Outside, the wounds are fresh and hearts still ache. There is grieving to do, tears to dry, and questions to answer. There is guilt and blame and an ongoing discussion of what constitutes justice.
One teammate is dead.
Another's future is in doubt.
And some would wonder: How can the Atlanta Thrashers continue to play hockey?
There is a better question: How can they not?
This is their escape, their asylum. On the ice, all of the sorrow of the past three weeks melts away, and the players are able to lose themselves in the relatively unimportant diversion of chasing a puck around a sheet of ice. There is refuge to be found in the normalcy, the familiarity, of the game.
On the ice, there are no somber voices or sorrowful glances. There is no talk of court dates or jail time.
In the game, the Thrashers can again feel the best of their teammates, and here they can protect their legacies.
Dan and Dany.
The fallen and the absent.
The Thrashers will skate into Tampa tonight on misery and memory. Once more, the team with the wounded soul will retreat to the safety of a game to help players endure the sadness that has clouded them since Sept. 29, when Dany Heatley lost control of his Ferrari and crashed into a brick retaining wall. Dan Snyder, his teammate and friend, was thrown from the wreckage. Six days later, Snyder was dead at age 25.
Since then, the world has blurred past. There was the video tribute on opening night, four days after Snyder died. There was the funeral a day later in Elmira, Ontario, where young hockey players lined the streets and tapped their sticks in a sign of respect. There have been the reports of the legal problems facing Heatley, and the physical damages. There have been the statements from Snyder's family that they do not blame Heatley. There have been policemen and funeral directors and an overwhelming sense of loss.
How difficult must this be for a team? How many times a day must a player wonder what happened and why? How does a team avoid losing its season in the wreckage?
For the Thrashers, the games have been a blessing. They are 3-0-2, and they're playing like a team that is showing why so many people thought it was on the verge of going somewhere entering this season.
They were an unlikely pair, Heatley and Snyder, the rare and the routine when it comes to NHL players.
Heatley is one of those special athletes, an uncommon blend of grace, talent and timing. He scored four goals in last season's All-Star Game, and 41 in the regular season, and he seemed to be on his way. A lot of general managers believed the future of the league looked very much like the 22-year-old Heatley, gap-toothed smile and all.
Snyder, on the other hand, was one of those overachievers who are the fiber of the league. You know the type: They are made of gristle and scar tissue, tougher than an old skate, and they will pester the other team endlessly. Players such as Snyder hang around because they skate as if the minors were one bad shift away, which it usually is. "Chicken legs," the other Thrashers called him.
Now, one is dead, the other is gone, and the Thrashers are still trying to make sense of it all.
For Heatley, the pain may not go away for some time. He has had knee surgery, and his broken jaw is wired, and the legal ramifications lie ahead. Although Heatley was not legally impaired at the time of his accident, he faces a possible 15-year sentence on a charge of vehicular homicide.
"It's a bit of a cliche to say a team is like a family, but it's true," Lightning general manager Jay Feaster said. "The Thrashers have lost one member of their family, and another one is hurting. The game is the one place where they can put it in the back of their minds. They can play for Snyder, and they can make an all-out effort to make sure his name isn't tarnished."
Listen closely enough to Feaster's voice and it is possible to hear the echoes of Bob Hartley's pain. Hartley, the Thrashers coach, and Feaster have been close friends since the two worked together in Hershey. How close? Hartley and his wife were the first people, apart from Feaster and his wife, to lay eyes on Feaster's daughter Elizabeth after she was born. Hartley is the godfather of Feaster's son Ryan.
In recent days, the two have talked often, about the frailty of life, about disbelief and disappointment, about moving on when the load has increased.
They are tough men, hockey players. They play a tough game with a tough code. A hockey player wears his scars proudly, and he doesn't acknowledge the pain. If he's bleeding, a doctor stitches it up, and the player is back the next shift.
This is different, however. This is one of those tragic reminders that even young, gifted men are mortal and prone to mistakes.
For instance, the other night, Feaster noticed that Vinny Lecavalier, the Lightning's young star, was scheduled to appear at a fundraiser. It was to conclude at 3 a.m. Feaster remembers the queasy feeling.
"The first thing you feel is sympathy for Atlanta and for the players who were involved," Feaster said, "but, yes, you're well aware that it could happen to any team, including yours."
A team moves on. It stitches the numbers of the missing players on its sweaters, and it clings to their memories. It stays busy, guarding itself against those empty moments when the pain returns.
Outside, the mourning continues, the numbness lingers and the attorneys are preparing to argue punishment. There are families to console, healing to continue and prayers to complete. Yeah, it still hurts.
