Page 41 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“There was this cycling team—I don’t remember what country—that was total shit, okay? And they didn’t want to be shit anymore, so they hired a coach. Coach comes in and decides they’re going to find a bunch of tiny—I’m talking tiny—ways to improve. By the time they add them all up, they get something substantial, right?

“We’re talking about special lotions, wearing masks and washing hands to avoid getting sick—even painting the inside of the equipment shed white so they could make sure it was dust free. And after they did all that, do you know what happened?”

“I’m guessing they—”I didn’t know anything about cycling“—won?”

“They went on to win foryears.They created an environment of success, of diligence and precise action. They added up all those tiny things. And this—the deep frequencies for your brain—thisis one of those things. As ridiculous as it may seem.”

My physical therapist arrives to help me warm-up before the game, and gestures for me to keep the headphones on. I jump rope, lunge, and jog on the sidelines in my t-shirt and sweats for half an hour before he dismisses me to get dressed.

Brett’s back in the locker room, too and grins at me, mouthing something obnoxious as I get dressed, still leaving the headphones on. I’m fully suited up before I finally switch them off and hang them in the locker, following a handful of the guys out onto the ice to start our rink warm-ups.

From here, time starts to speed up. The stands start to really fill, Maple Leafs fans glaring down at us with surly expressions. I’m down at the net, going through some drills, when I glance up and see Finn in the executive seats. Through the glass of the box, I catch her and Penny in a private luxury area. Penny is talking to someone—maybe Fallon or Ellie—but Finn is standing at the glass, tablet in her hand, staring down at the ice.

At me.

My chest feels like that moment you switch from the hot tub to the pool—shocked, exposed. I want it to last forever.

When the game starts, I carry that feeling with me. I think, in the future, when I look back on my career, this might be the moment I’ll cite as changing my trajectory forever.

The game starts, and the Maple Leafs center wins the face-off clean, sending the puck back to their defensemen at the point. The entire rink is the sound of skates and ice, the singular crack of the puck flying through the chaos.

For an entire period, the guys chase the puck back and forth, only getting a few weak shots. Nothing sticks, and I’m able to block what comes easily. So is the Toronto goalie.

We’re tied with nothing at the end of the first period, but the crowd is rowdy, clearly sensing the energy. This is a story of two solid defenses, not two struggling offenses. Brett is dripping with sweat when coach calls us in, rolling through our minor shifts in strategy for the next period, then we’re back on the ice.

In the second period, I block three more shots, but Toronto allows one in. Brett gets a slap shot into the net, and the crowd around us groans, but the guys celebrate. It’s like I can still feel those frequencies vibrating the gray matter in my brain, muting everything that’s not important.

Three-quarters into the third period, we’re still up one on them when someone slams Brett into the boards, getting the puck loose and rocketing it to a guy at center rink. He flies with it, heading my way. Every other Maple Leaf on the ice seems to crush in around me, like bugs to a light.

I drop into my butterfly stance, squaring up to the shooter, feeling a strange sense of calm despite the sea of blue jerseys crowding my crease. My positioning is perfect—my mind practically empty.

The D-man fires a slap shot, but I read it early, tracking the puck through the forest of legs in front of me. It deflects off someone's shin pad, changing direction, but my eyes never leave it. I feel like a robot, like a machine. Finely calibrated.

The puck skips up, wobbling end over end toward my blocker side.

Time slows. I can see everything—the shooting lane opening up, Toronto's star winger creeping to the back door for a one-timer, Brett desperately trying to get his stick in the passing lane.

The puck's still airborne when their center swats at it with his stick, a mid-air baseball swing that sends it rocketing toward the top corner. It’s a crazy shot, and something in the back of my mind insists it’s going to require a crazy save.

Pure instinct takes over.

I push off my right edge hard, feeling my skate bite into the ice. My momentum carries me across the crease. But glove hand won't make it in time.

So I do something I've never tried in a game before—nevertriedbefore—I twist my body in mid-air, arching backward like some crazy hockey Matrix move.

Normally, I’d be thinking about how ridiculous I look, about how if this fails, I’d be a laughingstock, a viral internet meme, the goalie who really thought he was doing something.

But I’m not thinking at all. I’m just moving. Stopping the goal.

The puck catches the edge of my shoulder pad, pops straight up, and I snag it with my glove as I'm falling.

The impact of the ice ricochets through my body as I hit it hard, but I keep the puck locked in my trapper, holding it up for the ref to see.

Dead play.

The crowd erupts. Through my mask, from my sideways position on the ice, I can see Brett's jaw drop. Even Toronto's bench is standing, half-impressed, half-pissed off.

“Holyshit, Braun!” Brett’s hands land on my shoulders, and he and some of the other guys help me to my feet, then crash into me. Amid the crush, I hear Brett yell, “That was insane!”

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