They are a breed apart. The lone warrior standing guard in the crease. The last line of defense. In a game defined by fluid motion and team flow, they are the anchor, the immovable object against an unstoppable force. They are the ice hockey goalie.

Before multi-billion dollar television deals, before expansion teams in sun-drenched cities, and before the game was broadcast in high definition from coast to coast, there was the raw, gritty, and glorious heart of hockey.

It’s a feeling before it’s a sound. The biting cold of the rink that seeps into your bones, the distinct smell of ice and effort, and then the symphony begins: the rhythmic slicing of skates, the sharp report of a puck meeting a stick, the chaotic thunder of bodies colliding against the boards.