Edmonton Was Connor Brown

Last night, something that was simultaneously quite trivial and also monumental took place. The Edmonton Oilers were facing the Washington Capitals. Edmonton was without Mattias Ekholm due to illness, and therefore Troy Stecher, acquired on the cusp of the trade deadline from the Arizona Coyotes, stepped into his role. His performance was lackluster to say the least. Edmonton’s power play performed with considerable gusto to produce the first goal, largely by virtue of the fact that The German Genius, Leon Draisaitl, was granted an improbable trio of attempts to bury his patented one-timer behind Kemper, the Washington gardien de but, and succeeded the third time. That was followed by a goal by St. Connor McDavid, who has seemed more interested in breaking assist records thus far than scoring goals. He was left unmolested by the Washington defense and sauntered in to embarrass Kemper nonetheless. The inscrutable and fickle gods of hockey seemed to be smiling upon Edmonton’s cause.

Moments later, the first Washington goal appeared to ricochet off of the aforementioned Stecher’s ample frame and into the Oilers’ net—a demoralizing turn of events for Skinner and the entire squad. Another goal quickly followed as a result of Washington’s second shot on net. Two shots, two goals. Things looked grim, as they often have for Edmonton during the first frame of many games this year.

In fact, last night’s game could easily function as a synecdoche for the entire season. Sorry, I write about hockey like someone who has been teaching introductory courses about literature for too long:

Edmonton had a disastrous opening act this season. I have written about this matter elsewhere, as have many who know the game far more intimately than I know it, or in some cases, wish to know it. Some human beings are religiously devoted to the Oilers. I am certainly an enthusiastic observer of their exploits, but I would not pay an outrageous sum of money to see them play in the flesh. They did have a dreadful, 7-12-1 start. Last night, they scored twice with style, but then bad luck and some folly and vice on the ice erased that lead.

Zach Hyman, who is en route to an astonishing season in statistical terms simply because he is a relentless annoyance in front of the enemy net and has the grit and determination of a Russian journalist who routinely mocks Putin, broke the tie. That was a sign that the sort of game that became habitual, and disastrous, earlier this season might not be in store.

Alexander Ovechkin is the captain of the Washington Capitals. He is arguably one of the most talented players in the league at 39 years of age—a veritable lion in winter. Skinner made a spectacular save to thwart him in the twilight phase of the opening act. It galvanized the Edmonton bench and astonished onlookers. That save transformed the entire contest, just as the controversial but vital replacement of the Oilers’ erstwhile head coach, Jay Woodcroft, with the untried (as an NHL head coach, that is) but ingenious Kris Knoblauch, both comforted the disturbed and disturbed the comfortable in Edmonton’s organization and amongst its fans. Once more, the particular contest and the entire season proved to be isomorphic to an improbable extent.

In the second period, Hyman scored again. A player who was acquired from the Toronto Maple Leafs for next to nothing proved himself to be extremely talented and tenacious, as he has done many times before. Granted, he is playing with St. Connor much of the time, and that is a coveted blessing. But he has learned to play alongside the virtuoso in such a fashion as to turn every note played into a scoring sonata of his own. In fact, it was Ryan Nugent-Hopkins (locally known as “The Nooge,” which sounds both painful and filthy to my cynical ear) who passed him the puck with verve and dexterity to make the fourth goal manifest.

An Evan Bouchard one-timer on the powerplay (the local dialect dubs these “Bouch bombs," which I am sure can be ordered in many local taverns. I miss my pub, and a time when wanton indulgence was part of participating, however peripherally, in the cult of Oil…) made the score 5-2 in favor of the forces of justice and truth. That goal would eventually be attributed to Hyman, prompting the fans to celebrate his hat trick after the fact in customary style, by hurling their ceremonial headgear onto the ice. Sacrifice is demanded by many faiths, and a hat is more easily parted with than one’s livestock or one’s firstborn.

Warren Foegele scored the sixth Edmonton goal at 9:17 of the third act. That seemed a fitting conclusion, and the coup-de-grace for the concussed Capitals, who had thoughts of a renaissance earlier and now knew that shame and doubt would haunt their steps. But that was not to be the end.

What followed must be situated in context: Connor Brown has sentimental, historical ties to both Knoblauch and St. Connor. Knoblauch coached the Eerie Otters and the Kootenay Ice in the Canadian Junior leagues. He mentored both McDavid and Brown in that context. Brown has not had as sparkling an NHL tenure as his fellow Connor, however. In fact, he sustained a dreadful injury on October 17, 2022--while playing for the same, Washington Capitals he faced last night--that tore his ACL and resulted in surgery and a lengthy and painful rehabilitation.

Since his return to active duty and reunion with Knoblauch and St. Connor under the aegis of the Oilers, although he has been a significant asset on the penalty kill and acquitted himself admirably in other parts of the icy drama of the game, he had yet to score a single goal. In fact, he had not scored since March of 2022.

Then, in the dying minutes of last night’s contest, Evander Kane magnanimously propelled the puck across the goal mouth to Brown. It bounced off of his skate and into the Washington net. An elegant display of marksmanship, it surely was not. But here is what followed in that gleaming temple, Rogers Place:

It was as if he had won Lord Stanley’s sacred chalice with that goal. The ovation was deafening and protracted. Brown bore a beatific, seemingly indelible smile. Hats were hurled onto the ice. The game was well and truly over prior to this goal; the stakes were negligible. The eruption, though, was worthy of Vesuvius.

Recall the notion of the synecdoche for a moment. The part that stands in for the whole. For a moment, through the arcane power of empathetic imaginative projection, every Oiler in that arena, and every fan near and far, became Connor Brown. Unanimously, we exulted in an improbable victory for anyone who has been wounded, worked doggedly and without complaint to be redeemed, and enjoyed a sunny vindication. This is a significant part of the eldritch power of spectator sport, as ancient and abiding, as primitively powerful, as the Roman Coliseum.

Edmonton, the city and its eponymous NHL franchise alike, have known both agony and ecstasy, like every polis and its warriors. To argue that fans knew the story, and therefore jubilated at this fresh chapter of it, is salient and necessary, but insufficient. The story’s theme: perseverance in the midst of frustrating, embarrassing circumstances, when one is struggling to do what used to come with easy grace, will earn a smile from the gods in time. Last night, for just a moment, Connor Brown was Edmonton, and Edmonton was Connor Brown. Patient faith was rewarded. It was glorious.