Ron Francis: 
Steve Yzerman: 
Brendan Shanahan: 
by me
Rating: PGish
Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level: 5.7! I'm almost to middle school!
Pairing: mild Stevie/Shanny - I swear, it was meant to be gen, but they
snuck in there!
Disclaimer: This is fake, fiction, not real. I'm not implying anything about
the values or orientations of those involved. It all originates in my
overactive imagination (comes from not having television as a child).
Summary: Two captains muse about their teams and themselves.
Notes: I love both these guys a lot. Ronnie's my favorite, of course, but you
really can't not like Stevie. I also didn't mean for Stevie to spend an
entire paragraph on the Hurricanes, but...I'm slightly excited over them :-)
On Wednesday, May 29, two captains woke up on opposite sides of the country in
very different positions.
In Raleigh, North Carolina, Ron Francis slid out of bed at 6:03. He'd gotten
about two hours of sleep the night before, arriving early in the morning
on a flight from Toronto, Prince of Wales Trophy in tow. He'd been greeted
by a couple hundred enthusiastic fans, who, in typical Southern fashion,
didn't hound them at all, just applauded, cheered, congratulated, and let
them go home.
He made coffee and sat down, smiling to himself. There was no better time than
the playoffs. Raleigh was exploding with Hurricane fever, he got
recognized everywhere he went, now. Everywhere, he saw hats and t-shirts
and jerseys, worn by males and females from 3 to 83. He was used to being
overlooked, he'd always been an underrated player, quietly doing his job,
steadily racking up points until he was one of the best ever, then
hurrying back to defend. In Pittsburgh, he'd been overshadowed by the
flashy skills of Lemieux and Jagr, but not here. Here, everyone called it
his team, it was always "Ron Francis and the Hurricanes".
Not that he needed the glory, no, he'd just as soon pass it on to Roddy and
his quickness, Erik and his power and determination, six steady and
dependable defensemen, a small Latvian goalie who had no business being
that good, and the youngest coach in the NHL.
But none of those people would let him. Because they were the same way. Defer
the spotlight. Let people focus on someone else while I do my job. That
was the team, really. Focus on the power of New Jersey while we beat them.
Talk about Jose Theodore and Saku Koivu while we win the series. Be in awe
of the tenacity of the Maple Leafs, but wait, they're gone too. They'd get
a few moments of glory while the series in the West finished up, a couple
editions of Sportscenter where people commented that "Wow, Carolina really
does have a good defense, though I can't name anyone on it," or "Man, I
knew Archie Irbe lead the Sharks over the Red Wings a few years ago, but I
didn't know he still had it in him," or "Ron Francis is still playing?"
But then Colorado or Detroit would emerge victorious from that battle, and
the focus would shift.
Because no one would believe that a small-market team from the Deep South
could overpower the wonder of the West. Which was fine with the
Captain.
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Meanwhile, in Denver, Colorado, Steve Yzerman opened his eyes at 7:34 in a
hotel room. He shifted and winced, as his knee protested the movement. He
ignored it. The knee protested most everything lately, including existence
in general. "Go back to sleep, Stevie," Brendan Shanahan mumbled in his
ear, eyes still closed. "We don't skate 'til 10."
"Can't," he replied, and kissed him on the forehead before getting up. He
smiled and Brendan whined something about losing warmth and then went back
to sleep. Steve just showered quickly and left the room, picking up a
paper and sitting in the lobby. The sports headline in USAToday read "Yes,
you 'Cane! Carolina ousts Toronto, reaches Cup Finals," which made Steve
smile.
They'd won his respect after beating New Jersey, and it was unfortunate for
Montreal and Toronto that they hadn't paid more attention. People talked
about Carolina's "system" now, and how they never wavered from it, and
that was good and all, but Steve knew you didn't win without heart. They
may have won his respect in New Jersey, but they'd reinforced it with 4
goals in 20 minutes in Montreal and two overtime wins against Toronto in
which the Leafs had scored to tie it with just second remaining. That
wasn't easy to do.
Heart. That was something his team was going to have to have no shortage of
tonight. Colorado was peaking, Forsberg was playing great, Roy was playing
great, the role players were doing their job. True, but half of it was
luck, anyway. Luck and the inability of a linesman to make an offsides
call. Not that Steve liked blaming referees. After all, if Brendan had
scored, there wouldn't have been overtime at all.
He didn't like blaming Brendan either. So they would have to win tonight to go
back to Detroit. Steve was ready. He wasn't nervous, not by this point.
Just determined. Determined to find a way to put another past Patrick
Roy. Determined to do whatever it took to win the game. If it meant he
spent three minutes on the ice every time he got knocked down - which was
a lot - then so be it. If it meant getting hit with pucks going close to a
hundred miles an hour, fine. If he wasn't willing to do all that, he
wouldn't be a hockey player, and he wouldn't be the captain.
And they'd need him tonight, he knew. Not to speak, not to motivate, but
just to be there. To lead by example. And that was what he was best at.
He looked up from the words he'd been staring at without reading them. A
man in a suit walked past carrying a briefcase, then stopped and turned to
him. "You're Steve Yzerman, aren't you?"
"Yeah," he said, half wondering if he should run in case of a rabid Avs fan.
"You're awesome. Let's go Wings." And he left.
Awesome. Brendan told him that all the time. Maybe he'd start believing it if
they won tonight, and won Friday. Maybe.