Ok ok look I’m sorry to be subjecting you all to this, unfortunately someone brought this into my notifs again and I’m just going to have to talk about it for a minute.
I’m just in my feelings, man. nate was nobody important to sid at all. He was one of thousands, maybe even millions of young teens who looked up to and loved sidney crosby more than anything else in the world. then he grew up and still loved him when everyone else grew up to love other things, to leave their naïve hopes and dreams behind in their childhood bedrooms together with their stuffed animals and crayon drawings.
sid was everything but a person to nate, and it could’ve stayed that way so simply. a respectful professional distance, a worshiped colleague, a legend and his less accomplished fan. trotted out for PR and documentaries and awards.
but nate made himself into an equal. he climbed olympus itself, dragged himself into the realm of immortality. like psyche fighting for the return of eros. dragged himself close, made himself into a shape that fits right next to sid. as if galatea had willed herself into her perfect, lovable shape for pygmalion. and not for fame or power or posession, but because sid grabbed his stupid fucking ankle and the breath left him not because his chest hit the sand, but because the exhilaration knocked it out of him like so many butterflies uncaged. He made himself worthy for the simple pleasure of his company, for the simple joy to be able to stand next to him at all.
and sid. sid for years had so many people wanting to be close to him for every reason but sid himself. the job, more minutes, cups, fame, money— and few who stuck around when it looked like his career was to be preemptively euthanised.
—except this absolute fucking nobody of a guy. who didn’t even have a pre-existing relationship with sid to stay out of loyalty. a young gun who sought him out when sid had nothing to offer. someone who loved him for nothing more and nothing less than sid being himself.
when sid was injured, nate was there to drag him back up, to drive him back to his very heights, in the way he desired most. when nate was slumping, when he injured and when he was grinding himself down for the cup, sid was the voice on the other end of the phone, the luck in nate’s pocket and that lay on the cool pillow next to him in the hotel room marked with sid’s number.
a million reasons it shouldn’t have worked out the way it did. it’s the type of stuff that almost makes you believe in miracles. almost makes you believe in love.
