BY NATHAN BIERMA

Winner of the 1998 Grand Rapids Christian High School Fine Arts Award for Narrative Essay

At the time, of course, it didn't seem the least bit ironic

that Van Halen's "Standing On Top Of The World" was among the

songs blaring over the Joe Louis Arena loudspeaker in Detroit

But at the time no one thought twice about it, and why
should they have?  The last time the Red Wings won the Stanley
Cup, the most treasured trophy in sports, Eisenhower was in the
White House, the Dodgers were in Brooklyn, and rock n' roll was
in its infancy.  Of course, this championship drought was
supposed to have emphatically ended one or two years ago, when
the Red Wings appeared to have a more formidable team.  But now
no one seemed to mind; in fact, the failures of recent years made
1955 seem even longer ago. 

Hockey tradition has it that the captain of the winning team
first receives the Stanley Cup, and this year no Red Wing
deserved this honor more than captain Steve Yzerman.  The city of
Detroit is known for its quiet superstars, housing Barry Sanders
and Grant Hill, but before either of them came to the Motor City,
there was Steve Yzerman. 

Yzerman joined the Wings 13 years ago, the season before the
Tigers won baseball's World Series, Detroit's last championship. 
That's the longest stint with one team of any active hockey
player, nearly twice as long as any other Red Wing.  And playing
for a perennial power in hockey has not been easy, not when such
a power is rendered pathetic year in the playoffs each year. 
There had been trade rumors and rifts with coaches, but the
playoff losses were the worst--in this decade two first round
upsets, an Stanley Cup Finals sweep at the hands of underdog New
Jersey, and a bouncing out in the conference finals last year
after setting a record for most regular season wins ever. 
Through it all Yzerman has maintained a quiet dignity, polite and
straightforward, avoiding the ego-driven antics of other
dissatisfied stars. 

So when Steve Yzerman hoisted the 35-pound Stanley Cup above
his head--"heavy, but kind of light, too," coach Scotty Bowman
would say--no one was expecting the bug-eyed grins and wild
shaking of the trophy of previous winning captains, just an
overwhelming sensation of satisfaction, years and tears in the
coming.  You didn't have to be a Detroit Red Wings fan, you
didn't have to be a hockey fan, to know that this is what sports
is all about, this is what kids still dream of when they go to
bed at night, this is the kind of rare moment that maintains an
sense of purity amid a senseless and money-crazed sports world. 

Rivaling Yzerman's stoicism if not his desperation was
Scotty Bowman, the uncharacteristic, sometimes aloof, yet highly
successful coach of the Red Wings.  While Yzerman sought his
first Stanley Cup, Bowman was in search of his eighth, the one
that would make him the first coach to win with three different
teams.  But despite the unprecedented history he wrote in years
past, he knew this chapter would be a defining one, that he would
have to win in Detroit to prove that he was not just a legend; he
was still a good hockey coach.  Many doubted this as Detroit
fumbled golden playoff opportunities and a handful of Red Wings
regulars were traded, alienated by Bowman in a confrontation of
personalities.  Even as Bowman was wrapping up his 1,000th career
victory this season, the first and probably last ever to reach
that mark, the questions remained. 

But the person who probably cared least was Bowman himself. 
The phrase laid back doesn't do justice to his perpetual
nonchalance. One sportswriter once described former Toronto Blue
Jays manager Cito Gaston as auditioning for a spot on Mount
Rushmore; Bowman provided stiff (literally) competition.  Maybe
he had just seen too many games over the course of his great
career to be fazed by any win or loss--indeed, his face provided
a poor scoreboard.  After an especially thrilling game-winning
overtime goal in the second round of this year's playoffs, an
assistant coach tried to celebrate, raising his arms and
eyebrows, only to turn to the staid Bowman, seemingly preoccupied
with postgame transportation arrangements, in any event unmoved
by the bedlam unfolding around him. 

So the most unlikely celebration at Joe Louis Arena that
championship night in June came in the form of Bowman, lacing up
ice skates after the game and joining his players for a victory
lap on the ice, wearing a broad smile most assumed he had long
packed away in an attic somewhere--unusual for any coach, but
especially the indifferent Bowman.  This was his eighth, but he
carried it as though it were as new to him as it was to the long-
suffering fans of Detroit. 

They all hoisted the Cup before the night was over--Brendan
Shanahan, brought in at the start of the season to provide much-
needed brawn; Sergei Federov, this year silencing critics of his
previous playoff disappearances; Darren McCarty, who scored the
game-winning goal in the decisive game in highlight reel fashion
despite his preference for fighting, not offense. 

