"The Essential Thing"
Title: "The Essential Thing"
Author: Me. Obviously
Rating: G
Fandom: Original
Spoilers: Unless you're still wondering how the 2002 and 2010 gold medal hockey games ended, you should be fine.
Disclaimer: Mine. All mine.
Genre: Angst, a little hurt/comfort
Type: Part of a series, but you don't need to have read the series to understand this.
Summary: "...The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well." - The Olympic Creed
Basically, I had a lot of feels following the medal rounds in Sochi. This is how I exorcise them.
Herb Brooks really did coach the 2002 Olympic team and Mike Modano and Chris Chelios really were on it, and Belarus really did upset Sweden in those Games. And Zach Parise really did score the game-tying goal in 2010.
If you want to read more of this series, you can find it at my AO3.
This was not how Hank Sheridan had expected to feel after winning an Olympic medal.
Hank lay in his bed at the Olympic Village in Salt Lake City, his head and upper back propped up with whatever spare pillows had been available. A silver medal hung around his neck and rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each labored breath. The medal might be gold, except the United States had just fallen to Canada in the gold medal game at the Olympics. To add insult to injury Hank had come down with a nasty flu.
Hank hadn't felt well when he woke up that morning, but figured it was just a cold or maybe even just exhaustion. As game time approached the tickle in his throat turned into a cough and headache. In the NHL Hank would have been allowed to take DayQuil and carry on, but Olympic rules prohibited almost all over-the-counter medication. So Hank had two options: Sit in the press box or play until he dropped. It hadn't been a hard choice.
He'd felt worse and worse as the game went on and by the time the buzzer sounded and Canada's 5-2 win was sealed, Hank knew he had much worse than a cold. Once the adrenaline rush wore off he had chills and muscle aches that weren't just from hockey. He zombie walked through the handshake line (most likely sharing the love with the entire Canadian team), prayed he wouldn't pass out during the medal ceremony, autopiloted his way through media availability (luckily the press was far more interested in Chris Chelios and Mike Modano than him), and gotten fussed over by the team doctor who gave him some medication to take after the drug test and strict orders to call if things got worse.
By the time all the rigamarole was over and Darren Foulke, Hank's defense partner in Seattle and for the Games, dragged him up to their room at the Village and dumped him into bed, Hank was starting to think he might not survive the flight to Seattle the next morning. Did I take a shower? Hank wondered. He couldn't smell himself, so he must have. But he honestly couldn't remember.
“Hank.”
Hank forced his eyes open and saw Darren standing over him, holding a bottle of red Gatorade. Hank blinked uncomprehendingly.
“Drink it.” Darren pressed the cold bottle into Hank's hand. He handed Hank two pills. “And take whatever this is Doc gave you.
With some effort, Hank sat up and swallowed down the pills and Gatorade. The sweet/salty coldness felt wonderful on his hot, parched mouth and throat. He sighed and set the Gatorade on the nightstand.
“No.” Darren grabbed the drink and handed it back. “You need to drink the whole thing.”
Hank glared at his teammate with all the malice he could come up with under the circumstances.
“You want another kidney stone?” Darren asked. “Drink the Gatorade.”
Hank was in no shape to argue, he certainly did not want another kidney stone, and he was thirsty, so he drank every drop of the Gatorade. Once he was done Hank lay back down, his energy depleted. Had he really played a hockey game just a few hours earlier?
“What time do we have to be out of here tomorrow?” Hank whispered.
“Nine,” Darren answered.
“I need to pack.” Hank started to sit up.
“You need to sleep.” Darren shoved Hank back to the mattress. “I'll take care of your stuff.”
“I thought we were gonna win,” Hank mumbled. He'd wanted to stand on the top of the podium, in his own country, and sing the national anthem at the top of his lungs.
“So did I,” Darren said. “We got a lot further than we were supposed to. We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Hank shook his head, more to himself than Darren.
“Would you shake your head at Belarus?”
Hank switched his focus to Darren. It was harder than it should be. Whatever that medicine was, it was starting to work. “Huh?”
“Belarus.” Darren tossed a T-shirt into his suitcase and sat down on the other bed. “The guys who sent Sweden packing a couple of days ago but lost the bronze. Would you shake your head at them?”
