Top Twelve: Pushing Away from the Table

All but done with donut(s)

I posted one entry in 2015, a clear sign that other endeavours have wooed me away from writing about hockey (and donuts).  

Oh, I have many other stories I’d like to tell here, but it’s time to say an official “see you later” with one more Top Twelve collection—this one focused on the activities, people and places that, in the last year or so, have provided relief, gratitude and even joyfulness as way to combat my often irrational fear and anxiety.

Reading

Ron Maclean’s Hockey Towns: Untold Stories from the Heart of Canada; George Henderson’s Krazy George Still Krazy After All These Cheers; and Clint Malarchuk’s A Matter of Inches, the latter of which I finished reading in Montreal.

Montreal, QC

I didn’t skate on Puckbite’s backyard rink. Way too cold. But, the Habs-loving, late-blooming hockey player and yours truly enjoyed lunch and a long philosophical discussion about hockey and the arts.

My wife and I visited several familiar places and a new donut establishment, in La Petite-Italie. Our Russian cabbie, a friendly historian who knows his way around town, delivered us to Le Trou de Beigne, where we bought these donuts, some of which we shared with the doorman at our hotel, some of which we ate, and a lot of which we had to sacrifice for art’s sake.

North Carolina

Getting Silly with "Stormy"

Another wonderful friend, much like Puckbite, lives in Charlotte. Hockey isn’t such a big deal there, so we drove north.

In Raleigh, college football outranks professional hockey, but the PNC Arena is a fantastic venue to watch a Hurricanes game. Even though the Dallas Stars beat the home team, we still enjoyed affordable seats near the player’s bench, the “Two in the Box” video segment and pulled pork.

In Durham, the hot spot is Monuts Donuts. Unique donut and coffee options contribute to the flair of this tavern that, of course, serves Sierra Nevada Tropical IPA and Irish Coffee.

Ireland

The Nutella-covered cronut at Krust Bakery was the best tasting donut in Dublin. The Boston Cream at The Natural Bakery in Donnybrook made me feel at home.

Bostonians beware: I saw lots of people sporting NY Yankees caps and not a single Dubliner wearing Red Sox merchandise.

I didn’t see a Celtics, Bruins or Sox fan in Galway either, but that’s not something I worried about while savoring the porridge at the House Hotel—in the heart of the Latin Quarter. ¡Qué bueno!

Dave Gosher and Bob Beers

Gosher calls such a great Bruins game on the radio that sometimes my wife and I turn off the TV’s sound. Three weeks ago on the Sports Hub 98.5 hockey show, Beers said it’s unrealistic to expect the Bruins to be perfect every game. Every NHL team goes through ups and downs. This kind of broadcasting is refreshing and supports my efforts to tap into gratitude, dare I say love.

Patrice Bergeron and Brad Marchand

I love these guys. How blessed are we here in Boston to have this duo on the same line and same penalty killing unit? Definitely an odd pairing, but what’s not to love as they demonstrate their mutual affection in this Valentine’s Day video? The only thing missing is a love song.

Nashville, TN

Some Nashville hockey fans may be tired of Tim McGraw’s “I like it, I love it” after every goal the Predators score, but my wife and I heard it five times as the hometown team defeated the St. Louis Blues. I couldn’t get enough of it.

My afternoon at the Country Music Hall of Fame rivaled the hockey game for entertainment value. The Keith Urban exhibit, which includes an autographed Quebec Nordiques T-shirt, and chatting with a visitor from Toronto in front of the cowboy music displays, made me happy.

My wife took a poolside photograph of  a “100 Layer Donut” from Five Daughters Bakery as I listened to a Garth Brooks tune streaming from our hotel’s speakers.

West Point, NY

Getting to re-connect with a relative who plays for the Black Knights was extra special.

Even if you’re not a hockey fan, West Point is a beautiful place to visit. I didn’t see a donut dispenser on campus, but you’ll find outstanding soda bread and cider donuts a few miles up the road, at Jones Farm.

Writing

Most every Friday morning at the Boston Bean House, I’m working on a historical novel. If you love hockey or Canadian-American history, this book may be for you. Someday. (By the way, my hockey and donut memoir is still on the to-complete list, but it needs a wee more bit editing and time to mature.)

The AMHL

“You still got it,” Donut Boy told me while I, in my street clothes, shot the puck into the net. He was skating after the game, as he always does, and I wasn’t— but that didn’t matter. His compliment lifted my spirits.

I’ve had so much fun playing hockey with Donut Boy and all the other men and women that make the AMHL so special. As I re-read some of the stories I’ve written (and had forgotten about), I’m so glad to have been part of the league, as a player and writer, and for friends like Donut Boy.

Exercise

I haven’t skated since last fall but planks and long walks, in the cities we’ve visited and here at home in Maynard, have become my friends.

Less Pain

My groin and hip pain has decreased in frequency, intensity and duration. I’m not cured of it and there are flare-ups. But, thanks to my wife, exercise, pelvic floor therapy, my chiropractor, playing the guitar, prayer, music, meditation, my psychologist and countless others who care about me, I remain gratefully yours.

Thank you—gracias, merci, obrigado, shokran, spaciba, Go raibh maith agaibh—to all the readers over the world and to those who also shared their hockey (and/or donut) stories. Thanks for such an enlightening and magical ten-year gig.

