For years, the State championship had been an unattainable dream that I held for my brother and his teammates. Looking back now, it's almost unbelievable. I can still see me and Brant, at the respective ages of seven and five, taking our first wobbly steps out onto the ice. At that time, my young mind had no idea that the sport I would come to adore so much could be played at a local team level. In my world, hockey was suiting up and being given a puck, taught how to skate, stop, and reach for the high and mighty goal of being an oh-so-skilled-and-powerful Blue Dot (the highest level in our First Ice learn-to-skate class).If you were super-talented, they might even upgrade you to the suave-skating mob of six and seven year olds known to us as the amazing Mighty Mites.
Back then, I never would have guessed that we could play on a team. Until the year Brant turned eight. That's when I fell in love. Every weekend I had the pleasure of filing into a cold rink cheering on my brother and his teammates with my faithful friend Maddison. Even though our coach made it very clear that he did NOT want the boys under the pressure of playing a State championship, I still harbored the hope that someday, somehow, we'd make it there.
I couldn't help but think over our hockey past, which now spans a full nine years, almost ten, of my life. It has been thrilled with highs and lows, long travels, and a thousand other things we could complain of, but me and my family have never lost the love of the game. Surprisingly, I was not nervous during the hours before the games, even though I knew that the little dream that had been born in Wisconsin and followed all the way to Texas was on the line.
We were the underdogs in the competition: Odessa was the division's number one team nationwide and second in North America. We, on the other hand, had lost to them twice and beaten them once. Mentally, Dad prepared Brant for 110% aggressive battle packed with determination and raw nerve.
We never could've expected what would happen next....
The first game arrived, and my dad and I filed into the rink. Seating area outside of the warm rooms are sparse in a Texas rink, and many prefer to stand, so we made our way to an open place up against the side of the glass.
Now, I'm a teen, so you know when music is too loud for my ears, it really is too loud.We were right next to a huge speaker that was pumping rock tunes in its old, raspy voice. I told Dad I'd probably go deaf, but he said, "It's okay." Since I saw I was getting nowhere, I decided to ignore the noise and concentrate on the game.
Sometimes, so much of a game can depend on the first score. For a few minutes, we held our breath, silently waiting for the first score. Well, maybe not silently, but hey, our hockey games are never silent.
We were down on our opponent's end of the ice. A shot....
Our players held their sticks aloft. Cowbells (a traditional hockey accessory...started in Wisconsin, maybe?) painted and stickered with our team name, the Thunder, rang out in full celebration. Dad and I screamed for joy and pounded on the glass, the latter of which hockey families are very familiar with because we use it to convey our ardent approval.
We ended up winning that game by one point, but the championship tournament was set to determine the champions by the best of three games. One down; one, possibly two, to go.
Since Odessa was our fiercest competitor, and since anything can happen in our league, Dad told Brant to prepare himself for two games. And I totally agreed. Odessa now had more to loose than we did, and since frustration had now doubtlessly topped their skill, I doubted we could win twice in a row.
The second game, we actually did have a considerable amount of seating, and the bleechers were really steep. Even when on bleechers, however, Dad and I prefer to stand, which is a perfectly good thing. I'd much rather stand than sit at hockey games. The bad news? With all do respect, my dad subconsciously rocks the bleecher with his feet, and so I had to struggle not to topple over and have to be rushed to the ER.
The skaters came out onto the ice...and the crowd erupted. Each team's fans screamed, stomped, rang their bells, hit the glass (and something much louder than the glass that I couldn't see), competing over each other to relay our enthusiastic, fight-to-the-death support to our players. It was, and I'm pretty sure I don't exaggerate, one of the loudest beginnings to a hockey game I've ever experienced.
For nearly all three periods, we battled back and forth, neither team being able to hold a dominating for an extremely lengthy time. Only minutes remained, and the crowd had not lost the enthusiasm. It was 4-4. Were these two teams destined to clash heads one final time the next day? Or would we, a team who barely mustered enough players year-after-year to play, walk away victorious?
We didn't know. And, although we love a good game, overtime is every bit as scary as it is fun.
But, wait...Eddie, our defender was skating it up ice. He shot...and a score! We went nuts...if we could only hold them a few more minutes!
The minutes passed. The countdown turned to seconds. 59...40...30...20...10...5....
0!
Those on our bench leapt the walls to join those out on the ice. The air rained helmets and gloves as our players tossed them up before diving onto our goalie in a huge doggie-pile. In the stands, we went crazy. I turned to my dad, who clapped his arms around me in an overjoyed bear-hug as we screamed our rejoicings. It seemed surreal...we had just taken State! My girlhood dream had been realized! And now, I see how appropriate the timing was, since Brant only has a few years of hockey left. It just seems right that we should have such a memorable success to top off one of his twilight years in the sport. I am truly thankful that God gave me both a brother and hockey, so that I might be privy to such a special moment for my brother, my family, the team, and all of San Antonio hockey.
We walked down from the bleechers and stood near the glass to watch the ceremonies. Mom met us there with the two kids, and I wrapped her in big hug. As Odessa's trophies were distributed to the players one-by-one, Brielle stepped up on her container of Littlest Pet Shop and banged her small hand against the glass, smiling as she imitated those around her.
"...champions of the North Texas Hockey League, the San Antonio Thunder!"
We cried out in victorious shouts and filed onto the ice with our cameras. After the individual trophies had been given out, our team captain was presented with the most massive trophy I have ever personally witnessed a junior hockey team win. He skated towards his teammates, and they gathered about it and held it high above their heads. We shouted again, and continued to do so throughout the next twenty minutes or so until my voice was pretty much gone.
Allow me to end by saying that hockey has been a crazy yet remarkable journey for me. I couldn't be prouder of the Thunder, and God has truly blessed me with the opportunity to be there at their every game and watch how they have progressed through the years. I'm sorry if this is a bit lengthy...it took me over an hour to write ;), and I know the emotions might feel a little fabricated. I want you to know that they're not, and I truly have a deep love for the sport of hockey.
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