I said here, just a few days ago, that the thing I loved most about hockey was its ability to take me by surprise week in and week out without fail. This remains true following one of the curiouser homestands I've witnessed with my Grizzlies.
At the start of what I had deemed "hell week" before it had even begun (in hindsight, not the most serendipitous name to have given it), I was thrilled with the prospect of the return of Paul Crowder who had impressed me months earlier and Chris Donovan whose presence on the ice I had sorely missed for a near month, there was also the temporary promotion of Simon to captaincy, concern over seeing Riley and Maxime on IR (injury reserve), and the elevation of Nick Tuzzolino to the Portland Pirates (AHL). The loss of Jake, Nick, Riley, and Maxime had already concerned and piqued my interest as to just what coach was going to have in store for us line-wise. Just how would he manage the loss of a captain, his best defenseman, his enforcer, and his newest offensive potential?
Tuesday night, the answer was not what any of us wanted to hear. It seemed the team itself was as baffled as I was by some of the combinations that were made. Behind the lens, I could see that at least half of the team seemed lost in thought and communication frequently weak or nonexistent especially in the final third where both Simon and Engy's (Andrew Engelage) frustration rose notch by notch as their team which had had all of the momentum only minutes before abruptly fell apart around them in an undisciplined mess.
Wes Goldie, the ECHL's top goal scorer at the time took advantage of the lack of defense surrounding Engelage and shifted the momentum away from a hard fought tie. Nevertheless, the only real strangeness on this particular night was the lack of passion, especially in a third period that had been theirs to own (the Grizzlies this year have never been a particularly disciplined sort, but passion, both good and bad, they have almost always had in spades). Simon's posture leaving the ice spoke volumes about what he thought of the night. He's an expressive man, and unapologetically so, and one can read his opinion of a play or a person or a game in the way he shifts his weight forward or to the side. On this particular night, rather than bending low to the ground as if to shut out the lights and the crowd and listen to his own self think as he usually does when he is disappointed, tonight he leaned back frequently, shoulders squared, knuckles white around the stick, his gaze pointed hard in the direction of certain individuals. I shrugged off the loss as the boys having an off day, an inexcusable off day, but an off day nonetheless and assumed Simon would bitch, Coach would bitch, and Wednesday night would be better.
Removing the lens cap and propping up the camera to the hole in the glass twenty hours later, I was happy to discover Maxime Tanguay laced up and on the ice again. He's such a beautiful skater to photograph that I couldn't help but smile as he slingshot around the goal, streamlined and low to the ice as usual, early in the game.
Max is one of those players that when he rushes by the press corner he sends a blast of cold air through the slats of the glass. He's thrilling to watch, quiet and focused, fearlessly threading himself through the pack of players, or patiently biding his time anticipating the next play. He's not expressive in Simon's infamous manner, voicing opinions with so little reserve the very words can be read off of his lips, but rather it is a slight squinting of the eye, a sudden smile or a clouded expression, a set jaw, a small trickle of sweat he doesn't bother to brush away from his brow that tells you whatever it is he wants you to know about him.
Tonight his message was clear, and my alarm rose the moment I saw it. Pushing a puck deep behind the goal, the new sweater on his back afforded him no kindness from the Aces as his head was pinched hard between the glass and the heavy wall-like shoulder of a former teammate inches from my lens. It was a split second, but the hardworking Max who had been holding his own up until this point, suddenly winced, and the expression ran deeper than a simple
that hurt. The abrupt contortion of pain that rippled through him said rather,
I am hurt. It doesn't matter that pain such as I saw is within hockey's job description, it was heartbreaking to witness.
That moment was probably the moment I remember best of what was an otherwise terrible game, though there were many other things that took place worthy of mention. Perhaps it is that it summed up the best that is in many of these players. A desire to see and smell and work the ice, even when seeing and smelling it demands a pound of flesh as payment for the privilege. It is a work ethic that necessitates a quiet nod of respect, a tip of the hat, a withholding of the camera click as a second later he recovers, determined to finish his shift, finish his game. Later, as the disappointed crowd filed out of the aisles, dribbling down the stairs to the streets below like a slow cold rain, Maxime admitted to me how poorly he felt he played. I respect that he expects more of himself, I admire it, but, Max, love, give yourself some credit. The fact is this young player showed up for his severely undermanned team even when it was apparent all was not well with him.
