Season ends with loss, but team still wins

by Tim Pappa

The American Collegiate Hockey Association national championships took place last week, far off in western Maryland. Ohio University didn’t win the championship. We didn’t even capture second, third, fourth or even fifth place. If you saw our finish, you could say we weren’t even close.

But just try separating us.

The scuffmarks from skate laces will smooth over soon. And the smell of wet leather from hockey gloves that seem eternally to stain the palms also will take leave. Forget sharpening skates and re-taping sticks. And for three seniors, there will be no championship rings today, or tomorrow, for them.

The locker room just before the end of our last game could have been empty — it was that quiet. Sullen eyes lurched around, or they didn’t move; they just stared, moist, at the ground. The silence wasn’t unlike 6 a.m. the first day of the season six months ago. There are 19 underclassmen on this team. We all share a taste of that feeling.

You could say we’re like any other team. We’ve had our share of tears and sweat and blood. We’ve had downward spirals and ascents. We’ve had moments when the season could have been snuffed out if we had chosen so. But what makes us different than any other team are Friday and Saturday nights at Bird Arena. The last game of the season had people scalping tickets outside the front doors for a “club” sport. Thousands of people cheer for us, kids ask for our autographs and the other team, well, sucks, as a crowd full of children, adults and elderly patrons dutifully chants each game. And every time we ran onto the ice, we hid expressions of mired disbelief and excitement, in shock at how each face in the crowd seemed to love us. It was harder to hold down a grin than you would ever believe. Who were we to deserve it?

The first time I ever visited OU, I went to a hockey game against Illinois. The same ticket from that game is still pinned to my wall at home. A quote stands above it, saying, “Intentions count for nothing.” I was set on playing here. And two years later, I was supposed to give up. I was supposed to drown from the constant screaming in my ear at every practice and the sweat soaking me, and the legs that wanted to quit. But you keep standing, and you keep your number. You might hardly ever play, or you might play everyday. Either way, the coach always will be there to yell you to the floor to see if you come back and then give you a simple pat. That pat can be one of the best feelings in the world. Your teammates will be there too, because we all wear that same jersey.

Sacrifice was the only path to having your name scribbled on scotch tape above your locker booth. If we ever forgot what it means to play for Ohio, the coaches would be glad to remind all of us. You pushed weary legs, chopping the ice with lagging skates at 3 a.m. until you realized it. If you ever gave up or left, you were forgotten the next day. You come everyday, or not at all.

No one knows that when you’re out there, you don’t hear anything. You don’t see the crowd when you’re playing. You’re just playing hockey ­ Ohio hockey. When I finally earned that jersey and pulled it over my head for the first time, I secretly smiled behind its mesh as it slid across my face.

That’s Ohio hockey. That’s what it’s about.

When we arrived back in Athens, the rookies scurried to unload the bus and clean up the locker room. I still put the senior’s sticks on the wall rack, though they wouldn’t be using them anymore. They belong there though. They always will.

 

— Pappa can be reached at timmyp1027@hotmail.com