Sweetheart, let me tell you something: Auntie remembers 1980 like it was yesterday. Not the fashion — God help us all — but the feeling. The air was thick with hairspray and existential dread. Every time the news came on, you half‑expected to hear that the Soviets had pushed a button and we had twenty minutes to live. That was the vibe. That was the Cold War. You didn’t “follow” it — you lived under it.
And the Soviet Union? Oh honey, they weren’t just another hockey team. They were the big bad wolf of the entire planet. They were the ones with the nukes, the spies, the grim‑faced leaders who never smiled unless something terrible had happened to someone else. And their hockey program? Those weren’t “athletes.” Those were state-manufactured super soldiers. Grown men who’d been scooped up as children, trained like machines, fed a steady diet of discipline and propaganda, and told their job was to prove the superiority of the motherland on ice.
And then you had us.
A bunch of college kids with bad mustaches and good hearts. Boys who still called home on Sundays. Boys who had to go to class the next morning. Boys who had no business beating the Soviets — and that’s exactly why the whole country lost its collective mind when they did.
It wasn’t just a game. It was a pressure valve. It was hope. It was proof that maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t going to end in a mushroom cloud. When Al Michaels said, “Do you believe in miracles?” the answer wasn’t just “yes.” It was “God, I needed that.”
So fast‑forward to Milan 2026.
The U.S. men win gold again.
And what do we get?
A national “meh.”
Because it’s not amateurs anymore. It’s not David vs. Goliath. It’s not kids vs. the Soviet war machine. It’s a bunch of pros playing international all‑star games with different flags on their jerseys. It’s impressive, sure, but it’s not a miracle. It’s Tuesday.
But that’s not the real reason we’re not happy.
No, sweetheart — the real reason is the cloud. The rot. The joy vacuum sitting in the Oval Office like a stain you can’t scrub out. And Auntie is not calling him “commander in chief.” That title is for people who respect the military, not for someone who thinks soldiers are losers unless they’re itching for a war or willing to act like his personal militia.
Auntie watches these athletes — these kids who’ve trained their whole lives, who’ve sacrificed everything, who stand on the podium with tears in their eyes singing the National Anthem — and then she hears him trashing them because they didn’t stare into the camera like cult members and pledge loyalty to him personally.
Sweetheart, it makes Auntie’s blood run cold.
And then — oh, don’t even get me started — the locker room. The champagne. The celebration. The joy. And right in the middle of it?
Kash.
Fucking.
Patel.
A man who has no business being anywhere near an Olympic locker room, let alone flying there on our dime, on our jet, acting like he’s part of the team instead of a walking security risk with a smile that says “I know where the bodies are buried.”
Auntie saw that and nearly threw her Dunkin’ across the room. Because that’s not patriotism. That’s not pride. That’s not Miracle on Ice energy.
That’s joy theft.
That’s propaganda cosplay.
That’s one more thing they’ve taken — one more piece of American magic — and dragged through the mud.
And Auntie’s tired.
She’s so damn tired.
Because the Miracle on Ice wasn’t about the medal. It was about the moment. It was about unity. It was about a country that, for one night, believed in itself.
And now?
Now we’re a country being emotionally held hostage by a man who thinks patriotism is measured by how loudly you praise him.
So no — we’re not as happy.
We’re not even close.
Because the miracle wasn’t the win.
The miracle was the joy.
And they’ve sucked the joy out of one more thing.
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