection, looking for answers.
But none came. As hard as I tried, as much as I searched, I found nothing but what I could see: a scared, even terrified, young man who was growing up much faster than he wanted to. My eyes grew wider with every frightened thought that ran through my head, and I tore myself away from my reflection.
“You’ll be fine,” I told myself resolutely after a few steadying breaths. “Don’t question a single thing yet…”
I took another glance at myself in the mirror and found a more composed, determined man looking back at me. Some of the brown (Almost fluffy, I thought to myself.) hair at the back of me head was sticking up stubbornly, and I hastily flattened it before turning away and heading back to the locker room to get my equipment put away, which I should’ve done first.
My goalie mask, or helmet if you want to call it that, sat atop my bag, which contained nearly all the rest of my gear and lay open on the floor. I couldn’t see it, but I knew there was a miniscule dent at the top of my helmet; I don’t, however, even know how it had got there. It was a testament to how much I’d been through as a hockey player, or so I thought.
I could almost feel the excitement of each fan in the arena and every single person. The crowd cheered with every save, gasped when someone (it didn’t matter which team) came close to scoring, and practically exploded when the only goal of the game was scored by Tim Connolly, not that they’d known then that it would be the only goal. Frankly, I hadn’t known either – no one had.
As a hockey player, I learned two things besides the sport itself. The first – that was how to read the emotions of an entire crowd and, essentially, feed off them. The excitement and tension you feel from a crowd can really make or break a game, and it’s something everyone should experience.
That second lesson I’d learned, though I’m not quite sure whether it’s much of a lesson or not, was how to tell people you were ready for whatever they could throw at you. If you can tell both your competition and yourself that you can take a burden, that you can do anything that is asked of you, you really can.
As I shut the locker room lights off behind me and started to leave, I muttered a few words to myself. “Here I am world. Show me what you’ve got.” Lesson well learned. I, that back-up goalie on a team that “wouldn’t make it,” was ready to play as many games as they could give me and play them confidently. We’d make it into that playoff spot we’d had our eyes on, even though we’d started the season on a track that was quite the opposite of a playoff run. No one could stop us now.