Sunday morning, gold medal: USA defeats Canada in men's hockey final

I won’t pretend I’ve been all that invested in the Olympics this year.

Between work, life, and the general fatigue that seems to settle over the modern sports calendar, I’ve found myself catching highlights more often than full events. A slalom run here, a halfpipe clip there — enough to stay loosely aware, not enough to care deeply.

But there was really no question that I’d be getting up early this Sunday morning to watch the Americans face the Canadians in the gold medal hockey game.

(Sorry, God. See you next week.)

It wasn’t because I hate Canada. Quite the opposite — it’s hard to summon real animosity toward a country that feels, culturally speaking, like your polite upstairs neighbor who always returns your tools cleaner than they borrowed them.

No — I tuned in because I love the United States.

My sports nationalism is blissfully uncomplicated. Absent blatant cheating or disgraceful conduct, I believe the United States morally deserves to win every contest it enters. If we happen to lose, it’s merely on the technicality of merit — an unfortunate but temporary accounting error in the grand moral ledger of competition.

That mindset probably explains why I haven’t followed every storyline this Olympics with equal enthusiasm.

Take Eileen Gu — undeniably talented, undeniably accomplished, born in California, educated at Stanford University — and competing for China.

Gu has spoken openly about the criticism she’s faced for that decision. She’s described it as “vitriol,” and maybe, from her vantage point, that’s what it feels like. But from where I sit, the situation seems more straightforward: she benefited from American opportunity and infrastructure, then chose to represent the Chinese Communist Party on the world stage.

And yes, the financial incentives are substantial — reportedly in the millions annually.

That’s her choice. Athletes make career decisions all the time. But it also means fans are allowed to interpret those choices through their own values. National representation isn’t just a uniform — it’s a declaration of allegiance in the most visible arena sport offers.

Which is why I found myself drawn far more to the story of Alysa Liu.

Liu’s background — the daughter of a father who fled China after the upheaval of Tiananmen Square — gives her journey an entirely different texture. Her presence on the U.S. team felt less transactional, more rooted.

And what I love most is that she doesn’t fit any neat ideological mold. With her raccoon-striped hair and unapologetically Gen Z individuality, she’s exactly the sort of athlete who reminds you what America actually looks like in practice: loud, weird, self-defining, occasionally contradictory — and free to be all of it at once.

Some online voices tried to turn her victory into a culture war skirmish.

“Don’t you know she’s progressive?” they sneered.

So what?

Politics is politics. Sport is sport.

Liu went out there and won gold for the United States — and looked incredible doing it in a shimmering gold dress that felt like a celebration rather than a costume.

That’s what mattered to me.

Still, even that triumph didn’t quite stir my pulse the way hockey does.

Because hockey — especially U.S. vs. Canada — isn’t just another Olympic event. It’s a rivalry soaked in history, identity, and pride. It’s speed and violence wrapped in ritual.

And the timing of this championship game couldn’t have been more perfect.

The Olympics saved the best for last.

From the opening puck drop, it was clear this wouldn’t be a graceful ballet of skating finesse. This was trench warfare on ice — fast, punishing, relentless.

The U.S. leaned heavily on defense, absorbing wave after wave of Canadian pressure. At one point, facing a brutal 5-on-3 power play, the Americans seemed destined to crack.

Instead, goalie Connor Hellebuyck transformed into something mythic.

For three periods he crouched in the crease like a wizard at the gates — less athlete than last line of existence — swatting away shot after shot with the stubborn refusal of someone who had decided that physics itself was optional.

The game tightened into a knot of tension.

Then came the moment that crystallized everything.

Forward Jack Hughes took a vicious high stick to the face. Blood on the ice. Teeth gone.

Minutes later, he was back.

No theatrics. No hesitation.

Just back.

The game stayed locked at 1–1 through regulation, pushing us into overtime — that sudden-death territory where legends either emerge or vanish.

And it was Hughes, battered and missing part of his smile, who delivered.

Off a perfectly timed assist, he snapped the puck into the net with surgical precision.

Game over.

Gold secured.

For the first time since the Miracle on Ice in Lake Placid, U.S. men’s hockey stood atop the Olympic podium.

This wasn’t the Cold War. The stakes weren’t geopolitical survival. But the emotional charge felt familiar — a rivalry intensified by recent years of rising national tension and shifting global narratives.

Call it coincidence. Call it atmosphere.

(Call it a strange echo of the era shaped by figures like Donald Trump.)

Whatever the cause, this game had the unmistakable aura of a grudge match.

Watching the team celebrate — arms raised, flags unfurled — stirred something elemental in me.

And yes, when the arena speakers blasted Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd, it felt almost absurdly on-the-nose.

But it worked.

Because sometimes patriotism doesn’t arrive as a speech.

Sometimes it arrives as a guitar solo.

Yet the moment that stayed with me wasn’t the winning goal or the anthem that followed.

It came afterward.

As the celebration settled, the team gathered around a jersey bearing the name of Johnny Gaudreau.

Gaudreau had been killed two years earlier, alongside his brother, by a drunk driver while cycling. He had been expected to play on this very team.

Since his death, his jersey has traveled with them — an invisible teammate.

And there they were, skating silently with it held high, while his family watched from the stands in Milan.

Moments later, his young children joined the team on the ice — including one born after he was gone.

It was impossible not to feel the shift.

From victory to remembrance.

From triumph to continuity.

Back at the bench, Hughes — still bleeding, still grinning — brushed off personal praise.

He gave the credit to Hellebuyck.

Then he said the only two things that really mattered:

“I love the U.S.A.”

And:

“The U.S.A. hockey brotherhood is so strong, and we’re proud to win for our country.”

Simple words.

But honest ones.

On this day — a day I rearranged my morning to witness — they felt enough.

I hadn’t followed every event.

I hadn’t memorized medal counts.

But in that game — in the grit, the sacrifice, the teamwork, the memory of those lost — I saw something unmistakable.

Not perfection.

Not dominance.

But representation.

Heart. Fight. Brotherhood.

And for a few hours on a Sunday morning, that was more than enough to make me believe — once again — that our athletes had carried the best of us onto the world stage.