As the game finally transpires,the boys—whom I’ve wrangled into their desks and convinced to sit still for close to an hour at a time, often reading silently while barely moving—create a blur of motion on the ice, all centered on a puck that, truth be told, I can barely see.
I started the game staring at the giant clock above the rink, watching it to determine when this would all end so I might grab some peaceful reading time back in the hotel before returning to the bus in the morning and heading home. But as play progresses, I find myself drawn to the vim and vigor of the boys.
Johnny sits next to me, doing his best to explain the basics of play. I make a joke about wishing the Sharks were playing the Jets instead of the Otters, but it flies right over poor Johnny’s head.
“When do you get a turn?” I ask.
“Oh, Coach doesn’t put me in,” Johnny replies. “But it’s okay. I’m not very good. I just like practicing and being part of the team.”
My mind flashes back to being ten, watching my father and brothers play football on Thanksgiving morning. Wanting to be included but also petrified of playing. Running inside to help my mother in the kitchen.
I know enough from Johnny’s explanation to know we’re in the last period, and if our team doesn’t get the tiny black disc into the opposing team’s goal, we lose. If we can score, it will be a tie, and both teams will advance to the next round. Johnny said something about that being a peewee rule, and in the NHL, there’s overtime that sometimes can last a really long time. I’m grateful we’re not facing that possible scenario.
But now that the game is almost over, and the Sharks are down 1-0, my heart races in anticipation of the loss.
“Well, that’s it.” Darius plops down on the bench, sandwiching Johnny between us. He’s been on his feet the entire time, pacing, smacking his gum, screaming, and huddling with the boys. He has a mini whiteboard he’s used to scribble what Johnny explains are plays but that the boys never seem to execute as instructed. If nothing else, the entire experience has been entertaining.
“There’s still a minute left in the period,” I say, nodding toward the giant timepiece with a satisfied grin. I pay attention. I can read a digital clock. I know a single term related to the event!
Darius looks at me, his big hazel eyes wide, and for the first time, his confidence seems to wane. His hand grips Johnny’s leg over the padding of his hockey pants, and I finally get it. Darius and I share the same motive for being here. The boys. I’m here so they can play. He’s here so they can win.
“It’s okay, Coach. We tried our best,” Johnny says. He puts his hand on Darius’s, and witnessing this tender moment between them sparks something in me.
“But there’s still a minute left,” I say. “Well, forty-five seconds now. We just need one touchdown.”
“Goal,” Johnny says.
“Goal. Basket. Touchdown. It’s all semantics. Coach Hill, surely we can wrangle a home run from these boys.”
Darius’s gaze meets mine, and he blinks, pulling his lips in and nodding slowly.
“You’re right. We’re not rolling over and giving up.We’re the Sharks. If we’re going down, we’re going down fighting.”
He stands, leans over the railing to the rink, raises his right hand, and shouts, “Timeout!”
The referee blows his whistle, and the Sharks scurry off the ice and onto the bench. Shoulders are slumped. Chins are down. The boys seem well aware that this marks the end of their run for the season.
Next year, they’ll be off to middle school, where they’ll transform into Wildcats. Over one summer, they’ll leave the ocean, grow four legs, and become entirely different animals. This was their swan song. Their shark song, so to speak. I don’t think sharks sing, but I’m not a science teacher—I’ll have to ask Mr. Butters.
“Sharks. We have . . .” Darius glances up at the clock that stands frozen for the moment. “Forty-two seconds. I’m not expecting a miracle, but we didn’t drive all the way to Rhode Island to not give it our all.”
As I sit on the bench, a smile crosses my face as I observe him pacing back and forth, pouring his heart into the pep talk for the sullen boys.
“I know I don’t teach math, but let me tell you—you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.” He pulls in a quick breath. “Johnny, I’m tapping you in.”
Johnny’s eyes almost pop out of his head, and I wrap my arm around him, giving him a silent squeeze of support.
“But . . .” Johnny isn’t able to finish before Darius interrupts.
“But nothing. You’ve got this, Rodriguez. Go out there, and take your shot. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Except the game, and our spot in the finals,” Victor says matter-of-factly.
“True,” Darius replies. “But we’ve got this. Team, I want you to back Johnny up. Don’t let those Otters near him.”
Darius flashes his whiteboard. There’s a drawing, and he’s scribbling, making arrows all over the place as he talks with complete determination on his face.
“Craig and Nicholas, lure them away, create a distraction. Protect the puck. Then Johnny can take his shot. Their goalie is tired. I saw him yawning. Shoot on the outside.”