“Of course I wouldn't,” Hank answered weakly. “They shouldn't have even been in that game, no one gave them a chance to play for a medal...”
Hank trailed off as he realized Darren's point.
For a few seconds Hank was sure Darren was going to launch into some team captain speech. He might not be wearing the C for Team USA, but it was in the blood. Instead, though, Darren stood up and gently removed the medal from around Hank's neck.
“You fought the good fight today,” the Raptors' captain whispered. “Sleep. You've earned it.”
The last thing Hank saw before falling asleep was his silver medal glinting under the light on his nightstand.
2010
Hank sat on his couch and looked up at the silver medal mounted on the mantel. He'd spent the week after he returned from Salt Lake in bed with what turned out to be bronchitis, and when he'd emerged Katie and the kids presented him with his medal mounted in a frame with the Olympic Creed engraved on a plaque above it.
Eight years later the medal no longer represented a loss or felt like a substitute for the gold Hank had wanted. It represented pride at having represented his country and sport at the highest level and getting a lot further than most people had thought they would. Team USA had consisted largely of players over 30, and the talking heads hadn't given them much of a shot against the younger, speedier teams even under the legendary Herb Brooks. Just getting to the gold medal game had been a huge accomplishment.
But best of all, Hank knew he hadn't left anything on the table. He would never have to wonder what would have happened if he had chosen not to play that day. The regret of knowing he could have tried but hadn't would sting worse than any loss.
Hank glanced at his watch, picked up his phone, and dialed Kevin Emmerich. The lone Raptor on Team USA would probably be free by now. Team USA had just put up a valiant fight against Team Canada in the gold medal game, but the Canadians would not be denied on their home soil and won the game in overtime.
It had been one for the ages, but Hank knew Kev wouldn't see it that way right now.
Kev answered on the third ring. “Hey, Hank."
“Hey,” Hank answered. “How you doing?"
After a beat Kev responded, “I've got a silver medal.”
“Congratulations,” Hank said sincerely.
“On losing the game?” Kev asked, a little bitterness finding its way into his Minnesota accent. “Maybe we just can't win anything at Rogers.” Rogers Arena was home to the Raptors' arch rival Vancouver Canucks.
“You guys played like champions, Kev; you have nothing to hang your head about.”
“I guess not,” Kev said sadly.
“Still a heartbreaker, though, right?”
“I really thought...when Kaner tied it, I thought we were gonna win.” Hank heard Kev sniffle.
“I'm sorry, Kev.” Hank stood from the couch. “I'm not trying to make you feel worse.”
“You're not. You're not,” Kev said quickly. “Is it true you made all of Team Canada sick in '02?”
Hank scowled. The legend seemed to grow with each Olympics. By 2014 he'd have infected the entire Canadian population. “That is a lie,” he said flatly. “I made two of them sick.”
Kev started to laugh and Hank chuckled along with him, glad to lift his teammate's spirits a little.
“What do I do with this, anyway?” Kev asked. “The medal, I mean.”
“Katie had mine framed,” Hank answered. “You know you're gonna have to pay taxes on it, right?”
“What?!”
“Yup.”
“I represent my country in the Olympics and they tax me on my medal?!”
“You got it. At least in hockey you can only get one. Imagine if you were Apolo Ohno.”
“Hank, you're messing with me.”
“I am not.”
“You're not serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
Kev groaned. “We shoulda come in fourth.”
Hank laughed. “Hey, Kev?” He asked a few seconds later.
“Yeah?”
“This won't hurt forever,” Hank said. He looked at his medal again. “I know it's hard now, but trust me, it won't always be. I watched you; you gave everything you could. That's the most important thing. Not a lot of people will remember, but you will. That's the most important thing.”
Kev was silent for a second. Then, “Hey, I gotta go. We're going to the closing ceremonies.”
“Have fun,” Hank said. “I'll see you when you get back here.”
“Hey, Hank?"
“What?”
“Thanks.”
Hank smiled to himself. “All in a day's work,” he said.
Kev hung up and Hank set his phone on the coffee table. He stood in front of the mantel and read the inscription on the plaque.
The most important thing in the Olympic Games
Is not to win but to take part
Just as the most important thing in life
Is not the triumph but the struggle
The essential thing is not to have conquered
But to have fought well
I fought well. We fought well, Hank told himself.
