‘It was a gift’: French goalie Junca’s birthday was a memorable one despite 10-2 loss to Canadian stars
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Chris Jones reports from Milan.
Imagine, for a few horrifying moments, that you have woken up as Julian Junca, the starting goalie for France.
It’s your birthday. You have just turned 28. You blink back the sun streaming through your window at the Olympic Village and head downstairs for breakfast. You try to tell yourself all the things that doomed athletes always tell themselves.
Nothing is predetermined, you hear yourself say. Nothing is inevitable. Compete.
You arrive at the Milano Santagiulia and take the ice for your warmups, still filling yourself up with lies.
But then you see them. You see the Canadians.
You play your club hockey for Dukla Trencin in the Slovakian league.
Canada ran up the score against France, winning 10-2 to lock up top spot in Group A. Captain Sidney Crosby had a goal and two assists to become Canada’s all-time leading Olympic scorer among NHL players with 16 points.
Now you look down the ice and see Sidney Crosby, one of the most competitive people on Earth. You see Nathan MacKinnon, who doesn’t understand why anyone would do anything for fun. You see Connor McDavid, who arrived in Milan earlier than anyone else, because he wanted his body to be ready for this moment, ready for you.
When you manage to snap your gaze from them, when you shake your head and feel your mask rattle and fight to return to the bliss of your denial, you see Mitch Marner, and Mark Stone, and Macklin Celebrini, and Drew Doughty, and, just for fun, Tom Wilson.
You watch them skate, and you’ve never seen hockey players move that fast. You’ve never seen men that size look that quick. You hear the pucks coming off their sticks, and it sounds like doors slamming, like guns going off.
And as if things can’t get any worse for you, they get much, much worse.
Because Canada wants to enter the elimination rounds as the top seed, and because goal difference will likely factor into it, and because the U.S. won’t play Germany for five more hours, the Canadians are wanting to do more than win.
They are looking to score as many goals on you as they can.
They are one of the greatest assemblies of pure hockey talent in the history of the game, and they have been given permission to attack, relentlessly and remorselessly, unburdened by decorum and pity and the Olympic spirit. They have been told that today there will be no such thing as enough.
Try to be big, you tell yourself. Stay focused.
Finally, the puck drops.
In the first 64 seconds, you face three shots, from MacKinnon, Nick Suzuki, and Brandon Hagel. You stop all three.
Okay, Julian. Good start.
Your stomach starts to settle. The crowd begins to chant: “Allez les Bleus!” You’re playing the game you love. You’re at the Olympics. Millions of people are watching. You make a great stick save on MacKinnon. You’re here, and you’re doing it.
But then, the inevitable comes. After a little more than eight minutes and as many shots, Wilson beats you on the rebound.
Your teammates skate back to tap your pads in commiseration.
Then, only 13 seconds later, they do one better for you: They score!
Wait. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Crosby soon leads a 3-on-1, feeding Devon Toews, who beats you, too. The game was tied for 39 seconds.
And then with 3.4 seconds left in the period, Stone breaks in short-handed and lifts a wobbly backhand over you.
It all happens so fast, you think.
During the intermission, you struggle to get your breath. Your mind starts to clutter, and your body starts to cramp. Even your hands are balling up.
You come back out and allow goal after goal. Cale Makar scores on the power play with Crosby, MacKinnon, and McDavid on the ice, as if that’s fair.
Celebrini is awarded a penalty shot with 2:44 left in the second period, which doesn’t feel all that fair, either.
You think he’s going low blocker, and you commit. He goes high. After he buries it, you turn to your net and take a long, long drink of water.
Macklin Celebrini drew a penalty shot and made good on it, to put Canada up 5-1 in their match against France.
Crosby scores an unlucky one on a deflection 19 seconds later, and that’s it for you. Your coach takes you out during the second intermission, an act of mercy rather than condemnation, and your backup gets beaten on the first shot he sees, before you’ve even had chance to take your seat behind the glass.
Now you’re watching, admiring. They don’t miss a pass, you think. Every pass is right on the blade.
You drink more water by the bottle, trying to wash your cramps away. A trainer brings you a bag of ice for your hands.
You watch your country lose, 10-2.
You make the long walk to the dressing room. A reporter stops you.
He asks you how you think you’ll remember this experience one day, sharing the same ice with these players, on this night.
You take a moment to answer.
“It’s my birthday,” you say. “And it was a gift.”
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