USA! USA! And the Brothers Who Made Me Cry

 

I shed a tear at the end of the USA men’s hockey gold medal game.  Alright, more than one.

It wasn’t just about the win. It was about what the win meant. Forty-six years between gold medals has a way of collapsing time. When the final horn sounded, I wasn’t just watching a team celebrate in 2026 — I was seventeen years old again, sitting in front of a television in Kansas City watching the Miracle on Ice unfold.

Back then, I didn’t understand Cold War politics or why beating the Soviet Union mattered on a global stage. I only knew that something impossible had happened. A group of young Americans, led by Herb Brooks — forever immortalized by Kurt Russell in the movie Miracle — had stunned the world. That moment lodged itself somewhere deep inside me. To this day, I can’t hear the word “herb” on a cooking show without smiling.

The last time the United States won Olympic team gold in men’s hockey, I was a high school senior. I had no clear vision for my future, other than a strong desire to put distance between myself and Kansas City — and, if I’m honest, between myself and my parents. That gold medal felt like proof that reinvention was possible. That you could skate toward something bigger than where you started. That belief mattered.

Watching this year’s team, I felt that same surge of pride, but layered with something deeper.

When the players carried out the #13 jersey honoring Johnny Gaudreau, the tears came again. They came even harder when his children joined him on the ice for the photo. These men — built for collision, trained for violence on skates — showed something far stronger than toughness. They showed tenderness. They wrapped their arms around one another, around children who have already lost too much, and they stood beneath the American flag not just as champions, but as brothers.

That image will stay with me longer than any highlight reel.

There was also something profoundly moving about legacy. Brock Nelson’s gold medal wasn’t just his own. His grandfather and great-uncle won gold in 1960. His uncle, Dave Christian, was part of the 1980 Miracle on Ice team. In 2026, Nelson added another chapter to a family story that spans generations. That’s not just sport; that’s inheritance. That’s history passed down at dinner tables and backyard rinks.

And then there were the brothers — Matthew and Brady Tkachuk, Quinn and Jack Hughes — sharing the ice, sharing the moment. What must it feel like to win Olympic gold with your brother standing next to you?

Brotherhood has always been a tender subject for me.

I first learned its meaning in San Antonio with my Kappa Sigma fraternity brothers. They filled a space I didn’t fully understand at the time. Later, as a Sir Knight in the Knights of Columbus, I gained another band of brothers — men who chose one another through shared faith and service.

Then life surprised me. In my mid-50s and early 60s, DNA confirmed what I hadn’t known: I had true blood brothers, Darrell and Jeffrey. To discover family later in life is both disorienting and healing. It restores something you didn’t realize was missing.

This past weekend in Kansas City, reconnecting with Tim, Doug, Paul, Barry, Blair, Jasper, and Patrick D’Arcy — who deserves credit for pulling our small band back together — reminded me that brotherhood doesn’t evaporate with time. It deepens. It weathers. It waits patiently for reunion.

Even Molly, honorary status granted without hesitation, fits into that circle.

Maybe that’s why I cried.

Because 46 years doesn’t just measure time between championships. It measures the distance between who we were and who we’ve become. It measures the miles I once put between myself and home. It measures the unexpected grace of second chances — in sport, in friendship, in family.

I once thought strength meant leaving.

Now I understand that strength often looks like returning. Like reconnecting. Like standing shoulder to shoulder — whether on the ice or in a pew or around a bar table in Kansas City — and realizing you were never skating alone.

So yes, I shed a few tears.

For 1980.
For 2026.
For Johnny.
For brothers found and brothers chosen.
For the kid who wanted out.
And for the man who finally understands why home still matters.

USA. USA.

And thank you for the memories.