And that, after all, was the essential thing.
Author: Me. Obviously
Rating: G
Fandom: Original
Spoilers: Unless you're still wondering how the 2002 and 2010 gold medal hockey games ended, you should be fine.
Disclaimer: Mine. All mine.
Genre: Angst, a little hurt/comfort
Type: Part of a series, but you don't need to have read the series to understand this.
Summary: "...The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well." - The Olympic Creed
Basically, I had a lot of feels following the medal rounds in Sochi. This is how I exorcise them.
Herb Brooks really did coach the 2002 Olympic team and Mike Modano and Chris Chelios really were on it, and Belarus really did upset Sweden in those Games. And Zach Parise really did score the game-tying goal in 2010.
If you want to read more of this series, you can find it at my AO3.
This was not how Hank Sheridan had expected to feel after winning an Olympic medal.
Hank lay in his bed at the Olympic Village in Salt Lake City, his head and upper back propped up with whatever spare pillows had been available. A silver medal hung around his neck and rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each labored breath. The medal might be gold, except the United States had just fallen to Canada in the gold medal game at the Olympics. To add insult to injury Hank had come down with a nasty flu.
Hank hadn't felt well when he woke up that morning, but figured it was just a cold or maybe even just exhaustion. As game time approached the tickle in his throat turned into a cough and headache. In the NHL Hank would have been allowed to take DayQuil and carry on, but Olympic rules prohibited almost all over-the-counter medication. So Hank had two options: Sit in the press box or play until he dropped. It hadn't been a hard choice.
He'd felt worse and worse as the game went on and by the time the buzzer sounded and Canada's 5-2 win was sealed, Hank knew he had much worse than a cold. Once the adrenaline rush wore off he had chills and muscle aches that weren't just from hockey. He zombie walked through the handshake line (most likely sharing the love with the entire Canadian team), prayed he wouldn't pass out during the medal ceremony, autopiloted his way through media availability (luckily the press was far more interested in Chris Chelios and Mike Modano than him), and gotten fussed over by the team doctor who gave him some medication to take after the drug test and strict orders to call if things got worse.
By the time all the rigamarole was over and Darren Foulke, Hank's defense partner in Seattle and for the Games, dragged him up to their room at the Village and dumped him into bed, Hank was starting to think he might not survive the flight to Seattle the next morning. Did I take a shower? Hank wondered. He couldn't smell himself, so he must have. But he honestly couldn't remember.
“Hank.”
Hank forced his eyes open and saw Darren standing over him, holding a bottle of red Gatorade. Hank blinked uncomprehendingly.
“Drink it.” Darren pressed the cold bottle into Hank's hand. He handed Hank two pills. “And take whatever this is Doc gave you.
With some effort, Hank sat up and swallowed down the pills and Gatorade. The sweet/salty coldness felt wonderful on his hot, parched mouth and throat. He sighed and set the Gatorade on the nightstand.
“No.” Darren grabbed the drink and handed it back. “You need to drink the whole thing.”
Hank glared at his teammate with all the malice he could come up with under the circumstances.
“You want another kidney stone?” Darren asked. “Drink the Gatorade.”
Hank was in no shape to argue, he certainly did not want another kidney stone, and he was thirsty, so he drank every drop of the Gatorade. Once he was done Hank lay back down, his energy depleted. Had he really played a hockey game just a few hours earlier?
“What time do we have to be out of here tomorrow?” Hank whispered.
“Nine,” Darren answered.
“I need to pack.” Hank started to sit up.
“You need to sleep.” Darren shoved Hank back to the mattress. “I'll take care of your stuff.”
“I thought we were gonna win,” Hank mumbled. He'd wanted to stand on the top of the podium, in his own country, and sing the national anthem at the top of his lungs.
“So did I,” Darren said. “We got a lot further than we were supposed to. We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Hank shook his head, more to himself than Darren.
“Would you shake your head at Belarus?”
Hank switched his focus to Darren. It was harder than it should be. Whatever that medicine was, it was starting to work. “Huh?”
“Belarus.” Darren tossed a T-shirt into his suitcase and sat down on the other bed. “The guys who sent Sweden packing a couple of days ago but lost the bronze. Would you shake your head at them?”
“Of course I wouldn't,” Hank answered weakly. “They shouldn't have even been in that game, no one gave them a chance to play for a medal...”