After a day and a night off sans hockey, I arrived bright and early at the rink Friday night to discover not my beloved Engy skating out like a giant swaying tree to his home between the goalposts
but Marc Rinfret making only his third professional hockey start.
Hockey is a sport with far more in common with horseracing, I think, than any other sport especially at the ECHL level where players you love can disappear at any given time due to injury or due to, as in Engy's case this week, receiving a well deserved call up to the AHL. As much affection as I have for new guy "Socks" (our nickname for Marc Rinfret), seeing him skate out instead of Engelage hit me with the same level of force as Maxime had experienced physically two nights earlier, and left me with as pinched an expression as well. I have always loved and believed in JP's backup, watching him play was the best sort of show, and only recently, in his last game with us had Andrew stopped in front of my glass turned and smiled at me. I was so surprised by his sudden recognition and happy wave that I never took the shot and can recall it now only in memory. I am going to miss him, but I am very proud of him as I have always been and am so happy to see him playing again at home in Toronto (with the Marlies) on his way to becoming, I have no doubt, the first decent Leaf goalie in recent times.
The night and week of losses continued on as I witnessed a goal that was never declared. They even asked my opinion and I told them what the entire crowd was insisting. There was, at least from my vantage point, a goal. Before, Brett Parnham's skate caught on opposing Las Vegas goalie Mikey Ouzas' equipment during the second period and he collapsed to the ice. I watched, frozen with concern, as one of our most talented goal scorers tried, and was unable, to stand on his own as the medics rushed out to the ice and assessed his condition. It's always an inspirational moment in any sport to see a team link arms around the shoulders of one of their own fallen and Friday included one of those. Through the glass, I saw Brian Kilburg, a soft look in his eye, skate to Parnham's right side and with an encouraging smile cheer and lift his teammate back up to his feet.
It was such a meaningful moment that I broke my own rule and took the above shot, and I think I love them both a little more now. I have since seen Brett Parnham, in crutches, but looking otherwise well and spoken with him. I can't wait to see him fully recovered and back on the ice being his amazing, talented self once more.
Saturday saw the losses continue into a fourth straight game as I was surprised again to see the third different goalie in as many games take to the ice. Tamio Stehrenberger received a phone call early Saturday morning informing him of an emergency call to the net of the Utah Grizzlies. Tamio, who last guarded the net for BYU College in his younger days is somewhat the backup goalie of backup goalies.
And he actually did a remarkable job. It was touching to watch time-and-time again the boys swing by to give him an encouraging and respectful tap of the stick against his legs.
Only in the last minute of the game, with seconds ticking by, the entire crowd already anticipating overtime, Tamio made an excellent save that was abruptly put back into play and found itself over his shoulder only seconds later. I think Tamio was as surprised by it as we all were.
In the end, it was a week and weekend to remember for all of the right and wrong reasons. There was loss and, yet, triumph in it. There were those who did not pull their weight, and those who pulled for themselves and for others. If the boys stop and consider all things, giving them their proper perspective they'll see, as I do, that they are more a team now than ever losses notwithstanding. They are a young team with a lot to learn; the most important of which is appreciating what they get to do for a living, who they get to do it with, and who they do it for.
It usually involves me falling face first into a pillow and screaming. All of this is found highly entertaining by others as I haven't been to Canada since I was five and I only remember dolphins. Now why I associate Canada with dolphins is beyond me, but I do. And I've always wanted to go back. Except now I've found something better than dolphins that Canada supposedly has. I call them up and ask them if it's true:
I basically got this in reply:
So I tried harder:
And that is how I found a way into Canada for a week. Well, not exactly. But it's pretty close. 