See you on LinkedIn, email, the golf course, the rink…maybe someday here on this site again, or wherever our paths may cross again.

Update:
21 March 2017

You can now read my new blog, stories I tell about learning Spanish--in particular about pronunciation.

On Colorado Eagles’ Wings

Cape Cod, October 2009

I sang “On Eagle’s Wings” from the front pew shared with my brothers. The urn storing my father’s remains rested on a table a few feet in front of us as hundreds of his friends and customers—several wearing hockey jerseys representing Fort Collins Muffler & Automotive—sang, too.

The lyrics, displayed on a white space above the altar, reminded me of Dad’s favorite minor league hockey team, the Colorado Eagles. He had season tickets since 2003, the team’s inaugural season.

On Colorado Eagles’ Wings, I thought.

Dad didn’t attend the Eagles’ home opener on October 25 because of his rapid decline. Alzheimer’s, dementia or whatever other potential undiagnosed disease led him to slip away over the past few years, would claim him two days later. He was ready for the Next Realm, ready to join my mom.

As the service progressed, I continued to think of hockey. Dad, or “Mr. Hockey” as many of his friends referred to him, played a big role in the building of Edora Pool and Ice Center (EPIC) in Fort Collins, CO. My dad was always quick to say that he had a lot of help.

Peter Jacobs, an integral part of that EPIC success and my father's good friend, told me during the reception, “It’s the end of an era.”

Nearly a month has passed since Dad ascended to that loge section in the sky or whatever you want to call Heaven, and “On Eagle’s Wings” continues to comfort me. When it pops into my mental playlist, I think of the drives to Denver to watch the Colorado Rockies and playing with my father and brothers on Wednesday nights—that one game in 1987 as Dad scored the only goal I can recall seeing him get, a tip-in. (Dad’s favorite hockey mantra was “head for the net.”)

These joyful memories balance the sadness I feel and lead me to gratitude. I’m grateful for Dad’s visits to the Land of Ben Affleck (inside joke to those who attended the memorial service), our walks in Maynard, riding the “T” to the TD Garden to watch the Bruins, and our road trips to Lake Placid, Ottawa and Hershey.

As the Colorado Eagles are a dozen or so games into their season and Thanksgiving Day is almost upon us, I find myself grateful for a sound mind that allows me to reflect back to my father’s memorial service once again: I hugged, shook hands and laughed with my dad’s former teammates, opponents and customers; I talked hockey with a father whose son I had coached at EPIC; I chatted with a former Colorado Rockie who had become friends with my dad; I served as a conduit between people who didn’t know how much they had in common.

I wonder now if the hundreds of people singing “On Eagle’s Wings,” realize how much they have enriched my life, how their thoughts and prayers and donations to the Alzheimer’s Association have comforted me.

Thank you, Dear Reader. Whether you knew my dad as a hockey player or horseman (his other great passion), whether you knew him well, met him once or are reading about him for the first time, thank you.

Thank you, too, Father Jan Michael Joncas, for composing “On Eagle’s Wings.”

Hockey and Hernias, Part IV: Men's Pelvic Health

Continued from Hockey and Hernias, Part III

“Have you ever had a pelvic exam?” my PT specialist asked.

Sure, I surmised. Doctors’ hands thumping on the region between my fifty-year-old hips, physical therapy, and surgery—all that must count for something, right?

No, this would be a different kind of probing, an internal exploration of the pelvic floor region.

Yikes. Okay.

After the test, eight sessions of myofascial release, prescribed light pelvic movements and a ton of Internet research, here’s what I’ve discovered.

Pelvic health problems apply to women and men. Just because we males don’t bear children doesn’t mean we’re exempt from chronic pelvic pain syndrome, pudendal neuralgia, pudendal nerve entrapment or a combination of these (pelvic myoneuropathy).

“Pelvic” pertains to more than what meets the hip.

The perineum supports the diaphragm, bladder and bowel and is bordered by the pelvic floor.

We have two superficial transverse perineal (STP) muscles. They stabilize the perineum. They remind me of shock absorbers. In my case, the left STP is more clenched—as if bracing itself against additional injury—than the right.

Many people, myself included, have forgotten how to breathe like a baby; stress and fatigue cause us to inhale through the chest rather than through the rib cage, thus putting unhealthy pressure on the perineum.

Everything’s connected: Abdominal bloating, pelvic floor and radiating pain come and go and vary in type intensity and duration, but guided meditation, diaphragmatic breathing, playing the guitar, walking and light exercise can deflate the symptoms and, more importantly, the negative “here-it-comes-again/what-am-I-doing-wrong/I’m-never-going-to-be-free-of-this thinking that enters my mind.

Progress will be slow and is best measured by what pain I can tolerate or how often I reach for Advil. For example, if I play golf and am not debilitated the next day or two (did that twice in the last month), then I’m on the right track.

My STP is more relaxed than it was before the eight sessions.

Dealing with healthcare insurance and the pending appeal for additional sessions is a pain in the perineum.

I have options as I await that decision and for UMASS Worcester to develop a better MRI: Restorative yoga, cold laser therapy or trigger point massage for hockey players.

I can’t say when or even if I’ll ever return to the AMHL but am grateful for the opportunity to help others with this same injury and similar conditions. I’m grateful for the proactive professionals who care about and for me and who have responded to email. I thank goodness for financial and spiritual stability, the guitar my mom and dad gave me, my wife, my hockey friends and….the list goes on as long as I want it to.

