Stars goaltender Jake Oettinger recalls the ’embarrassing’ feeling of being pulled in Western Conference Final
Jake Oettinger has always taken pride in standing tall when the Dallas Stars needed him most. Over the years, he’s built a reputation as a composed, resilient goaltender capable of stealing games, turning tides, and anchoring his team through the chaos that defines NHL postseason play. But in the cauldron of the 2025 Western Conference Final, even Oettinger’s usual calm couldn’t prevent what unfolded in Game 5—a nightmare that would leave him staring at the ceiling that night, reliving every moment with a grimace. The Oilers scored on their first two shots, and before the seats had even cooled from the opening puck drop, Oettinger was heading to the bench, mask off, heart racing, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like never before. He’d been pulled, and the sting of it wasn’t just professional—it was deeply personal.
In hockey, being yanked is a moment every goaltender dreads. It’s public, it’s sudden, and it sends a message. Sometimes it’s tactical. Sometimes it’s punishment. In this case, it felt like both, though the Dallas coaching staff insisted it was the former. But even if the reasoning is clinical, the emotional response rarely is. For Oettinger, this wasn’t just any game. This was a pivotal matchup against Connor McDavid, Leon Draisaitl, and the red-hot Edmonton Oilers with a trip to the Stanley Cup Final hanging in the balance. And to be pulled less than two minutes in, to watch the remainder of the game unfold from the bench as the Stars tried to claw back from an early hole, left a scar that would take more than a few days to heal.
Oettinger is the kind of athlete who doesn’t hide from disappointment. After the game, amid the grim silence of the Stars’ dressing room, he faced the cameras and gave a measured but revealing reflection. “It’s embarrassing,” he admitted, his eyes steady but heavy with frustration. “You dream of these moments, to be the guy your team relies on in the biggest games. And to get pulled like that, it’s tough. It hurts. I let my team down, and that’s something I’ll carry.”
Those words stuck. They spoke to more than just the night’s events. They echoed the burden Oettinger places on himself, the high standards he holds, and the intensity of his personal accountability. It wasn’t about deflecting blame or making excuses. He knew he’d been outmatched in those opening moments—by a lethal Oilers offense, yes, but also by the occasion. And while hockey is a team game, goaltending is often an island. When things go wrong in the crease, there’s nowhere to hide.
The opening sequence of Game 5 was a blur. Edmonton, smelling blood, attacked with ruthless precision. Connor McDavid danced through the neutral zone, sliced through the defense, and snapped a shot high glove side that found twine before Oettinger could square up. The goal silenced the Dallas crowd, a warning shot that the Oilers had come to dominate. Seconds later, Leon Draisaitl pounced on a turnover and fired a laser through a screen. Again, the red light flashed. Again, Oettinger was left frozen, trying to comprehend what had just transpired. Two shots. Two goals. And before he could catch his breath, the coaching staff was tapping the backup, signaling a change that would shift the narrative of the game—and perhaps the series.
Oettinger’s march to the bench was quiet. There were no outbursts, no broken sticks, no dramatic gestures. Just a slow skate, a stare into the distance, and the subtle slump of the shoulders that betrayed what words would later confirm: he was gutted. Goaltenders live and die by their confidence, and to be removed so early, in such a high-stakes moment, felt like a public stripping of that essential armor.
What makes such moments particularly brutal is their permanence. The footage will live on. The replays will be dissected. The stats—2 goals on 2 shots, a 0.000 save percentage—will be etched into the boxscore, a brutal finality that doesn’t tell the full story but speaks volumes nonetheless. For fans and analysts, it’s a data point. For Oettinger, it’s a wound.
Yet within the devastation of that night lies the broader context of a season where Oettinger had, more often than not, been the Stars’ savior. He’d carried them through tough stretches, stood tall against surging offenses, and delivered clutch saves that ignited rallies and preserved slim leads. He’d built up enough equity that his teammates and coaches remained staunch in their support even after Game 5’s debacle. Head coach Peter DeBoer defended the decision to pull him, not as an indictment but as a necessary spark. “Sometimes it’s not about Jake,” he explained. “It’s about the team. We needed to shift the momentum, try to settle things down. Jake’s been a rock for us all year. One game doesn’t change that.”
