Page 5 of Just Friends
“What shot?” he asked, a nearly-imperceptible quirk in his eyebrow.
I gestured at the monitor with a look of disgust.
One corner of his mustache twitched upward with a tiny smirk. “Thisshot?”
Coach grabbed his mouse and clicked the play button, but I didn’t have to watch it again. I’d already seen it a hundred times in my mind.
It’s Game 7, double OT. We’re on the powerplay and running the umbrella formation. The play goes exactly as designed: Niko works the puck down low, drawing a defender towards him to open up the shooter in the high slot—me. Once I’m open, Niko sauces me the puck. I wait to make sure I have a clear shooting lane, then wind up for the shot. But that’s where the play goesall wrong. Just as I decide to pull the trigger, aNashville forward rushes over to fill the shooting lane. The rocketing puck deflects off his shinpad and squirts toward center ice. It’s a footrace and I don’t have a chance in hell at catching him—not only is he one of the fastest players in the league, he’s already bolting in that direction, and I’m standing flat-footed. He leaves me in my dust and races down ice for an uncontested breakaway and tucks the puck between Vaughnsy’s legs for the short-handed OT winner.
I grimaced as the video came to an end. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
“I don’t have a problem with you shooting there, Cammer.” Coach shook his head. “But you hesitated. That split second of doubt is the precise amount of time”—he pinched the tiniest bit of air between his fingers—“is all it takes for your window of opportunity to close.”
“But …” I hesitated. I felt like I was being coached to do two conflicting things, but my end-of-season exit interview probably wasn’t the time or the place to argue with Coach, so I bit my tongue. “Nevermind.”
“No, go ahead, say it,” he urged.
“The same exact play happened in the first overtime, remember? Except that time, I didn’t hesitate, I stepped right into the shot, and—”
Coach was apparently prepared for this. He clicked another button and pulled up the footage in question: Niko passes me the puck, but this time, I don’t wait—I rifle a hard shot at the goalie, but the puck hits him square in the chest for an easy save, no rebound, and play is whistled dead. Dane, standing wide open on the other side of the net, drops his shoulders and looks to the heavens with disappointment. If I’d seen him and sent him a pass, he would’ve had an easy tap-in goal to win the game and send us to the next round of the playoffs.
“And as soon as I got back to the bench,” I continued, “you ripped me a new one for not taking a quick look to see Dane open at the back door.” I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s why I hesitated the second time. So, Coach, with all due respect, I’m not understanding when I’m supposed to shoot and when I’m supposed to look for a pass.”
Coach blew a short gust through his nostrils and gave a nod. “Hey. Believe me, I get it. What I’m asking you to do isn’t easy. Not everyone can do it. Not everyone’s cut out to be a powerplay quarterback.”
I sank lower in my chair, feeling like I’d already blown my chance on the powerplay, just like what happened to me in Colorado.
Coach put his hands together, his fingers interlocking. “Do you know why we traded for you, Cammer?”
I stated the obvious. “Because you needed a defenseman?”
“Sure, we needed a defenseman. And we couldn’t be happier with your play in the defensive end. Your physical edge gives the whole team a sense of confidence and security out there. And you’re doing a great job mentoring Vedros, too.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I murmured. I won’t lie, I needed the tire pump.
“But that’s not why we traded for you,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“If we’re going to win a Cup,” he continued, “we need you to be more than just a solid defenseman. We need you to be the player that youhavebeen in the past—a threat at both ends of the ice.”
Coach grabbed his mouse again and clicked play. A highlight video began to play, and I quickly realized that the clips were all taken from my Junior career. It brought me a bittersweet smile to see my best moments—hammering pucks past goalies, making no-look passes to wide open teammates, sending teammates on breakaways with brilliant breakout passes.
“We traded for you because weknowyou’ve got untapped potential.You never lost that skill, Cammer—you just had it buried inside you.”
When I broke into the league as a rookie in Colorado, my coach kept me on a very short leash. My orders were to play a safe and simple game, and take absolutely no offensive risks.
Still, I gulped. After years of playing safe hockey, I wasn’t sure I had the ability to start playing that style again.
“You’ve got to dig down deep,” Coach continued. “Do some soul searching or whatever you have to do, and startbelievingyou can do the things you did in Junior at the pro level.” He paused to gesture at the video of the Junior stud who was still blasting pucks into the net from all over the ice. “Because when training camp starts next year,that’sthe defenseman I want to see.”
Hell,I’dlove to be that player again, probably more than Coach, even. But that was a tall order. Players are so much faster, stronger and smarter in the NHL than they are in Junior.
“I’ll uh—” I stammered uncertainly. “I’ll do my best.”
“Great.” He smiled and stood, concluding our interview. He shook my hand and walked me to the door.
“You got plans for the summer?” he asked. “Going back home to the family farm in—wait, where are you from again?”
