The Code
What two gold medals, a pair of wool socks, and a toothless hockey player teach us about showing up.
Jack Hughes scored the golden goal missing two front teeth.
Let that land for a second. The kid took a stick to the face in the third period, looked down at the ice, saw his own teeth, and his first thought was draw the penalty. Then he climbed back over the boards in overtime — blood still on his chin — and buried the puck between the legs of Canada’s goaltender to win the first U.S. men’s hockey gold medal in forty-six years.
Forty-six years. To the day. On the anniversary of the Miracle on Ice. On George Washington’s birthday. In America’s 250th year.
You can’t script that.
But here’s the moment that wrecked me.
After the anthem, after the medals, after the team gathered at center ice for the photo — Zach Werenski and Dylan Larkin skated toward the stands. They weren’t looking for cameras. They were looking for two kids.
They lifted three-year-old Noa and two-year-old Johnny Jr. over the railing and carried them onto the ice. Johnny Gaudreau’s children — whose father and uncle were killed by a drunk driver in the summer of 2024 — folded into the team photo like they belonged there. Because they did.
The team had carried Johnny’s jersey the entire tournament. He had a locker. His number hung inside it. And when it mattered most, his teammates didn’t just win for him — they made sure his kids were part of it.
That’s not just hockey. That’s a code.
And it wasn’t just the men.
Three days earlier, Megan Keller — a defender, playing in her third Olympics — skated past a Canadian defender in 3-on-3 overtime, backhanded a shot past the goaltender, and won the women’s gold medal. Also 2-1. Also overtime. Also against Canada.
First time in Olympic history the U.S. swept both hockey golds.
Hughes said one of the first things he thought about after his golden goal was Keller. He’d congratulated her in the cafeteria the day before. These teams weren’t just playing for themselves — they were playing for each other.
Hilary Knight — 36 years old, five Olympics, her last games — tied it up with two minutes left in regulation to even force that overtime. She’d gotten engaged to her partner the day before. When someone told her she’d just broken the U.S. Olympic record for career goals and points, she said, “No way. I’m just happy to have a gold medal.”
That’s the energy. Show up. Leave everything. Celebrate your people.
My brother played hockey growing up. I spent more hours than I can count in freezing rinks — the smell of cold air and rubber, the sound of skates cutting ice at six in the morning, the way parents huddle together with coffee and pretend they’re not losing feeling in their toes.
Hockey families are built different. There’s something about a sport that’s that fast, that physical, that unforgiving — it builds a particular kind of community. You don’t just cheer for your kid. You cheer for the whole bench. You know every family. You show up when it’s hard.
Fast forward a couple decades, and I got to see that same code up close in a completely different way. When I was building DC Dog Sitter, we were fortunate to care for the pets of a few Washington Capitals players — Matt and Katie Niskanen, Connor and Lexi Carrick, among others. And what struck me wasn’t that they were professional athletes. It was that they were exactly what you’d hope hockey people would be. Heart. Soul. Community. Watching out for one another. Treating the people around them — including the person showing up to walk their dogs — like family.
I think about one afternoon in particular. Connor was on the road with the team. Lexi had asked if I could come walk their dog Hoagie while she was at work, and she knew I’d been battling what we all thought was a bad cold. We didn’t know yet that it was pneumonia — that I’d eventually need half of my left lung removed.
But there, waiting on the kitchen island, was an organic nontoxic candle, a pair of wool socks, snacks, and the sweetest note from Hoagie, Lexi, and Connor.
I still have those socks. And every time I think of them, it’s with a kind of gratitude that’s hard to put into words.
That’s the hockey brotherhood Hughes was talking about in his post-game interview. It’s real. I’ve seen it.
Tonight, as I’m writing this, those same gold medal players are sitting in the U.S. Capitol.
The President is delivering the State of the Union. And whatever your feelings about the man at the podium — love him, can’t stand him, somewhere in between — there’s something worth paying attention to underneath the pageantry.
I’m a political junkie. I’ll own that. I spent years doing presidential level advance and communications work — White House, DHS, HHS. I’ve been in the rooms where the security plans get made, where the communications get finalized, where every detail matters because the whole world is watching. I know what it takes to put on a moment like tonight.
One of my favorite memories is from a day in August 2014. The Bush Center, the State Department, and the Office of the First Lady co-hosted a forum at the Kennedy Center as part of the U.S.-Africa Leaders Summit. Michelle Obama and Laura Bush sat together on stage — two first ladies from opposite sides of the aisle — in a conversation about investing in women and girls across the African continent. First spouses from more than thirty countries were in the room. It was historic.
I was part of the advance team. Not on the stage — nowhere near it. That’s the whole point of advance work. If you’re doing your job well, the public doesn’t really know you exist. You’re the invisible machinery behind the moment — security, logistics, communications — making sure everything runs so the people in the room can focus on why they’re there.
By that afternoon, I was back walking dogs.
One of our clients couldn’t wrap their head around it. You were just there — in the middle of all that — and now you’re out here with the dogs?
Yep. Because both things matter. Showing up for the big stage and showing up for the small one — it’s the same muscle. It’s the same code.
Here’s what I keep coming back to.
Hughes — bloodied, toothless, draped in a flag — said it plainly: “We’re so proud to be American. Tonight was all for the country.”
That’s not complicated. It’s not partisan. It’s a guy who gave everything he had for something bigger than himself and wasn’t embarrassed to say so.
The women did the same thing three days earlier. Quieter, maybe. Less blood. Same guts.
And in between, a team carried the memory of a man who should have been on that ice — and made sure his children were.
Whether it’s a hockey rink at six a.m., a forum at the Kennedy Center, a podium in the Capitol, or a Tuesday afternoon walking someone’s dog — the thread is the same.
Put your best forward. Care about your people. Fight for something bigger than yourself.
That’s American hockey right there.
That’s the whole thing.
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