Top Twelve: The 2013-2014 Boston Bruins

Patrice Bergeron’s hat trick against the Detroit Red Wings on Saturday night may be the first of special memories this year—but before the regular season commences, let’s take one longing glance at last season.

I present these Top Twelve highlights:

1.      Fitness first—it’s Zdeno Chara and. Kevin Millar with 31 pull-ups each; the shuttle run and heaving diaphragms gasping for air. Who plays with Chris Kelly on the third line: Carl Soderberg? Reilly Smith? Jordan Caron? Matt Lindblad? Anthony Camara? “Coaches and management,” says Dennis Leary, “have to start thinking about who will stay and who will go.” See and hear it all on Behind the B.

2.      More from Behind the B: Frisbee golf and forging friendships at the team-building retreat. Game One at the TD Garden against the Tampa Bay Lightning. Chris Kelly’s goal on a penalty shot starts the season right.

3.      Same episode—about a dozen minutes in. Matt Bartkowski and Tory Krug talking donuts and listening to Rush.

4.      Tough guy Torey Krug gets in to a fight and then skates to the penalty box. I can’t remember which game is was or who he fought, but I do recall Krug sitting down and then tucking his hair behind his ears.

5.      Halloween Night. My wife and I dressed, like normal human beings, stroll through the North End. A giant spider dangles from the doorway at Polcari’s as adolescents amble about and parents push their bedecked wee ones in strollers. The home team’s attack is woeful against the Anaheim Ducks, but our boys win in a shootout.

6.      Thanksgiving in VA. Listening to the Bruins on Internet radio. To my dismay, the Pittsburgh Penguins tie the game with .03 seconds remaining in the third period, but Krug scores the OT winner. Much merriment. Thank you.

7.      A Two-s-day Night in Alberta. Two Us, two Ks…two points for the B’s as Tuukka Rask earns his second shutout of the season The Bruins beat the Calgary flames, 2–0. Jerome Iginla earns two assists. And Johnny Boychuk returns to Boston to greet the next two Bruins fans to join his family. .

8.      Chief Travel Officer and Ticket Master. Johnny Bucyk, the team’s travel coordinator, carries his own luggage. As cheerful as they come, Chief fulfills ticket requests at the Game Day Breakfast.

9.      The Bear and the Gang, Christmas Spectacular. Produced when leaves still cling to New England’s trees, this video is a winner. Third Star: Rene Rancourt’s magic microphone. Second star: Patrice Bergeron as the proud owner of a shiny new weed eater. First Star: the Bear.

10.  Credit Card Roulette. At Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant, Jordie Caron foots the dinner bill.

11.  Per Johan Axelsson; He still sports the great hair and is still a snazzy dresser. Now P. J. is a scout for the B’s, and he’s on the road with his colleagues and management watching his former team on National TV against the Chicago Blackhawks. The Black and Gold lose in a shootout. Too bad none of the current Bruins deployed the move P. J. used against the Blackhawks in 2008.

12.  Frozen Yogurt Fraser. Rookie Matt Fraser’s admission that he was working off a froyo—this after he scored the OT winner in Game Three against the Canadiens—served as a sweet and serendipitous post-game interview. 

Hockey and Hernias, Part III: Plan B, Plan Let's See

A lot of AMHlers and other hockey friends have asked me when I’ll be back playing hockey.  I’m grateful for their compassion and support.

Not sure, is what I tell them, or I shrug my shoulders.

Have I retired?

No. Well, probably. At least from real competitive hockey. Maybe not, though, from pick-up activity. My return to any form of significant exercise other than walking will depend upon what magic the hockey gods might contribute to my healing. I want to alleviate the pain incurred from surgery to fix what medical professionals refer to as athletic pubalgia and/or a sports hernia.

Essentially, it’s an injury affecting the pelvic floor or inguinal canal. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, diagnosis is difficult because MRI’s usually don’t reveal the damage that we know is there and that will not heal on its own. (Any doctor who tells you to “give it time because you’re old” and who is not familiar with this conditions probably isn’t the right doctor for you.). Surgery tends to be the only recourse to find the torn tissue.

For those of you who’ve benefited from surgical repair, more power to you. I wish you continued hockey happiness.

For those whom surgery has not healed, or who too often feel even worse, you may find company at this Mayo Clinic online forum or perhaps here, where I’ll continue to share my experience.

I don’t fault my surgeons for their baffled reactions to why my pain is just as intense and more widespread than what it was before surgery in 2010; they were clear from the outset that about five percent of surgeries are unsuccessful. The reasons, from what one of my surgeons has told me, are all over the map.

The surgeon can inject steroids to the painful area and call for additional MRIs. In my case, these steroids haven’t helped, and additional MRIs (from different providers) have not shown any evidence of damage. Exploratory surgery is not something the surgeon wants to do, and I don’t blame him.

Rather than waiting for MRI technology to improve, I’ve researched options for those of us who want to get back to focusing on sports, fun, family…whatever arena that gives us purpose and contentedness.

Pelvic floor therapy. My new Plan A. This is not about “strengthening the core,” what traditional physical therapists help their clients with; this is about releasing what might be an entrapped nerve.

