The Road to the Cup ~ Wattys 2015

Coming to Jesus... Well... Crosby

Sid's Point of View

I walked out of the arena with Erin in silence. I was pissed at myself for not doing more to help the team; we had been so close. If I had waited a few more seconds on a couple of those shots, it might have made the difference we needed to win. If I had tried harder to motivate the team it could have worked. If I had tried harder.

My anger and disappointment in myself was bad; I felt like shit. But what made me feel worse was Erin's disappointment. She was quiet, but I could feel her disappointment almost as if it were my own. She was counting on us to do our best and to win. Hell, she just wanted us to have fun and play our best, but we hadn't done any of those things.

"You played well tonight," she murmured as we rode the bus back to the hotel.

"Thanks," I said, but I didn't believe her. She didn't say anything else and neither did I; I didn't know what to say, that was usually Erin's area of expertise. She had tried to motivate the team and it hadn't worked. She needed me to tell her that it would end well, but I didn't know how to do that. So I did what I knew how to. When we got back to the hotel I kissed her softly on the cheek, "Goodnight, Erin." I turned to leave, but she grabbed my suit jacket and pulled me back to her. She kissed me full on the lips and held me there until I couldn't remember my name or the team I played for. "I love you," she whispered.

"And I love you," I replied, breathless and surprised, but pleased.

I woke up early the next morning and stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what we could do to come back from this. Erin had used the Cup over and over again, but the guys weren't connecting with it. It's not like they didn't want it, because they did; we all did. They weren't realizing how serious this was. We couldn't go out again, especially not now. I would hate to see Erin's disappointment if we lost, and heaven knows what would happen to the coaching staff and the rest of us if we didn't perform to the satisfaction of the higher-ups.

Geno and I got up and got ready for practice. Erin, of course, was already gone by the time we got downstairs, but we were expecting that. "Hey, guys," the team turned to look at me, "we're having a meeting, just us, in the hotel's conference room after practice. Don't tell Erin, Johnston, or anyone else." They nodded and we headed on our way to the arena.

"What meeting for?" Geno asked.

"You'll see."

"Sid. Come on. Tell me."

"No, it's a surprise," I told him.

"Ugh. I hate surprise," Geno rolled his eyes.

"You don't even know what it is, how can you hate it? Maybe it's vodka," I grinned.

"Where is there going to be vodka? At the meeting?" Sutter seemed excited by that idea.

"No, we aren't day drinking. This is Sid we're talking about, let's be realistic. It's going to be hockey related," Lapierre put his arm around my shoulders. "What's the deal, big guy? Are you going to tell us, or just leave us hanging?"

"Practice isn't that long, you can wait, Max," I said.

I was right in saying practice wasn't long. We skated our suicides and then spent a good hour or so going over film and plays. It was easy to see that Erin and Mike weren't happy with our performance, but they also didn't know what to say to help us. It wasn't a matter of bad form, or poorly executed passes or skating out of position; our game was fine, our attitude wasn't. Physical stuff was easy to alter and fix, but by this point we could play like a well-oiled machine, or clockwork, as Mike kept saying during practice today. The mental aspects of the game were much more difficult to fix. Getting the other team out of your head was one thing, but they weren't in our heads, we were, and once you've gotten into your own head and beaten yourself down, the damage can be irreparable.