If you’re like me, you spent all Sunday evening watching clips of the United States men’s hockey team clinching, then receiving, then celebrating their Olympic gold medals—the Miracle on Ice redux, 46 years after the original. When the game was won, helmets and gloves flew off, and the American players smashed into each other in wild celebration. The Canadians sank, just like the Russians did in 1980, heads hitting the railing over their team’s bench. Even those of us who only watch the Super Bowl halftime show pumped a celebratory fist.
“I’m so proud to be American today,” said Jack Hughes, the front-toothless, bloodied, and charming player who won the game with a golden goal, dedicating the triumph to his country. Before they even took a team picture on the ice, sweaty and draped in American flags, two players grabbed the young children of Johnny Gaudreau from the stands. Gaudreau would have competed Sunday had he not been killed, along with his brother, by a drunk driver two summers ago. The hockey cap to the Winter Olympic Games had it all: blood, tears, trophies, remembrance, grit, brotherhood, jubilation, love of country, love of team, handsome men, cute babies. You couldn’t have scripted it any better.
And then things got a little weird.