Trigger point massage. Probably Plan B. Larry Warnock here in the Boston area has been a terrific resource. He’s proactive in the TPM community and responsive to email. If you’re outside New England, ask a local TPM therapist about what Larry “Thejocdoc” Warnock calls a “pelvic unwind.” My insurance doesn’t cover massage, but the cost is reasonable and not prohibitive.

Cold-laser light therapy. Plan C? Proactive and responsive to email also describes acupuncturist Craig Armine. He’s based in Phoenix, AZ and tells me that it’s important for cold laser administrators, typically chiropractors and acupuncturists, to use 500 milliwatt lasers in a cluster formation at a wavelength of 810 nm.

Magnetic Resonance Neurography. Partly because MRN is a relatively new procedure, it’s much more expensive than an MRI. I’m not sure if insurance would cover it. And I hear that the MRN may not define the problem.

I’ll let you know more in August, after I visit with a pelvic floor specialist.

Please email with any questions. I’m happy to help. 

Continued here.

Top Twelve: “Happy” Hockey, Happy Canada, (Happy Donuts)

Last week I asked co-workers about earworms. “Happy,” someone said, but the song gets too much airplay.

AMHL Tuesday Champs: The Penguins

Never heard of it.

But now that I’ve listened to Pharrell Williams’s hit, the song has stuck itself to my psyche and has prompted my fingers to Google the heck out of “Happy,” hockey, Canada (and donuts). The investigation spawned these personal reflections about gratitude, so I present—may sound unreal what I’m ‘bout to reveal—these Top Twelve “Happy” highlights:

1.      Team Italy Sledge Hockey: They could complain about their missing limbs but instead have chosen to be “Happy.”

2.      Happy in Kelowna: Happy (and a hockey player) beats hate.

3.      The Happy Donut: Free Fritter Friday makes me smile like the blue-eyed donut logo. Myrtle Creek, Oregon is on my to-donut list.

4.      Happy Hockey in Hingham (MA): An eleven-or twelve-year old, awarded a penalty shot, juked the goalie—and himself. The goalie flopped, and the skater toppled before the latter could shoot. As the forlorn youth skated to his bench, an opponent skated behind him and offered encouragement or empathy or some “Happy” thought. At least I hope that’s what happened.

5.      Happy for Can-Am Connection # 1: Our friends from PEI, attending the Hingham hockey tournament, paid for dinner. Good times talking about hockey and (lemon) donuts.

6.      Bruins vs. Canadiens: I’m happy that Shawn Thornton accepted P. K. Subban’s apology.

7.      Happy in Montreal: McGill students go overboard in Underground City.

8.      Happy in Halifax: The patients and staff at the Nova Scotia Rehabilitation Centre find their “Happy” place. I especially enjoyed the Hula-Hoopers.

9.      Happy to read about St. Andrews, NB in the Boston Globe: See you, St. Andrews—the safe house, Niger Reef and Honeybeans, in six weeks.

10.  Happy Youth Hockey: Jay Atkinson’s piece in the Boston Globe Magazine highlights the need for more fun, less fighting for a scholarship.

11.  Happy for Can-Am Connection #2: The AMHL Photographer and I will return to Montreal next weekend. Round Two between the Bruins and Canadiens will be over, but Puckbite and I will still be friends.

12.   AMHL Championship: Happy to hear that Tim Cook won his first-ever AMHL championship as a goalie, leading his Penguins to a 3–2 victory over the Leafs.

13.  (Baker’s Dozen) Happy to be writing: Not so much on this site as I’m writing offline to rebuild Seamus J. O’Sheehan’s Castle.

Ohlin's Donut Elves

Sunday October 23, 2011

Belmont, MA

While Ernie and his Keebler elves bake their “Uncommonly Good®” Fudge Stripes and Deluxe Grahams in their Hollow Tree Factory, the elves at Ohlin’s Bakery, near the intersection of Trapelo Road and Common Street prepare to serve their chocolate frosted and honey-dipped donuts this Sunday morning.

At 6:00 a.m. and daybreak more than five dozen minutes away, the sublime intersection of glaze and frosting, yeast and cake, transport me to pre-dawn mornings in 1986-87, when I was a donut elf myself, at the bakery in Toddy’s Supermarket, located at the union of Lemay Avenue and Drake Road in Fort Collins, Colorado.

Working during the wee hours, I would stand on cardboard that lay flat in front of the fryer, and I would watch the bottom half of the doughy circles turn golden brown. Time to make the donuts…turn over. Flipping the ringlets with long slender wooden implements, which resembled drumsticks, classical music from a Bad News Bears movie (more commonly known as Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture) played in my mind’s ear.

Back in Belmont, the donuts on display delight the AMHL (and Donut) Photographer and me. As we ponder our donut selection, we engage the elves in conversation.

The eldest elf, a cheery worker wearing a purple top, says she’s worked at Ohlin's sixteen years. “I married one of the bakers,” she explains, smiling and ready to serve customers.

The donut holes seem as big as a fist. Tempting.

The younger elf, in her late teens and wearing a non-uniform purple top, references the honey-dipped donuts. “We bake and sell more of these than any other,” she says.

My wife is sold, not only on their potential flavor but also on the photogenic flair. Bold and beautiful, these donuts are bound for daytime drama and glory. (Later today, the donuts will witness the wonder of the Head of the Charles Regatta.)

I focus on the fudge-like quality of the chocolate frosting. Fresh and thick and moist, the topping bonds with the bottom. One of these darlings might also be featured in a photo. But how will it taste?

