The Last One Off the Ice
Losses create forever moments
“Success is never final. Failure is never fatal. It’s courage that counts.”
— Winston Churchill
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The Last One Off the Ice
High school playoffs bring the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I saw this happen in a packed arena this week.
The final buzzer had sounded, and with it, a season. For many, it ended a lifetime of youthful joy—moments forged with teammates whose bond had long since blurred into something deeper than friendship.
The top seed had fallen and it was an upset not many saw coming. Both teams had filed off the ice, the officials were gone, the arena was emptying, but one player remained.
He stood there, alone on the ice, unable to leave it. Maybe because leaving meant it was real. Maybe because that ice—that cold, hard, unforgiving surface—had been his sanctuary for as long as he could remember. And this was the last time he’d stand on it wearing that jersey.
His coach waited at the door. Patient. Silent. Not checking a phone. Just ... present. Because a good coach knows that some moments aren’t about strategy or performance. They’re about being there.
Then came his dad.
He moved quickly—the kind of purposeful stride a parent makes when they don’t quite know what they’ll say but know they need to say something. The high school hockey player was emotional. Exposed in that very public, very lonely way that only athletes who have just lost something know.
And then his dad said it, firm … and caring.
“Head up. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You left it all out there. We are all so proud of you.”
The floodgates opened. The player skated to the door, and they hugged, a hug that said everything the words couldn't, in full view of anyone still watching. It was private in every way that mattered.
And there was coach, right beside them, ready to walk him to the locker room. Not ahead. Not behind. Alongside. With a hand on his shoulder.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that moment. I’ve experienced that same feeling many times, and now I was watching it. What do you say? What do you do?
We live in a world obsessed with outcomes and in that framework, what happened that night was simple: they lost, season over, story done. But what I witnessed wasn't a loss. It was a reminder of what all of this, the practices, the seasons, the sacrifices, was really for.
The coach who wouldn’t leave his player alone. The dad who didn’t lead with “get off the ice!” or “toughen up!”—but with unconditional care and pride. The kind that says: I see you and I love you.
There are two great motivators available to all of us: fear and love. Fear would have had that dad arrive with questions, criticism, or uncomfortable silence. Fear would have had that coach already in the locker room managing the chaos. Fear would have told that young man that losing means he failed.
Love did something different. Love waited on the ice, and it walked quickly across an arena to say the right thing. Love put an arm around a kid and walked him somewhere hard.
The outcome of the game didn’t change. It never does. But love shaped everything that happened after that buzzer sounded. It always does.
Who in your life is still standing on the ice—long after everyone else has left—waiting to see what you’ll do next? Will you rush past them toward whatever comes next? Or will you stop, look them in the eye, and choose love?
The game will end. What happens next is up to you.
“Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.”
— Martin Luther King Jr.
Connecting this quote to the story. Love doesn’t erase defeat; it transforms what defeat means.
This week’s Chasing Influence tip: At the end of the day, people won’t remember the score. They’ll remember how you showed up.