Still, for a goaltender, it’s never just one game. Especially not in the playoffs. Every goal, every save—or lack thereof—becomes a referendum. And for Oettinger, whose identity is so deeply tied to his ability to deliver in the clutch, Game 5 wasn’t just a stumble. It felt like a betrayal of everything he’d worked for.
In the quiet days that followed, Oettinger turned inward. He’s always been methodical in his approach, breaking down games, studying tape, analyzing every movement, every angle. But this was different. This wasn’t about technique or tactics. This was about resilience, about confronting the emotional toll of failure on the biggest stage. He spoke with the Stars’ goaltending coach, reviewed the plays, but also spent time away from the rink, trying to reset. “You have to find a way to move on,” he later said. “Because if you carry that weight into the next game, it’ll break you.”
Such self-awareness is one of Oettinger’s defining traits. Even in the midst of turmoil, he searches for perspective. He knows that every great goaltender has endured nights like these. Martin Brodeur. Patrick Roy. Henrik Lundqvist. All had their playoff meltdowns, their moments of agony under the spotlight. What separates the elite is what comes after—how they respond, how they rebuild.
For Oettinger, that process began the moment he left the ice in Game 5. As he sat on the bench, pads still strapped, helmet resting on his knee, he watched the rest of the game unfold with laser focus. He wasn’t sulking. He was learning. And as the Stars fought back valiantly, even as they ultimately fell short, Oettinger made mental notes of every sequence, every breakdown, every opportunity for redemption. Because he knew there would be another chance. That’s the beauty and cruelty of the playoffs. They give you the opportunity to write a new story—but only if you survive the old one.
The support from teammates was immediate and unflinching. Veteran leaders like Joe Pavelski and Tyler Seguin pulled him aside, reminding him of who he is and what he means to the team. “He’s one of the best,” Pavelski said. “One tough game doesn’t erase that. We ride with Jake.” Their words mattered. Not because they erased the sting, but because they offered a reminder that Oettinger wasn’t alone.
In the days after Game 5, Oettinger returned to the ice with a fire. Practices were intense. Every drill was a battle. There was no sulking, no hesitation. Just a renewed focus, a hunger to prove that one game wouldn’t define him. And when the series moved to Game 6, Oettinger was back between the pipes, determined to reclaim his narrative.
What followed was one of the gutsiest performances of his career. He wasn’t perfect—no goalie is—but he was poised, sharp, and unshakable. He tracked pucks through traffic, denied breakaways, and stared down McDavid and Draisaitl with the kind of defiance that speaks louder than any postgame quote. He was, in every sense, the Jake Oettinger Dallas had come to rely on. And while the series would ultimately end in heartbreak for the Stars, Oettinger’s response to adversity became a story in itself—a testament to resilience, to the unyielding spirit that defines playoff hockey.
Looking back on Game 5, Oettinger doesn’t shy away from the pain. He owns it. He understands its place in his journey. “I’ll never forget it,” he says. “Not because it defines me, but because it reminded me what this job demands. You have to be ready every night, every shot. And when you fail, you don’t hide. You face it. You grow.”
In the quiet of the offseason, when the roar of the playoffs fades and the rink lies still, Oettinger has begun the process of reflection. He’s watched the footage, studied the angles, and internalized the lessons. But more than that, he’s strengthened the mental muscle that will carry him into next season. Because for all the glory of goaltending, there is a shadow side—a lonely, punishing, often unforgiving aspect that tests not just skill, but will. And it is in that crucible that Jake Oettinger continues to forge himself, one game, one save, one painful but necessary lesson at a time.
For fans and teammates alike, the memory of Game 5 will remain—a cautionary tale, a gut punch, a reminder of how quickly things can unravel. But for Oettinger, it’s something more. It’s fuel. It’s perspective. It’s a chapter in a story that’s far from over. Because the best goaltenders, like the best stories, are not defined by how they fall, but by how they rise. And make no mistake—Jake Oettinger is rising.