We’re about to learn as we sit in our car—until we realize we’ve forgotten to buy coffee—and then must return to the brick edifice.

Once inside the Hollow Tree Factory, er, bakery, I tell the younger elf that the camera crew is right behind me. The teenager strikes a pose as another elf—this one with a tray of donuts—appears from the kitchen.

We learn that this pixie is Ma Elf’s daughter. Ohlin’s, established in the 1960s, appears to be a family business. The pose-striking elf says she feels like part of the family.

“Does that mean I have to pay for college?” Ma Elf asks, an impish grin forming to complement her pointy (not really) ears.

My wife and I buy two more donuts (and the coffee) and then return to our car.

She bites into the Honey-dipped. “Oh my God,” she says as I anticipate the fudgey frosting of the donut before me. But the selfless Photographer offers me a bite of her donut. The high-def honey-dipped is sticky but not overly so and oh so sweet and warm and wonderful.

I sink my incisors into the Chocolate Frosted: The chocolate melts as the yeast condenses. Magic. I sip the French vanilla coffee. The Earth ceases its spinning.

Those Keeblers have nothing on Ohlin’s donut elves.

Memorial Day 2011: True Battlers and Gratitude

Thank you, Nathan Hardy, Michael Koch, and all the true battlers who have lost their lives to protect a hockey (and donut) fan’s freedom to blog about that which I am grateful.

1. Aaron Ward’s comments (May 28 2001, 98.5 The Sports Hub) to Boston Bruins’ fans before Game Seven against the Tampa Bay Lightning: “Be grateful for what you’ve got.”

2. Hockey talk on the radio: Fond memories of the defunct New England Hockey Journal and now 98.5, The Sports Hub

3. Hardy and Trupiano: The ultimate sports talk radio team

4. Coffee and donuts ice cream: The Wagon Wheel Restaurant

5. Donut diversity: Dunkin’ Donuts, Dynamo Donut, Adams Donuts

6. Donut books: Time to Make the Donuts, The Donut Chef, Who Needs Donuts?

7. Hockey writers: Jack Falla, Paul Grant, Jay Atkinson

8. Hockey rinks: Valley Sports, Herb Brooks Arena, EPIC

9. The Boston Bruins’ marketing department: Best of the Bear

10. Timmy Thomas: Top Ten Saves at TSN (merci, Gilbert Cote)

11. Hockey friends on both sides of the 49th

12. The Stanley Cup Finals, Bruins versus Canucks:Win or lose, I’ll enjoy the ride.

Bruins, Brogues, and Bread

Main Street, Melrose, MA
March 19, 2011

Barry’s Tea, an Irish favorite, is what Tim Moynihan, wearing a Bruins cap, serves me from the counter of Breads ‘N’ Bits of Ireland. The gray-haired gentleman has already prepared two egg sandwiches, one for me and the other for the AMHL Photographer, who’s still seated at the back of this family-owned and -operated shop.

Mr. Moynihan places the teapot and then two thick slices of toasted Irish bread on my tray as we conclude our conversation—his brogue as strong as a salmon’s heart—about Irish jaunting cars, ponyback rides, and storytellers in Ireland. I thank the Killarney native and then join my wife.

I’ve already read the Boston Globe sports section (the Bruins’ power play has been unplugged, good hockey game between BC and Northeastern), and now focus on my food and surroundings: My green-eyed lass across the table; behind her, the framed poster of a traditional Irish dresser; and to the left, the real version whose shelves hold family pictures and a poem about friendship.

The couple to my left is readingb the newspaper when a contemporary joins them to discuss last night’s Hockey East action. The BC Eagles beat the NU Huskies, 5–4. “Northeastern is good,” the upright friend says. They wonder how Merrimack will fair against favored BC tonight. His seated pal predicts an upset.

My best friend and I finish brekkie and then drive home, where tonight we’ll watch Recchi and Kelly and the lads from Boston against the Leafs in Toronto. Win or lose, I reckon I’ll enjoy a slice of soda bread Mr. Moynihan sold us, sip tea, and wonder if Barry Melrose is watching the game, too.

2010 Top Twelve Highlights

2010 was filled with more ups and downs than a dozen Duncan Yo-Yos. The passing of my Uncle Dan “Santa Claus” Dwyer, the Bruins playoff loss to Philadelphia, and my Uncle Jack’s recent reunion with Uncle Dan have aided and abetted many of my anxieties. To ward off these and other worries, I now present the highlights, a baker’s dozen in quasi-chronological order:

Winter Classic in Boston
Marco Sturm’s upraised arms as he celebrates his game-winning goal against the Flyers, at Fenway Park. We’ll miss you, Marco. Best of luck with the Kings.

Hole in One Donuts
Lights, camera, donuts. Big and bold on the beach, these all-stars made their short movie debut. The sandy stars were sacrificed for art’s sake (order your 2010 donut calendar by contacting the AMHL photographer via the AMHL Shutterfly site), but the others were plain perfect for the taste buds.

The Tooth Fairy
For some, this flick was too much tutu, not enough (Jordin)Tootoo But I enjoyed it. Then again, I watch Oprah. And listen to Celine Dion.

AMHL Old Home Week
Hanging out with my hockey pals, many of whom I hadn’t seen or with whom I hadn’t spoken in months, made my week.

