I have one more thought about the Olympics that just wrapped up. Typically, of course, I have many thoughts. But as I watched the final scheduled event of the XXV Olympic Winter Games, I found myself captivated by more than just the competition.
It was men’s ice hockey. USA vs. Canada, with Canada entering as the slight but solid favorite. In a thrilling finish for Americans (especially those watching early on a Sunday morning), the USA defeated their North American rivals with a winning goal less than two minutes into overtime.
The joy was immediate and unmistakable. Gloves and sticks flew into the air. Teammates raced across the ice toward one another, elated at what they had just accomplished. American gold in this event hadn’t been achieved since the infamous “Miracle on Ice” 46 years, to-the-day earlier. The thrill of victory was obvious, loud, and contagious.
With cheers echoing through the arena — high fives, hugs, hugely wide smiles — officials prepared for the medal ceremony. The joy seemed only to swell as the crowd awaited what would come next.
And that’s where I noticed something that transcended sports.
Three teams were honored. Finland stepped up first, calmly and happily receiving their well-earned bronze after securing it the day before. The Finns’ pride was notable — steady and deserved.
The United States went last. They were gleeful — smiling, laughing, playfully interacting. Special recognition was given to goaltender Connor Hellebuyck for his remarkable saves and to slightly toothless Jack Hughes, the player who scored the iconic overtime goal. As they received their medals, many glanced down at the gold resting on their chests, perhaps in awe. It was a moment of “wow — look what we’ve done!”
But before the Americans were honored, the Canadian team lined up to receive their silver medals. And that’s what struck me most.
Silver signifies second in the world. It represents extraordinary achievement and elite athletic excellence. And yet, in that immediate moment, the Canadians looked anything but honored.
There were no smiles. No playful exchanges. No admiring glance at the medal newly placed around their necks. The collective mood felt far more somber than celebratory, as it was more a moment of “wow — I can’t believe what we could not do.”
Let me be clear: there is no judgment. It’s simply an observation. In that tender, immediate moment, the deep disappointment of not winning seemed louder than the accomplishment of finishing second in the world. It was disappointment, failure… maybe even shame.
Such is a curious thing. Zig Ziglar often said, “Disappointment is a temporary detour on the road to success.” It aligns with the familiar wisdom that this, too, shall pass. The way a person feels right now is not the way they will or must always feel… no matter how big the moment may be.
So my prayer for the Canadian men’s hockey team — and perhaps for all of us — is that when the moment is no longer so raw, when the cameras have turned away and the arena has emptied, the dense fog of deep disappointment clears.
And when it does, may there be recognition — not of what wasn’t, but of what was.
Second in the world.
What a remarkable thing.
Respectfully…
AR
