As the delirium multiplied around him, as the big old rink prepared for a massive exhale, Henrik Lundqvist made certain not to celebrate even one-tenth of a second early. The Rangers bench was already prepared to bolt onto the ice, the Capitals already bore the look of almost-but-not-quite.
Lundqvist? He kept his eye lasered on the puck while keeping an ear out for the final horn. And when it finally blasted, when it groaned and officially nudged the Rangers up a rung in this NHL Tournament, into the conference finals for the first time since the first year of the second Clinton Administration, then Lundqvist was something to see.
He pumped his arms and raised his stick, looking the way Tiger Woods used to look after draining an impossible Sunday putt, a blue sweater for Lundqvist instead of a blood-red collared shirt. Lundqvist has been everything for the Rangers from the moment he showed up out of the Swedish Elitserien, 97 games over .500 for his regular-season career.
Nobody has had to tell him that the winning percentage is a bit less gaudy in the postseason. He knows. He was there for all 26 losses. So he was going to savor this 23rd win, this 2-1 series-clincher over the Capitals, this night when he was the biggest reason why the Rangers live to host the Devils tomorrow night in the conference finals.
“I won’t lie to you,” he said, smiling. “I was nervous.”
We will have to trust him on that because to the naked eye he looked like a master chessman, in charge not only of his own crease, not only of his own teammates but also of where the puck was going. The second period, for now at least, was his finest hour, the greatest 20 minutes of his American hockey life.
For so much of the period, the Capitals played as desperate teams must, bringing wave after wave at Lundqvist, rush after rush. The Rangers didn’t take a single penalty during the period yet for long stretches it seemed they were playing a man down, maybe two, the Caps taking target practice at Lundqvist, playing keep-away.
“I knew that’s how they would be,” he said. “I knew that’s how they would attack me. This is the seventh game, there’s no tomorrow and they were a goal down.”
On the Capitals came. On they rushed. On they pushed.
“I thought he was getting tired,” Caps coach Dale Hunter said. “We kept him moving from side to side a lot out there.”
Lundqvist agreed.
“I was exhausted,” he said, “but I knew I couldn’t lose focus. I’m not out there hitting people like the other guys so I have to stay in it a different way.”
He was brilliant. This isn’t surprising, of course. Lundqvist is nominated for both the Vezina Trophy as the NHL’s best goalie and the Hart Trophy as its most valuable player. He didn’t earn those nods in a lottery.
The only blemish came on a goal by Roman Hamrlik with under 10 minutes left in the game, cutting a 2-0 lead in half, but even that seemed to elevate his concentration; the Caps weren’t getting another one past him. Not without sorcery or trickery. Lundqvist would not relent until that final groan of the horn. And then the joy was palpable and uncontainable.
“What a great, great feeling,” he said. “What a terrific game to be a part of.”
Tomorrow night, he will face the Devils, the team against whom he made his NHL debut in 2005 (a 3-2 overtime loss), against whom he earned his first victory five days later, a team backstopped, forever, by Martin Brodeur, who just may be the best to ever play the position.
Eighteen years ago, Brodeur introduced himself as a gifted cornerstone by nearly foiling the Rangers’ march to the Cup, an epic conference final that will shadow every second of this series. Eighteen years ago, as Brodeur was torturing the Rangers, Lundqvist was a 12-year-old boy in Are, Sweden, who wasn’t exactly staying up at night for transcontinental updates of the series that kept both sides of the Hudson awake for two weeks straight.
Things are different this time around.
“There’s so much work ahead of us,” Lundqvist said last night, which is only true because of the work he already has done.