I submitted myself to the mercy of the freezing rink as I stepped inside of it. The outdoor temperature was 28 degrees, and the ice, walled in as it was, did little to warm me. As I moved towards our team's fans, I watched the entrance of the Thunder and the Scots as they dispersed to their sides of the ice to warm up and rehearse their shots while the goalies got their exercise by blocking them.
The Scots were the only other team that was in our division, and I knew we could beat them. And having lost to the Oklahoma City Blazers (7-2. Brant got the last score, but that game was so much of a blow-out that I won't bore you by going into it) the day before, don't think I wasn't ready for a win.
Amidst shouts of, "Go Thunder!" and many rattles of someone's homemade, hand-held Thunder machines, the Texan teams lined up opposite each other for the face-off.
The puck was dropped- and the struggle that had begun with the Blazers resumed now again with Dallas's Scots.
We managed to hold them for a few minutes, but then a point was added to the scoreboard. A point that was not in our favor.
"Come on, Thunder! Let's get one!" I screamed (yes, we scream in hockey. In fact, some people even use horns).
Minutes flew by. Cheers and disappointed "Ohhhss" were thrust in as necessary.
Finally, we got it back on our end....a shot...a score!
We erupted into ecstasy as the tie was tallied on the board. We were back in the game!
However, not even half a period expired before the Scots scored again. My nerves fluttered in more sincerity.
The buzzer heralded the end of the first period. Congregating about their respective benches, the players from both teams received some quick advice. Then the whistle blew, signaling that it was time for game time to resume.
Like its first period counterpart, the first score went to the Scots. My screaming started to become a little more demanding. Demanding, such as, "Attack him!" and "We need two more, Thunder! Two more!"
The puck flew back and forth, from one team's side to the next. At last, we were able to get a good shot...and the result left us rejoicing.
The second period met its end. Again, the teams got the coach's two cents. However, the fans were left to withstand the calm before the storm.
And a storm it proved to be. It was the battle that would either end our chance at the championship or give us another shot at winning the tournament.
The tension began to mount. 3-2. Just one more point and we would tie the game. And time was already slipping.
Score!
Fog horns, thunder-makers, and enthusiastic cheers orchestrated together in their tuneless song of celebration. We were tied, with plenty of time left to come back!
After about ten to fifteen seconds noise that only the truest of fans can see as something other than noise, the teams lined up again. My heart began pounding.
Our center, Gage, mirrored the pumped emotions of the players as he turned to the crowd and gestured for us to get loud. Laughing, we played along and showed our support by applause and "Whoooos".
The Scots, however, had already lost to us twice this season and weren't about to lose again. They held us at bay, and we held them, not one of us managing to swim head and shoulders over the other. That is, at least for most of the period.
Less than a minute left of regulation. It looked like over time was about to occur. The final seconds sped off the clock. Uh-oh....
The puck was in our zone. We had to stop them. Too late; a shot...and another score! We spent the next few seconds hoping for a miracle, but it didn't come. The end of the game occured. The Scots had beaten us for once; and with 45.7 seconds left on the clock. It was disappointing, but there was nothing we could do now.
Okay, so by now you're probably wondering why I titled it the way I did. Provided that we were in Dallas, you might think that Oklahoma City was crazy to come down and play us. And it's definitely not a bad experience for kids to get together to play each other. But our upcoming game was going to be especially special. Can you guess why? We were playing a team...from Russia.
No joke. Someone had arranged for a couple of talented and rich kids from Russia to come and stay with the families of the Scots's players. I was well aware that we'd probably get blown-out, but I was excited all the same.
3:00 finally arrived. For months, I had awaited the arrival of this time. I made my way out into the rink. White and blue jerseys contrasted with our dark blue, yellow, and silver jerseys. Completely illiterate (and most likely unpronouncible) names were printed on the backs in the Russian alphabet. Only one person on this whole team spoke English.
In fact, one of our players asked a player on the other team "Do you speak English?" and the only reply that came was, "Blralalalala!" (that's obviously not what he really said, it just sounded funny when Brant retold it). I happened to hear some Russian from some of the boys that came over here, and it sounds very unique.
The time for the game finally began. After a bit of a struggle, Russia finally scored. The fans (which were the parents of the Scots players since none of the players' parents had flown over), celebrated by both cheers in English and by communicating their approval with bangs on the glass (which is another not-too-uncommon thing in hockey). They then got two more.
At last, Gage got a hold of the puck and shot it in. The sticks flew over our team's heads in a gesture of triumph. Score!
Horns blasted the potential for silence. The thunder-makers boomed out our victory. Limited in movement as I was with the bench I was standing on, I managed to jump up and down and add my voice to the enthusiastic jumble. "Way to go, Gage!"
The fight proved to be a difficult battle. Neither players would relent to submission, and both goalies skilfully refused the puck an entrance to the net. However, I still found the experience unique and enjoyable.
One time, a man who was working our penalty box (in case you're unfamiliar with hockey, this is where players with penalties go) called his wife and told her to tell us to start saying, "USA! USA!" We just laughed and admitted, as Mom put it, that it was "kind of tacky".
We fought well, but during the third period Russia got an increasing amount of scores and widened the gap, making it 6-1. Two or three of those shots were lucky, however. At one point, even the Oklahoma City players (who were temporarily our fans and were sitting behind the net) were waving their arms back and forth in the "no goal" fashion of the refs.
