"What a game, Conks! And at this crazy altitude, too! Way to start the season!" Jimmy exclaims as he and his comrade in white exit through the door to the locker room. They waddle along the bench after gliding so seamlessly across the ice. After years of practice, they've grown accustomed to the awkward strides of their bulky leg pads, a goalie's last line of defense against pucks sailing towards him in excess of ninety miles per hour. The mood has changed considerably since the start of the game.
Conks could hardly hear his teammates' excited praise over the sound of the blaring siren. Jumping triumphantly from the bench, they lined up neatly before him. The five line mates who had served their on-ice shift in those final seconds had clamored to keep the puck from ruining their goalie's perfect performance. Sweat fell like rain through the grates of his mask as Conks heaved a heavy and exhausted breath. He groaned at the thought of standing after throwing himself on the twenty-ninth shot fired at him that night. That last shot had caught him by surprise. His teammates had finally adjusted to the strain of playing in the Mile-High City by the outset of the second period, and their game had improved two-fold as a result. "Why now?" he had lamented when the defense lost control of the puck. "There's only a minute left, guys. Why now?" The opposing skaters had rushed towards him, feverishly hoping to close the three-goal gap which the Red Wings had firmly held after Zetterberg and Datsyuk's beautifully executed play in the third period. Conks didn't dare to leave his net then. He felt exactly as he did when he first skated out onto the ice: out of breath and under pressure.
While his teammates were regaining their composure and sense of direction, the high altitude had finally started to wear him down. He put on an impressive display of wild acrobatics, with flailing limbs and frenzied dives across the goal line. This contrasted sharply with his appearance in the first period. He had danced so gracefully in the crease during the first twenty minutes. Always in position and deeply focused, he made artful kicks and dazzling catches. He alone stood between the Colorado Avalanche's eager young team and victory when his own veteran team skated in messy formations and missed pass after pass, discombobulated in the thin atmosphere.
Conks didn't mind this, though. He felt at home again. Two seasons had passed since he last wore the Winged Wheel for Detroit. His two years in St. Louis left him unsatisfied with his less-than-stellar numbers. They couldn't compare to his admirable season in Detroit, and he hoped to reproduce those results this year. He had a lot to prove to his coach, a man well-known for his tendency to play only whichever goalie is on a hot streak. Conks' partner and starting goaltender, Jimmy, who could boast the best win record of any net minder in the league for the last two years, had set the precedent for Conks' role long before he rejoined Detroit's ranks. As the back-up to this legend-in-the-making, Conks could not expect to play more than twenty-five games. This came as no surprise, as Jimmy had even managed to oust his old partner, Ozzie, whose four hundred one career wins had prompted discussions about his Hall of Fame candidacy, to the role of back-up goalie. Despite all of these thoughts racing through his head, number twenty-nine in white trudged down the runway in his clunky pads and led his team onto the ice, poised for his first battle of the new season.
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