I think as a Canadian hockey player, you go through it in your

Host: The ice rink glowed under harsh white lights, its surface a mirror of cold perfection. Night pressed against the windows, a quiet snowfall drifting beyond the glass. The air inside the arena was sharp, metallic, filled with the echo of skates carving circles and the faint hum of a Zamboni in the distance.

Jack stood at the boards, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, his breath visible in the frosty air. His eyes, gray and worn, watched the empty rink with a kind of melancholy precision — like a man watching an old film of a life he might’ve lived.
Jeeny sat on the bench, a thermos of coffee beside her, her cheeks rosy from the cold, her gaze resting on the center circle, where a faded logo of a maple leaf stared back, half scraped, half shining.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How a patch of ice, a few lines, a song, can carry the weight of a nation.”

Jack: “Or the illusion of one.”

Host: The words hung like mist, fragile yet sharp. A distant puck clattered against the boards, breaking the silence, and then rolled back into stillness again.

Jeeny: “You really don’t believe in that kind of feeling — that moment Crosby was talking about? Standing there, hearing your anthem, knowing you’ve carried something bigger than yourself?”

Jack: “I believe in physics, Jeeny. I believe in blood pressure and adrenaline, not in flags or songs. That anthem doesn’t make you faster. It doesn’t make the puck curve differently. It’s just sound. The gold medal is just metal. It’s the training, the hours, the discipline — that’s what wins, not patriotism.”

Jeeny: “And yet... he called it an amazing feeling. You can’t measure that, Jack. You can’t time it or weigh it. It’s the moment a dream becomes real, the moment an anthem becomes your heartbeat.”

Host: A draft of cold air swept through the arena, fluttering the flags above the scoreboard — red, white, blue, green — each one a symbol, each one waiting for someone to look up and believe.

Jack: “I get the dream part. Every athlete chases it — Olympic gold, world record, whatever keeps them moving. But the anthem, the flag — that’s just decoration for the tribal instinct we never grew out of. We wrap our ego in national colors and call it pride.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound so cheap. But that tribal instinct, as you call it, is also what binds people. When Canada won in 2010 — I remember — the streets were flooded with strangers hugging, crying, singing the anthem in the cold. That’s not ego, Jack. That’s collective joy — a rare, pure kind of togetherness.”

Jack: “Until the next game, when they hate the other team. Pride turns to superiority, and superiority feeds division. It’s the same fire, Jeeny — it just changes the direction of the flame.”

Jeeny: “You think Crosby was thinking about division when he scored that goal in overtime? When the arena erupted? No, he was feeling something transcendent — the kind of moment that connects everyone, even the opponents who respect the fight.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes sparkled now, alive with that fervor she always carried — the faith in emotion, the belief that meaning was found in feeling, not in fact. Jack rubbed his hands, his breath rising like smoke, his gaze locked on the goal net — that white rectangle, that symbol of victory and failure, separated only by inches.

Jack: “It’s funny, you know. We call it a dream, but it’s just competition. A gold medal means someone else didn’t get it. For every anthem that plays, there’s another one that goes silent.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it sacred. Not everyone wins. That’s why it matters. Victory is temporary, but the effort, the sacrifice, the shared breath of an entire nation — that stays.”

Jack: “You’re talking like religion, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe sports are our modern cathedrals. Instead of stained glass, we have screens. Instead of priests, we have commentators. And instead of holy hymns, we have anthems. People still need something to believe in — something that reminds them they’re part of something bigger.”

Host: The Zamboni emerged from the corner, polishing the ice into a perfect sheen. The sound of its engine was a low growl, almost soothing, carving order into chaos. Jack watched the reflection of the flags ripple across the ice, distorted, but beautiful.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I played hockey for three years. My father used to drive me at 5 a.m. every day. He said, ‘This is what builds you.’ But when I didn’t make the team, he stopped coming. I stopped playing. Maybe that’s why I don’t buy into this dream stuff anymore. Because I learned early — dreams are conditional.”

Jeeny: “Jack…”

Jack: “It’s fine. I just realized there’s no anthem for the ones who don’t win.”

Host: A pause fell between them, heavy, tender, like the silence after a broken string. Jeeny stood, walked toward him, and placed a hand on his arm — a gesture simple, but anchoring.

Jeeny: “There should be. Because they’re the ones who carry the dream forward. Every player who never wins still teaches the next one how to fight, how to believe, how to stand on that blue line and sing even when their voice shakes. That’s what it means to represent something. Not to own victory — but to keep the fire alive.”

Jack: “You really think that’s what Crosby meant?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The medal is metal, like you said. But the feeling — that’s the currency of human meaning. It’s proof that discipline, dream, and devotion can collide for one instant and make the world feel whole.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the rink manager shut down the upper rows. The ice now gleamed like a sheet of glass, reflecting the two figures in the center. Jeeny and Jack walked toward the center circle, their footsteps echoing softly.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Even though I hate all the pageantry, standing here... I can almost hear it. The anthem. The crowd. The heartbeat of a country in sync for a moment.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you remember what it’s like to want. To dream. That’s human, Jack. That’s what Crosby was really talking about.”

Jack: “So maybe it’s not about winning gold, but about feeling it — that rush, that connection — even for a second.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the anthem isn’t just about nations. It’s about identity. It’s about knowing you’ve given everything — and the world saw it.”

Host: They stood there, two silhouettes against the ice, bathed in the last light of the arena. The flags hung still now, the air quiet, the moment suspended.

Jack: “You know... I think maybe I finally get it. Why he called it an amazing feeling. It’s not about Canada, or medals, or anthems. It’s about that brief second when you’re standing on the edge of your limit and the world is singing with you.”

Jeeny: “And then the song ends, and you start again.”

Host: The lights clicked off, one by one, until only a single spotlight remained, glowing over the center ice. Jack and Jeeny stood in its circle, faces calm, eyes shining. Beyond the glass, the snow fell, soft and slow, covering the world in a silence that felt almost like peace.

And somewhere in the distance, faint but clear, came the echo of an anthem — not a national song, but a human one — the anthem of effort, hope, and the simple glory of trying.