Hershey Hockey
Mr. Hockey was in town for his annual visit, which often includes a road trip. A couple years ago my dad, my wife, and I drove to Lake Placid, but this fall pilgrimage was to Chocolate Town, PA. The two games we attended were fulfilling—but not as much as the trolley tour, where the punny business proprietors dispensed not only their wry humor but also Hershey Hugs and Kisses.

Molasses Donuts
The Inn Victoria (Chester VT) doesn’t feature the delectable circular concoctions all the time, but ask Proprietor Penelope and she’s apt to appease your appetite. The Willow Bake Shoppe (Rockport, ME), in business since 1949, does deliver the much munched Molasses Donut every day (open mornings only). Asked about the secret to the shoppe’s success, Proprietor Patti replied, “Everybody loves donuts and the recipe is old.”

Hockey (and Donut) Books
Slap Shot Original, Time to Make the Donuts, King Leary, and Don Messer: The Man Behind the Music top my list. Hockey fans know about all about the Hanson Brothers’ exploits in the hallmark of hockey movies and will relish Dave Hanson’s behind-the-scenes anecdotes. Time to Make the Donuts, the birth of Dunkin’ Donuts Nation and the brand’s ascension into the pastry pantheon—as chronicled by DD’s father, William Rosenberg with help from Jessica Keener—is a must-read for not only donut lovers but also entrepreneur types. King Leary, a hockey novel, is flat-out the funniest book I’ve read this year. A whirligig of a read, it’s best enjoyed with a glass of your favourite ginger ale. And whether you're a fiddle fan or not—and I am—learning about Mr. Messer's masterful marketing strategy and tactics was worth the read.

Hockey Videos
Timmy Thomas’s big-time save against the Toronto Maple Leafs: The save speaks for itself, but focus on the fans who stand and then slump back into their seats. And in case you’ve been living in a snow cave, or mayhap want to revive that holiday spirit, here’s an encore performance of “All I Want for Christmas” as performed by the Belfast Giants.

First French Hockey Story
Someday (when I make the corrections) I’ll share the full story about a trip to Le Quartier Nord, but for now I’m savoring the time spent in Boston’s North End and my teacher telling me that I’m an over-achiever. (The class resumes in late January but only if we have enough matriculators. Under-achiever, over-achiever, or just want to learn how to communicate with Les Québécois, please learn more about the Concord-Carlisle Community Education class, course #3391.)

Hockey on the Radio
Two kinds of people in the world: those who love Jack Edwards and those who mute the TV when he’s on. I love his passion and his bantor with Andy Brickley, but sometimes I change the lines, as it were in hockey parlance, so that I can listen to the action—“left to right across (my) radio” according to Dave Goucher and Bob Beers. Another dandy duo is Hardy and Trupiano. The former infuses Ultimate Frisbee references into the repartee; the latter tells great Gordie Howe stories.

St. Andrews, New Brunswick
Two trips in 2010: The first in the summer when the AMHL Photographer departed for a two-hour tour of the Bay of Fundy. While she was aboard the Zodiac Hurricane, I sat seaside at the Hungry Whale Café and comforted myself with a St.-Viateur Bagle. (Caution: The owner’s allegiance is to le bleu, blanc et rouge). The second trip, last week, was heavenly…Espionage in St. John…Honeybeans for an afternoon snack…Old Tyme Pizza for dinner…Christmas lights on the wharf…the walk back to the safehouse, as we admired the brilliance of Orion’s Belt…Canadaaaah.

Friday Skates
In July, I skated three times—a grand total of less than hour—as the AMHL Hawks, Kings, Stars, and Whalers dressed for their games. Two months after the surgery to repair the direct hernia surgery, I was still wobbly and weak but budding with confidence as I rounded Rink Two. But a few days later, at my next PT session, my right knee buckled. I limped into the chiropractor’s office with a brace on my knee and then—thanks to Dr. Jamal De Vita—walked out of the office carrying that brace in my hand.

AMHL Comebacks
“Here I come, baby,” Brent Delehey, who had been out action for a few months, said as the Big Bad Bruin hunted his opponent in last week's AMHL Thursday Championship. Brent was gleeful to be playing again—ditto for John Bionelli and Scott Gelin. As for me, I’m more centered, more balanced, and (despite the pain my surgeon said is to be expected) back at PT. I hope to be playing again this spring.

Around the Globe: Hockey Heroes and Helping Hands

The anxiety I felt about unresolved issues dissipated as I navigated today’s Boston Globe.

Kevin Cullen’s front-page piece about Sudbury’s Scott Milley, a hockey player, isn’t so much about hockey as it is Millen’s sacrifice and his family’s grief.

If that story touches your heart, if not your tear ducts, then Cindy Cantrell’s Metro West story about Kasey, a Helping Hands miracle monkey, might make you laugh. I did. Couple the capuchin’s personality with her purpose, to rescue not only a once-athletic Concord kid but also his family, and you’ve got a story to boost slumping spirits. The story also made me think of Travis Roy.

Concord’s own (via Buffalo), Kevin Paul Dupont, reflects upon the inherent rigors of building a backyard rink. Impossible for hockey enthusiasts and storytellers like me to not to think of Jack Falla, who consulted on KPD’s  project but who is not to blame for the debacle, to be grateful for fond Falla memories.