No matter what the score was, our players managed to hang onto them and gave them a much better, more scrappy game than we had hoped for. Even though the final score was 6-1, many of the fans were saying that we played well, and that if we played that well we could basically give any other team we met a fairly pleasing game.
Despite our loss, our players were thrilled to have played the Russians. Gage, when he reached the doorway to the locker room, said, "I scored against a Russian!"
As our opponents came off the ice, one of the moms managed to get their attention by saying, "Hey, guys! Pictures!"
Several of us began to pantomime pressing buttons on cameras as we repeated the word. "Pictures! Pictures!"
They must feel like zoo animals, I thought as they began to get back on the ice. Still, I'm sure they understand.
If you had walked in the moment those pictures were taken, you would have thought that from the shouts that came from our players that the score was 6-1 in our favor. Indeed, our opponents acted as if they were much more somber than we were.
But hope accompanied the defeat of this game. The Penguins, who we were meeting at nine o' clock the next morning, had lost to the Russians eleven to zilch. We had given our foreign friends a closer game, and after three straight losses, we were ready to win....
Nine o' clock the next morning....
Chill clung to the air everywhere I went. Only the tiny area sheltered from both ice and Mother Nature seemed to embrace us in a fairly warm reprieve. I stood upon the bench once more, watching the players perform their gamely routine of practicing slap-shots.
The clock buzzed. Both teams again went to their benches, and, after the coach revealed his techniques, thrust their hands into the center of their little huddle.
"What time is it?" one player shouted.
"Game time!" chorused the others.
"What time is it?" he repeated.
"Game time!" they answered.
"What time is it?"
"Game time!"
"1,2,3..."
"Thunder!"
As the chants of the players faded into the chilly air, they were replaced by the cheers of the fans. This was our last chance, and we were going to put our heart and souls into not losing.
The puck plummeted to the frigid ground which the players were about to traverse, announcing the arrival of the game. Sticks clashed and bodies smacked as skates sliced the ice.
The first score belonged to the Penguins, and their fans (who turned out to be every bit as wild as we were) screamed their approval. The only thing that came from our mouths was for the consolation of our players.
My heart rate was slowly increasing. Neither side could stop the other.
But wait...the puck was by their net. Our player had it. Conflicting commands jumbled together as both fought achieve their different goals.
The stick met the puck, sending the black little disk hurtling. Score!
Although for some reason the horns and thunder-makers were not present, our cheers compensated for their absence. Now the score was neutral, and we still had more than two periods left!
To my dismay, the neutralness was short lived. The puck sailed past our goalie and into the net. And not only once...but twice.
We were now in to the second period. The game was proving to be riveting; I barely even thought about how cold I was.
The puck was being thrust into their zone again! My heart was now palpitating swiftly.
"Shoot!" I yelled.
Yes! A score! We only needed one more.
The buzzer rang as the period ended. We waited in suspense as some serious game-planning occured on the other side of the ice. This was the last period we would play in the tournament. And we didn't want to leave the false impression that this team wasn't good.
Minutes began ticking off the clock. Wait...our team was skating at the puck. Score!
We heaped our congratulations upon the lucky scorer of this tying goal. As lines shifted, players poured onto the ice and pooled around him, thus revealing their support.
My heart pounded like thunder in my chest. Nerves fluttered. Suspense laid the foundations for tension. The minutes flew until only seconds remained.
32 seconds. The puck was thrust out of their zone. Lucas, one of our centers, skated to meet it, but he couldn't make it to the net.
20 seconds. The little rubbery disk was in our territory. Wait, Lucas had possession and was skating it down again!
15 seconds...10...5...4...
Lucas was only at our opponent's blue line. We were running out of time.
"Just shoot it, Lucas!" I shouted.
The buzzer! Regulation time had ended in a tie! Over time, here we were!
An extra five minutes was added to the clock as everyone took a brief respite. My mind rushed back to last year's championship game against Plano, which had ended in a shoot-out. I looked down the line of fans in which I stood.
This is the calm before the storm, I thought.
And indeed it was. Players from both teams shot at the other's goal. Each team's possession of the puck threatened to decide the game. And at last it did.
A Penguin player skated the puck up. Our defense began to back towards the net.
A shot. Blocked, but not covered. Either emotional or physical engagement clung to us all. Unfortunately, the one who had performed the first shot was no longer a loner, having been followed by his teammates to catch the rebound.
Seconds ticked by. Oh, no! Our goalie, Troy, had his leg up! Upon seeing this, my instincts protested.
"Get it out of there!" ripped itself from my lips.
The whistle was blown while sticks were thrust over the Penguins' heads. Their fans errupted. Players piled onto the ice, some congratulating their victorious teammates and others wallowing in their disappointment. Both teams lined up to say "Good game" to each other before skating off to the locker rooms.
Just to make sure they knew everyone played well, I said as our last two players were getting off the ice. "That's okay, guys. You played well. We're proud of ya!"
Oklahoma City was also there to tells us we had done a good job. They were also talking of their championship game that was at 1:00. It was narrowed down to two teams now.
"Well, good luck," Dad said.
"Thanks," one of the players said.
"Yeah, good luck," I echoed.
And they would need it. Ironically, The Cold War had come down to Russia and America. And Russia was destined to win 2-1.
