So, I protested my last writing assignment on principle. That doesn't mean I didn't do it. I found an article in the Sun-Times about Brandon Saad's first goal, so I used that as the jumping off point for the story below. Fiction based very loosely on a few facts. Give it a read if you are so inclined.
October 27, 2000. A glorious pumpkin-colored sunset danced playfully with the skeletal, almost leafless, tree branches on a fall evening in Western Pennsylvania. Halloween was but a few days away and Brandon was celebrating his 8th birthday.
Inside, the ice rink smelled faintly of old popcorn and sweaty socks as he tightened the laces of his hockey skates. The milky ice and echoing catcalls of his teammates urged him to hurry. Coach Brian clasped him on the shoulder with a meaty hand and Brandon clamored over the skate-scarred bench. His shift.
As he did every game, he tapped his stick one-two-three times on the ice and invoked the name of Jaromir Jagr, his hero. He felt good, in sync with the ice, the puck, his linemates. Brightly colored sweaters, like the plumage of winter birds in the tropics, flashed past as he zinged the puck towards the net. The stunned goalie, Jason (he was in Brandon’s cub scout troop), barely had a chance to react as the puck fluttered the twine before resting definitively in the back of the net. Another goal, his 8th of the season already. Eight goals. Age eight. Brandon smiled.
October 27, 2008. Boardman, Ohio was not too far from Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, but for Brandon, the intense competitiveness of the NAHL made it seem as distant as an alternate universe. He missed his parents and his friends at home, not to mention his auburn-haired girlfriend who smelled of Angel perfume and whose quirky smile offered the sweet promise of memorable kisses.
The voice of his teammate broke his reverie. “Hey, Saad, better eat something. It’s gonna be a long bus trip and coach said we ain’t stopping.”
Brandon deftly caught the foil-wrapped beef and cheddar sandwich tossed his way. “Thanks, Mike,” he retorted, “So sweet that we live in the home of Arby’s.” Everyone laughed.
“Lemme stick a candle in it,” his teammate joked in response. Today was Brandon’s 16th birthday.
The bus belched acrid fumes as it wound its way down the ribbon of highway towards their next game. Brandon leaned his head on the smudged window and gazed absently out the window at the passing landscape. In addition to being slightly homesick, he was tired. Tired of the endless practice, the constant striving to improve skating, stickhandling, being in the right place at the right time.
Sure, he knew he was a cut above the rest (later that year he would be the NAHL’s Rookie of the Year and achieve status in First All-Star Team), but he was a teenager who sometimes longed for the opportunities that his non-hockey peers took for granted—endless nights listening to Metallica on satellite radio in someone’s basement rec room while surreptitiously swilling Iron City beer absconded from the bowels of a refrigerator. Being able to come home from school and flop bonelessly on the couch with his dog and languish in front of “The Simpsons” reruns.
Still, pursing a dream of professional hockey took perseverance. He hoped that in the end his sacrificed adolescence would be worth it.
June 24, 2011. The harsh lights of the Xcel Center in St. Paul, Minnesota made Brandon feel like a tiny, struggling insect trapped under a microscope. It was draft day. Beside him sat his father, fugitively mopping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. His mom was there, too, wearing the blue dress she paid full price for at J.C. Penneys in Monroeville Mall last week.
Suddenly his tie felt like a noose. He wormed his fingers into the knot and loosened it just enough to stop the claustrophobic sensation. Around him other young men sat up straight like anxious maidens, hoping not to be the last chosen to dance at Homecoming.
It was a Barnum and Bailey’s riot of color as NHL executives tantalizingly presented their jerseys to the lucky ones. Much like the Kentucky Derby, the chosen strutted and preened in their new sweaters. What colors will I wear? Will I be fastest, strongest, toughest? The first round was over, and with it his anxiety increased.
Brandon’s palms moistened and the butterflies in his stomach turned into a swarm with each successive announcement from a plethora of NHL bigwigs.
Round two and Stan Bowman took the podium. After the requisite showboating, thanking the fans and congratulating the Cup winner, he paused dramatically and solemnly intoned, “The Chicago Blackhawks are proud to select, from Pittsburgh, Brandon Saad.” For a brief moment, he couldn’t move until his mother prodded him with her sharply manicured fingernail.
He approached the stage in a dreamlike fog. Around him, a cacophony—clapping, whistling and hugs. The row of front office suits seemed like a receiving line at a wedding, full of welcomes and backslapping. At the end awaited the coveted symbol of an NHL career—the blood red Indian head jersey. He reached for it with trembling hands and pulled it on over his dress shirt and offending tie. “Congratulations, kid,” Stan Bowman said. “We expect great things out of you.”
February 5, 2013. HP Pavilion in San Jose was awash in teal as far as the eye could see as the locals geared up to support their Sharks. However, the visiting Blackhawks were on a roll, setting the league on fire with a record-breaking start to the lockout shortened season. The mood in the Hawks dressing room before the game was one of joviality and a little bit of thankfulness for having a slight respite from the cold that was blanketing Chicago. Rolls of tape flew through the air and laughter punctuated the room as the team underwent their final preparations.
Amidst it all, Brandon Saad adjusted his helmet strap and looked down at the proud Indian head logo adorning his sweater. Bobby Hull. Stan Mikita. Al Secord. There was a lot of history in that swatch of embroidery. Not only did he bypass the minor leagues this season, he was playing on an elite line with some of the most notable and talented Blackhawks forwards. Life was indeed turning out just the way he had hoped. He was thankful for the confidence that his coach, teammates and management placed in him. He and the team seemed invincible.
With a fanfare of stick tapping and jostling the team took the ice, full of swagger. The Sharks had a different idea. Within the first few minutes of the game, the visiting team found themselves with a 2-0 deficit. Spirits were starting to sag on the Hawks bench. The season was short—momentum meant so much and every second of every game counted. Sensing the ebbing demeanor of his team, Quenneville motioned for a time out to rally his troops.
Brandon felt the discomfort somewhat more than his teammates. Since being drafted by the team in 2011 and notching stellar minor league numbers last year and early this year, he knew that the Hawks were looking to him to complement their big guns and to provide some firepower of his own. True, his efforts had been beyond reproach, but the holy grail, that first NHL goal, had so far eluded him.
After their chat with the coach, the Hawks took to the ice with renewed vigor. Ten minutes into the first period, Jonathan Toews slid a pass to Brent Seabrook. Seabrook skillfully flicked it to Saad, who was camped out to the right of the net.
Reflexively, Brandon fired a slap shot. The same shot he had practiced thousands of time from childhood until the pre-game warmup. But this time, NHL sirens raged and red lights flashed as the San Jose faithful grew silent. Sharks goalie Antti Niemi, knowing the puck was in the net, glanced behind him to verify the fact, slumped his shoulders and shook his head.
Saad punched the air in jubilation. His first NHL goal achieved. Marian Hossa came over and playfully rapped his helmet with his gloved hand and other teammates huddled around him to offer their praise and congratulations. “Way to go, kid,” Jonathan Toews uttered, “we’re getting great things out of you.”
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