Still in Sports, Dupes delivers a dose of sadness about a fun man: On page C9, amidst the hockey news, is a snippet about Buffalo-based hockey writer Jim Kelley, who was claimed by cancer. Sad for Dupes, who knew Kelley well, and for me, even if I never met him.

Then again, I never met Scott Milley. But reading these stories has helped me surrender my self pity. They gave me, you might say, a helping hand.

Happy Thanksgiving: A Propos de Moi

Happy (belated) Thanksgiving, Canadian style. I’m grateful for so much, like a great chiropractor, the opportunity to write, and a talent for learning languages—first Spanish, and now French. The study of the latter is an effort to replace, or at least abate, my fear of perhaps not playing hockey again.

Below is an excerpt of my first assignment "en la cours de français," my first foray into introducing myself to francophones.

Salut, mes amis. Je m’appelle Jim, mais ma famille et mes amis de hockey m’appellent Jimmy. Tout le monde pense que je suis Canadien. Je viens de Colorado—ou trois de mes quatre frères et mon papa habitent—mais je habite avec ma femme à Maynard. Je étudie le français parce que deux de mes amis de hockey parlent français, j’aime bien la musique de Céline Dion, y parce que ma femme et moi voyageons souvent a Canada. Nous adorons la Ville de Québec. Nous ne somme pas fans de l’équipe de hockey de Montréal, mais j’aime bien Patrice Bergeron, qui vient de Québec et qui joue pour les Bruins de Boston. Nous aimons les Bruins et le entraîneur, Claude Julien.

J’adore aussi lire les livres de Jacques Falla, Frank Delaney et George Plimpton; écouter et chanter la musique de les artistes canadiens comment Great Big Sea, Bryan Adams, y Les Ténors Canadiens; manger les beignes les démanche; et écrire de tout ces expériences.

Un de ces jours j’aimerais publier mon mémoire, Gloire AMHL: Une Passion pour le Hockey du Matin (et Beignes); écrire autres livres, et voyager à Nouveau Zélande—bien que ils ne pas parlent français allé.

On the Shelf, Part X: “Ice Ice Baby”

June 27, 2010

“If there’s a problem, yo, I’ll solve it.”
-Vanilla Ice

All the well-intentioned vanilla platitudes from friends and family haven’t cleared the air of despair choking the hope that I’ll play hockey again. More problematic than my doubt and lack of gratitude is my greatest fear: That I’ll lose my purpose in life.

I know that the hockey gods/The Force/The Great Pumpkin/Whatever You Want to Call Him, Her, It or Them, want me to enjoy life while I serve others as best I can, but I haven’t felt that way for much of the last eight weeks—since the surgery to repair what the surgeon called “a very large hole” in my groin.

So far, I’m two weeks behind the twelve-week recovery/physical therapy plan, and sometimes I feel like I’m losing ground. I guess I’m a slow learner and a slow healer. I’ve also allowed my unpredictable physical state to permeate my soul. And I’ve been feeling bad that I feel bad because I’m well aware that others endure catastrophes with more grace than I’ve exhibited during this temporary setback.

But the hockey gods work in mysterious and musical ways for me: I’m laying down, back on the purple couch in my Zen room, listening to a CD my wife mixed for me. The Force nudges my spirit awake as I listen to “Live Now” (Paul Brandt). My fingers then dance along to “Suerte” (Jason Mraz with Ximena Sariñana), and then, to “Good Vibrations” (Glee Cast Version). I think of all the people who are pulling for me: my wife, my hockey pals, and friends outside hockey circles. The Great Presence is transforming my knowledge into a more solid belief.

As the Glee cast sings Mr. Ice’s classic, I picture my little brother during his recent visit to Boston: He’s in the back seat of the car and rapping to the same song I’m listening to now. He surprises my wife and me with his knowledge of the lyrics, softly hip-hopping along—and then pumping up the volume, “Beachfront Avenue!”

Five hours later, I’ve listened to "Ice Ice Baby" again. I’ve decided to keep putting one front in front of the other. I’ll continue to ice ice after physical therapy and, as my brother told me not long after his 80s flashback: Forget faith and hope and expectation for a moment and just accept where I am now.

Word to my brother (and all of my supporters): Thanks. I love you.

The Hockey Show(s)

Thanks, the callers say to 98.5’s The Hockey Show hosts, for finally bringing hockey talk to Boston radio.

I’m glad that the Sports Hub has Dave “Left to Right Across Your Radio” Goucher and Bob “Blueliner” Beers—the B’s announcers since 2000—to dispense their vast and intimate knowledge to a wider audience. B’s fans deserve it.

But hockey talk on the radio is not new to Boston.

I miss the New England Hockey Journal Radio Show (NEHJRS) and hosts Mick “Doc5 Hole” Colageo and Kevin Paul “Hub of Hockey” Dupont. These lads lamented and lauded the local club on ESPN Boston 890, which recently signed off the airwaves. Mick and Dupes served as a lifeline to hardcore hockey fans not only here in the Hub but also to those listening, via the Internet, from far and wide.

I miss the other callers like "Michael from Brookline", “V”, and "Kevin from Melrose"; the great guests, Kirk Luedeke and “Cap” Raeder; and the trivia questions that Mick would concoct and that often had more than one correct answer (often one he hadn’t considered). Even the old school commercials—no frills, just Mick or Dupes reading the script—were entertaining (Mick touting the turkey tips at The Fours). And I’ll miss the end-to-end appreciation for music, including the song that ended the NEHJRS’s run: Bono belting out one of Dupes’s favorites, “Beautiful Day”.

