Mali's Champion

[woog 61]

TIMBUKTU, MALI

 

This is the last place in the world for a hockey trophy to be.

Hockey is played in the cold, on a flat surface of ice, in places that understand the meaning of winter. But there is a longstanding tradition in the sport that allows every player on the championship-winning team to bring the big trophy to their hometown. Canadians would bring it to "the lake", which meant a different lake to almost every Canadian player. Americans and Europeans became a bigger share of winning rosters as time went by, bringing the trophy further and further from its old stomping grounds.

 

Today, the trophy was coming to the Sahara Desert. 

 

This is where Keita Kourou slid down sand dunes in some horrifically strange caricature of skating, ice cubes stuffed into his socks, swinging a field hockey stick like a club. Where, before he'd learned proper English, let alone proper hockey names, he would pretend to call for passes from "Wayne Gritty" or "Mary O Lummox", then score into some net that might as well have been a mirage in the desert. Because ice hockey in the Sahara really wasn't a thing, no matter how many ice cubes you stuffed into your socks. 

 

His demented dreams brought him to Saskatoon, Canada, then to a succession of teams that didn't believe in the little Malian ever amounting to anything on the ice. Every team that let him go gave him a higher motive for revenge. 

 

Finally, in DC, Keita Kourou found a team where he fit. He was never a star, just a reliable second- or third-line presence, outshone by the smooth skills and savvy playmaking of Vincent Laroche-Gagnier, The Frenchman, or Mark Calaway.

 

No matter. It takes a whole team to win. Vincent, Frenchie and Mark still each only got a day with the trophy in their hometowns. 

 

Today, amid heavy security and kegs of craft beer from DC, it was the Sahara's turn to celebrate hockey glories, and improbable dreams come gloriously true.