Hank trailed off as he realized Darren's point.
For a few seconds Hank was sure Darren was going to launch into some team captain speech. He might not be wearing the C for Team USA, but it was in the blood. Instead, though, Darren stood up and gently removed the medal from around Hank's neck.
“You fought the good fight today,” the Raptors' captain whispered. “Sleep. You've earned it.”
The last thing Hank saw before falling asleep was his silver medal glinting under the light on his nightstand.
2010
Hank sat on his couch and looked up at the silver medal mounted on the mantel. He'd spent the week after he returned from Salt Lake in bed with what turned out to be bronchitis, and when he'd emerged Katie and the kids presented him with his medal mounted in a frame with the Olympic Creed engraved on a plaque above it.
Eight years later the medal no longer represented a loss or felt like a substitute for the gold Hank had wanted. It represented pride at having represented his country and sport at the highest level and getting a lot further than most people had thought they would. Team USA had consisted largely of players over 30, and the talking heads hadn't given them much of a shot against the younger, speedier teams even under the legendary Herb Brooks. Just getting to the gold medal game had been a huge accomplishment.
But best of all, Hank knew he hadn't left anything on the table. He would never have to wonder what would have happened if he had chosen not to play that day. The regret of knowing he could have tried but hadn't would sting worse than any loss.
Hank glanced at his watch, picked up his phone, and dialed Kevin Emmerich. The lone Raptor on Team USA would probably be free by now. Team USA had just put up a valiant fight against Team Canada in the gold medal game, but the Canadians would not be denied on their home soil and won the game in overtime.
It had been one for the ages, but Hank knew Kev wouldn't see it that way right now.
Kev answered on the third ring. “Hey, Hank."
“Hey,” Hank answered. “How you doing?"
After a beat Kev responded, “I've got a silver medal.”
“Congratulations,” Hank said sincerely.
“On losing the game?” Kev asked, a little bitterness finding its way into his Minnesota accent. “Maybe we just can't win anything at Rogers.” Rogers Arena was home to the Raptors' arch rival Vancouver Canucks.
“You guys played like champions, Kev; you have nothing to hang your head about.”
“I guess not,” Kev said sadly.
“Still a heartbreaker, though, right?”
“I really thought...when Kaner tied it, I thought we were gonna win.” Hank heard Kev sniffle.
“I'm sorry, Kev.” Hank stood from the couch. “I'm not trying to make you feel worse.”
“You're not. You're not,” Kev said quickly. “Is it true you made all of Team Canada sick in '02?”
Hank scowled. The legend seemed to grow with each Olympics. By 2014 he'd have infected the entire Canadian population. “That is a lie,” he said flatly. “I made two of them sick.”
Kev started to laugh and Hank chuckled along with him, glad to lift his teammate's spirits a little.
“What do I do with this, anyway?” Kev asked. “The medal, I mean.”
“Katie had mine framed,” Hank answered. “You know you're gonna have to pay taxes on it, right?”
“What?!”
“Yup.”
“I represent my country in the Olympics and they tax me on my medal?!”
“You got it. At least in hockey you can only get one. Imagine if you were Apolo Ohno.”
“Hank, you're messing with me.”
“I am not.”
“You're not serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
Kev groaned. “We shoulda come in fourth.”
Hank laughed. “Hey, Kev?” He asked a few seconds later.
“Yeah?”
“This won't hurt forever,” Hank said. He looked at his medal again. “I know it's hard now, but trust me, it won't always be. I watched you; you gave everything you could. That's the most important thing. Not a lot of people will remember, but you will. That's the most important thing.”
Kev was silent for a second. Then, “Hey, I gotta go. We're going to the closing ceremonies.”
“Have fun,” Hank said. “I'll see you when you get back here.”
“Hey, Hank?"
“What?”
“Thanks.”
Hank smiled to himself. “All in a day's work,” he said.
Kev hung up and Hank set his phone on the coffee table. He stood in front of the mantel and read the inscription on the plaque.
The most important thing in the Olympic Games
Is not to win but to take part
Just as the most important thing in life
Is not the triumph but the struggle
The essential thing is not to have conquered
But to have fought well
I fought well. We fought well, Hank told himself.
And that, after all, was the essential thing.