I got a bit teary-eyed the other night watching television.

No, it wasn’t the unexpected breakup of Emily and Gabriel on Emily in Paris, although that was pretty emotional.

I put on Miracle: The Boys of ’80, the new documentary streaming on Netflix about the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team’s historic upset over the Soviet Union. Figured it would get me in the mood for the Olympics. Some history, some old footage, a few great moments. Instead, somewhere between the grainy clips of those kids skating and the quiet interviews with these aging heroes, my eyes started burning.

It wasn’t just about hockey.

Those players weren’t supposed to win. They were college kids going up against a Soviet machine—grown men, professionals, a team that had been unbeatable for years. Everyone knew the odds. And watching them believe anyway, watching them buy into something bigger than themselves, stirred something deep and familiar. That feeling of being underestimated. Of wanting to prove—to the world or maybe just to yourself—that you’re capable of more than anyone expects.

Then there was the timing.

In 1980, the United States was anxious and divided. The news was heavy, confidence was low, and people were worn down by uncertainty. Then a group of young hockey players took the ice—kids, really—carrying nothing but discipline, belief, and trust in one another. They didn’t come from the same backgrounds, didn’t think the same way, didn’t even like each other at first. But they learned something essential: unity wasn’t about sameness. It was about commitment to a shared goal.

As the documentary unfolds, you can feel it spreading beyond the rink. Living rooms packed with strangers. Bars going quiet. A whole country holding its breath at the same time. For a few hours, the noise stopped. People weren’t arguing about differences, they were cheering for the same outcome.

For a few hours on an ice rink in Lake Placid, these kids gave people hope. Not with speeches or politics, but with effort, trust, and relentless belief. Seeing the crowd erupt into “USA! USA! USA!” and hearing the disbelief in Al Michael’s voice, it felt like watching a moment when everything aligned just long enough for something miraculous to happen. And when the impossible happened, the celebration wasn’t partisan or personal. It was collective. It belonged to everyone.

What really got me, though, was seeing the players now. Captain Mike Eruzione, goalie Jim Craig, Ken Morrow. Reflective. Still a little stunned by what they were part of. Still a bit traumatized 46 years later by the relentless tactics of coach Herb Brooks. Yet all acknowledging they would never have won if Brooks hadn’t pushed them.

As a senior at Marist College, I interviewed Brooks, who was on a speaking tour. I was the same age as those players he had ruled through fear. I got a bit of that. But also, a side of humor and humility his players wished they had experienced.

The documentary doesn’t pretend sports can solve everything—but it reminds us of something we’ve lost touch with— the power of shared belief. The idea that we don’t have to agree on everything to stand together for something.

Those players didn’t win because they were the best individuals. They won because they trusted one another, because they put the team above ego, because they believed that unity could close even the widest gap. That lesson feels urgent now. Country above party. Love above hate.

So yeah, I got teary-eyed.

I started Miracle thinking I was watching a hockey story. What it really showed me was a picture of a country that, for one brief moment, remembered how to stand together.

That’s the part that lingers now.