It happened in a blink of an eye. More than 25 years ago. My collegiate hockey career, for what it was, was long behind me. This was a pick-up game. A lazy Saturday afternoon. I should have been watching the Michigan Wolverines on the tube. Yet, if you know a hockey player, you can’t take the game out of the player. (If one could only roll the tape back and bend the story a wee bit.)
It begins and ends with coolness – Real Men don’t wear face masks. Right.
I could hear the defender chasing me from behind – his skate blades cutting the ice. (Swoosh right. Swoosh left. Swoosh right. Swoosh left. All moving in slow motion now.) He was closing in.
I went down. Fellow player, Doc Lovell, bent over and said “Lay still Dave.” I shouted back: “WIPE THE SWEAT FROM MY EYES, DOC.”