They celebrated that night; then, two days later, they
celebrated all over again, this time in downtown Detroit, bathed
in the afternoon sun.  Parents pulled their kids from school,
eyeing a more memorable education that day, and crowds swelled to
estimates of one million people.  Somewhere amid the throbbing
throng was the vehicle housing Steve Yzerman and the Stanley Cup,
which he periodically raised for the jubilant masses.  On this
day a theme transcending sports was unmistakable--this is more
than a hockey club; it's the heartbeat of an entire city.  While
unity for urban betterment seems utopian in such a diverse, vast 
metropolitan area, the simplicity of sports accomplishes what the
seemingly more meaningful cannot--bring thousands of people
together to rally around one common cause. And nothing magnetizes
them like a championship, especially one decades in the making. 

This urban unity and identity through sports is largely lost
in the American sports scene today.  Stars come and go like
unsuccessful politicians, tossed around by the towering waves of
millions of dollars.  Now most athletes fall short of the once
effortless accomplishment of heroism; they're only expensive
icons on whom a jersey with a city's name seems inappropriate for
its temporary status and high price.  That's the difference
Detroit realized that day--Yzerman, captain of the only team he's
ever played for, and played for over a decade, actually worthy to
be at the center of all this attention, the epitome of what an
athlete should be these days, and the rest of the team, assembled
not primarily by money but by the consuming cause of finally
winning a championship for the city affectionately known as
"Hockeytown."

But if the elation of victory transcended sports, so did the
stunning tragedy of days later.  They had waited 42 years; now
the celebration would quiet down after not even one week.  The
team’s two Russian defensemen, Vladmir Konstantinov and Slava
Fetisov, left a team gathering with team trainer Sergei
Mnatsakanov, in one of the limos arranged by the team in
anticipation of alcohol consumption by the players.  Taking this
safety precaution, however, placed the players in another form of
danger--the driver for these three had his license revoked a year
ago after 11 traffic violations, including driving under the
influence, in just six years.  Shortly after 9:00 that Friday
night he swerved off the road and collided with a tree,
reportedly after falling asleep at the wheel.  Konstantinov and
Mnatsakanov were left unconscious, Fetisov injured but released
from the hospital days later. 

No one ushered any of the Red Wings from the intensive care
unit despite a family-only policy--the team had already seemed a
family, now more than ever.  It was the captain Yzerman, no more
immersed in celebration, now subdued by the severity of this
event, asking in a faltering voice for the prayers of Detroit for
Konstantinov and Mnatsakanov, both in a coma. 

If the mood of Detroit had seemed something surpassing
sports after the thrilling Stanley Cup win, now it was equally
extraordinary, though drastically different. Again events
rendered petty the supposed importance of hockey, a game played,
as now lives lived hung in the balance.  It no longer mattered
that Konstantinov was a star defenseman, a finalist for the
Norris Trophy as best blueliner, an intense player other teams
accused of playing dirty, seen by his team as essential.  The ice
was a million miles away, as the sport of life took center stage,
crippling player and trainer with equal regard.  Hockey seemed a
game again, the championship drained of its sweetness, now a
distant memory. 

Fetisov will probably make a full recovery with relative
ease; Konstantinov and Mnatsakanov gradually regain consciousness
and ability but remain in serious condition.  Continuation of
their careers is unlikely but not even in the forefront of
consideration by the doctors or the team--the only concern is for
them to walk again and live with as much normalcy as possible.

So in just one week the city of Detroit and its team rode a
roller coaster covering the peak of sports accomplishment and the
impeachment of its importance.  Meanwhile the Red Wings will
maintain their champion status at least until next June; their
names will be inscribed on the Stanley Cup with all the champions
of years past. But they will be somewhat distracted next year,
and healthily so.  After a journey of 42 years in which the goal
of winning seemed of unmatched importance, a tragedy shaped the
focus of a city and an out-of-proportion sports world.  It is an
opponent that cannot be defeated as other hockey teams by stellar
play on an expanse of ice.  Now the song played on championship
night hits home; "standing on top of the world" is no longer a
chief concern, not with the abrupt end of such "a little while." 
Now the Stanley Cup, sought religiously for so long, is just a
trophy again. 

The sports world is too often an inattentive student in the
classroom of life, gazing out the window at irrelevant fun and
games or the pretty girl of pecuniary prosperity obstructing the
teacher.  If it bypasses this lesson its graduation to sensible
priorities looms as distant as ever.  Detroit has learned,
unwillingly and painfully.  It hopes its being shaken to the core
eliminates the need for others to learn with such debilitating
drama, but it knows with equal conviction that this lesson in
life disregards any student's volition. 

Hockey: Triumph and Tragedy
Basketball: One for the ages, again
Boxing: Dismemberment and disgrace
Golf: Two tough to take