We Can Finally Go Home (Feature Story)

April 4th, the Heartlanders invited students from the University of Iowa's journalism program to Xtream Arena for a full afternoon and evening of coverage of the Heartlanders. Aidan Wirtz, a student at the University of Iowa, shared this piece with IowaHeartlanders.com covering a 4-3, come-from-behind overtime win against the Norfolk Admirals. The Heartlanders have also offered opportunities to Iowa City West High School and Liberty High School to cover the team, and we expect to share more of those stories in the next few weeks.

Special to the Iowa Heartlanders/Story By Aidan Wirtz - Student at University of Iowa

Derek Damon removes a stick of peppermint gum from the pack of Extra taped to the boards. He twists his wedding ring. His hand reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a sheet of notes. Again and again, the same motion. But there's no celebration. Just calm. The team won today, a 4-3 thriller in overtime. Gloves sail through the air, Miller Lite cans rattle and fall. But there's no celebration from the head coach. Damon caps his water bottle, his initials marked on top. He slides the notes back into his jacket. He turns, and walks down the tunnel. 

There are 1,432 miles between Naples, Florida and Coralville, Iowa. And Damon travelled every one of them. As a hockey coach, that isn’t exactly an easy change. Not to mention, the Midwest has ice outside, too. But change is what he was looking for coming into this year. For the past three, his Heartlanders have fallen short of the playoffs. He refused to have it happen again. He looks for something different in his players this year. It’s the little things. It’s a mentality. They’d lost four in a row, hitting a rough patch heading into Wichita earlier this season. For young players, it’s easy to lose sight of what the goal is. So Damon asked them for one thing: to believe. 

“I challenged them that morning, and they came out inspired,” Damon said. “When you have that belief, then you’ve got something special.” 

Tonight, they had that belief. Even when there was doubt. A lot of it. Heading into the third period, Damon’s team trails by one. 3-2, the Norfolk Admirals lead. He’s never played them. In fact, the Heartlanders never have. And he understands the volatility. His hand continues to scribble notes, his paper creased from the grip of a nervous palm. Iowa struggles with their power play. They have for the last month. But in the uncertainty of this Friday night in the stretch run of the ECHL season, a tap on the shoulder from Damon to 22-year-old Ryan McGuire reshapes the night. 

Eighteen minutes ago, McGuire paces in the tunnel. His Canadian accent peeks through his frustration. He exchanges expletives with his teammates. 

“Set the f*****g tone.” 

The blades of McGuire clatter against the floor. He skates back onto the ice. He waits his turn. Norfolk controls the game, Iowa fans grow impatient. Five minutes remain in the final period. The calm now sweaty hand of Damon reaches for the battered cloth of #11’s jersey. It’s time to set the tone. McGuire has one goal tonight, and only one more on the season. But on a power play, where the Heartlanders have struggled, McGuire buries the black biscuit of vulcanized rubber into the net. It’s 3-3. The crowd screams. The decibel needle jerks upward. Young kids wave their purple glow sticks, emulating mini Mace Windus on a Star Wars theme night. A Heartlander loyal, wearing his famous antler hat bashes the glass with his fists. An older fan behind the bench spits while he belts his thoughts and shares his anxiety. 

“It took 50 minutes but the Heartlanders are here!” 

The final minutes are a blur. Damon touches his head. He adjusts his collar. McGuire makes a mistake, he taps his chest. 

“That’s on me.” 

Damon gives him a thumbs up. The buzzer sounds, the fans stay. Overtime awaits. Damon picks up his water bottle and takes a swig. Four seconds. At one point he forgets to cap it. The whiteboard he uses doesn’t suffice. He huddles players around him, and draws a play on an electronic tablet. The Heartlanders are heading into sudden death, a three on three style of anarchy. The ECHL, the league where Iowa plays, has a seven minute overtime. They don’t need all those minutes. Fans repping a colorful Keltie Jeri-Leon jersey sit two rows back from Damon and his twirling ring. They bang on the black and yellow chairs, their snack wrappers free themselves of the cupholders. 

The two teams trade shot attempts, and Jeri-Leon almost winds up on ESPN’s top plays. The puck ricochets off blades like shrapnel. Still, the only emotion emitted from Damon’s face comes in the shape of furrowed brows and increased transfer from playsheet to pocket. He wants this game to end. The clock ticks slowly, players inject their metal skates into ice and sling frost through the air. #10 finds himself another chance. He races against Admirals and time. Four minutes left. Damon hesitates to look. A one-on-one for Jeri-Leon, and a chance at redemption. A slick wrap around shot evades the keeper’s left leg, and finds the back of the cage. Jeri-Leon pulls his imaginary bow and arrow tight, a celebration that is performed by the crowd as well. It is 4-3. The game is over. Damon turns, and he walks into the darkness. 

His exit down the tunnel is his third tonight. Each time before it has been to discuss the plan for the next 20 minutes. Now, it's time to go home. His water bottle sits idle. A single sip is left, saved for the final minutes of play that never came. His paper can be thrown away. The gum goes in the trash, allowing Damon to unclench his jaw. His hands can erase the plays that didn’t work. The players know he won’t be on the ice with them, sharing smiles. The best he gives is a firm handshake. But they know that’s enough.