Hey, Dear Pirmin

Last week we had a moment. You probably don't remember it, because your life is now the athletic equivalent of sitting in the Wicked Twister – that's the scariest roller coaster in the world – for 336 hours. But I won't forget it.

We were sitting in the stands and you guys were doing a lap of honor on the field after the lost match against Germany. Everything seemed to go wrong that day, and all the boys on your team walked with their heads down and clenched jaws of frustration behind the German team across the field. Such a lap is necessary. It belongs. But it was clear they weren't into it.

You were at the back, in your warm suit. Your helmet under your arm. We waved, because hey, you guys had run the soles of your shoes for us and hey, it was 38 degrees and hey, it was the Olympic Games and hey, it was just a group match, so anything was still possible. So we waved. And you looked. And you waved back. A glance and a movement that seemed to express a whole story. Sorry it didn't work out, we did our best and thank you for being there. That's what I made of it.

On the way back, we talked about the toll on the goalkeeper. My daughter, I had imagined a ballerina but it turned into a hockey player with goalkeeper aspirations, said it so wisely: “If another player misses a chance, it's just a missed opportunity. If a goalkeeper misses their chance, it's immediately a goal for the other.” She continued: “And if your team wins and they play incredibly well, then you haven't contributed anything to that.” I nodded and continued about your suit, that heat, that helmet and we concluded; being a goalkeeper is a calling. Because you are usually serving. The attention goes to the one who scores.

Usually.

That was then and yesterday was yesterday.

After four times fifteen minutes of enormous supremacy, it was still 1-1. And hockey at the Olympic Games is razor-sharp in that regard. No injury time and extra time, just hop; shoot-outs. Thierry Brinkman patted you on the head and must have said something like: “Keep your head in the game, okay.” I don't think you need that, but it was sweet. Taking turns facing your opponent. Eight seconds in your boxing ring. Your team around you. Their arms around each other. And then you came. The shoot-outs seemed like a marriage between a dance and a boxing match. Sometimes you dove for the ball, sometimes you shot in a semi-split to cover as much space as possible. A German player managed to sneak through, but the rest, you just had. Thank you.

Love, May-Britt