Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
It's full of medals, photos, hockey sticks, and other memorabilia. The centerpiece on
the wall is a photo of Nikita, in his red-and-white Lokomotiv uniform and red helmet. He
looks as if he belonged in the NHL, with long black hair, stubble on his face, and a cool,
confident stare that could say to a defender, I'm ready to finesse around you for a goal, or
maybe instead I'll body-check you into the boards. Nikita's hockey gloves are sitting on a
ledge beneath the photo, facing outward from the wall, arranged perfectly so you see this
young man's face above, then you look down to see two hands that could be part of the
same body.
“He was born a big baby,” Liubov tells us. We have now moved to the living room,
Sergei and I on a couch, with her to my left. “It was written on his birth that he would be a
famous person.”
There is a sudden crash from the other room. “Ah, the vase, the vase, excuse me!” The
flowers were too big for whatever vase she had placed them in, and our gift had fallen over.
She is back within moments, and picks up where she left off. She's told this story before.
“Nikita started studying hockey when he was six. He worked hard. But we never saw
tears. I had a rule: If we ever see tears or bad grades, you come home. It was hard on him.
But he never complained.”
By age twelve, he was at a boarding school in Yaroslavl, a couple of hours away.
Nikita's parents thought about moving to be close to him, but his dad has a reliable job at
the jet engine factory in Rybinsk.
“At age twelve he's captain of his youth team. At fourteen he's selected to the national
team. At age eighteen, he has a bronze medal in the hockey world championships. And he
became the youngest player ever in the KHL.”
“Can you tell me when you last spoke to him?”
“Ten minutes before the plane crashed. He called me to say he was ready for the season.
In a very good mood, but as always, he was a little afraid to fly. I said good-bye, and he
made that sound of a kiss. And we said good-bye.”
A door opens and closes out in the hallway, and Nikita's dad walks into the room.
“Sergei,” he says, introducing himself, before shaking my hand and the other Sergei's hand.
Now I know where Nikita got his size. Sergei is broad and tall, with thinning blond hair and
his son's eyes. He quietly sits down, sensing that his wife was in the middle of answering
my questions.
“So when did you learn about the crash?”
“An hour later,” Liubov says. “My mother called and said, 'Where is Nikita?' She had
seen the news on television. I had to tell her he was on the plane.”
She and Sergei drove as quickly as they could to Yaroslavl. “The team didn't call. No
one called. We didn't know whom to ask. And there was security everywhere. Finally they
told us to go to the—”
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