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Hockey, in perhaps one of sport’s best metaphors, literally starts every game with a clean sheet. The ice is resurfaced, the scoreboard is reset, and two teams write their own script as it happens. That, to me, is what separates hockey, and sports in general, from the other so-called higher art forms. In even the greatest theater performances, films, operas, etc. somebody already knows what is going to happen. There may be subtleties in a performance that can fractionally change expectations, but ultimately, it’s still just a re-run. Even the most moving moments in a performance art lose something because it’s just a re-creation of an idea somebody else already had. The beauty and genius of it loses something when it is shared second-hand. It lacks the certain spontaneity of being part of a moment that only the art of competition can provide.

That’s why we watch hockey. Because with enough persistence, and a little bit of luck, we can witness one of those spontaneous, beautiful moments where an amazing story unfolds in front of us. We can be a part of a single, magical moment that can never be recreated, but will always be remembered. Tuesday night was one of those nights.

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