You too? Do you miss it?

I hope the NEHJRS was a vital part of your Saturdays. But, if not, at least you know that the NEHJRS was a haven for some of us, a place that has been replaced (so far, so good boys) but not forgotten.

Honoring the Father of Hockey

This post was contributed by Holly McCarthy, who writes for the Sports Management College. She invites your feedback at hollymccarthy12 at gmail dot com.

Honoring the Father of Hockey

Have you heard of James Creighton? Well if you haven't, you need to brush up on your hockey history. After all, Creighton is the man credited for spreading hockey across Canada in the 1800s. Now folks in Ottawa (where Creighton is buried) want to raise the funds to erect a monument to mark the currently-unmarked grave of one of Canada's most famous "forefathers."

The Ottawa hockey history buffs pushing for the monument are doing it alone. Prime Minister Stephen Harper has given his endorsement of the project. They have been granted permission to erect a memorial at Ottawa's Beechwood Cemetery.

The group needs more than permission, however. They are several thousand dollars short of the money they need to buy the grave marker for Creighton. No one is looking for anything extravagant. The Society for International Hockey Research (SIHR) says it would just like a small marker that includes his birth and death dates, a line about his role in the history of hockey, and two crossed hockey sticks.

You may be wondering how this could have happened to someone as important to the cultural fabric of Canada as Creighton.

Well, it seems his wife died one week before he did, and the couple had no children. So, after his death in Ottawa in 1930, there was no one to place a grave stone.

Conversely, in Lawrence, Kansas, there's a huge memorial dedicated to James Naismith, the Canadian-born inventor of basketball, who died in 1939 and who is buried nearby. Naismith’s grave is surrounded by a dozen stone benches, and there is a tall monument with a plaque. There is also a life-sized statue of Naismith. It's not what most would call modest.

Creighton was born in Halifax in 1850 and played in the world's first indoor hockey match, held in Montreal in March 1875. He later developed the sport's official rules and was single-handedly responsible for spreading the game across Canada and introducing it to everyone along the way.

The guy deserves a memorial so the world knows he was here.

SIHR is taking donations with the ambitious goal of having something in place before the end of 2009.

New England Hockey Journal Radio Show: The Best Banter

From the pre-game chatter to the call from soft-spoken “Michael from Brookline” to the gregarious contribution from “Kevin from Melrose” to the post-game gabbing, it was a thrill to be part of the New England Hockey Journal Radio Show (NEHJRS). In ESPN 890’s Charlestown studio to talk hockey with Kevin Paul Dupont and Mick Colageo. I enjoyed participating in the on-air banter, but the behind-the scenes stuff was savory, too.

Saturday, January 17

During an early commercial break, I look at Mick, who has raised his headset to a new level: His earphones rest above his ear lobes.

“That’s a good luck for you,” I say.

He then repositions them to front to back, one ear pad on his forehead and the other on the back of his bulb. He looks not like a hockey jockey but more like an insane reindeer. But then the close of the Hockey Monkey ad, a staple of the show’s commercial stock, prompts Mick to get back to business.

The hot topic today is Vincent Lecavalier: Should the B’s make a move for the talented Tampa Bay forward? Dupes suggested as much in a recent column, writing “If (the Bruins) want to be in the Big Vin derby, they have the horses.” Callers debate the pros and cons of KPD’s case. Passion pervades every conversation. But laughter and levity will linger for me.

“Ron from Danvers” wrangles with Dupes about who the B’s might trade for Vinny. The Hall-of Fame scribe delivers an all-star caliber quip: “You can put your ’64 Rambler into this deal.”

Then, after a four-minute commercial break commences, KPD removes his headphones and delivers another beauty: “I’m goin’ for donuts.”

He exits the booth to pluck a Boston Kreme from the box my wife (who’s lingering around the office outside the studio) and I brought with us from our Saturday donut pantheon.

After a bathroom break (I’m a little nervous about my upcoming formal introduction), I select a Chocolate Frosted and then return to the booth.

“How do you stay in shot-blocking shape?” Mick, his microphone not yet open, asks me.

As we take our seats before the first half’s closing segment, I tell them that I walk to work and take the stairs instead of the elevator.

The white button is now lit, meaning we’re back on the air. Mick, seated to my right, mentions my “darling” wife and how, as a birthday gift, she arranged my appearance on the show. He then references my presence at HFBoards as Shotblocker32.

Dupes, across the table from me, wonders what number I have on the back of the Black and Gold replica jersey I’m wearing.

Number 32. Boston Bruin Don Sweeney.

After another commercial break, the second hour begins. Mick is still chewing on what he refers to as an “unfettered” Old Fashioned that he says sticks to your teeth in an unusual sort of way. He looks to me to add commentary.

“I’m all about the donuts,” I say, adding that I know what my role on this show is.

‘This is great radio…,” says Dave Shook, who takes time out from pressing the buttons in the control room. “Best radio banter that nobody can see.”

AMHL Thursday, Part II: Great Expectations

"Now, I return to this young fellow. And the communication I have got to make is, that he has great expectations."

-Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens

Last week, the first installment of our AMHL saga ended with the underdog Bruins trailing the bourgeoisie, 0–1. But the B’s have not lost faith. Nay. Despite the team’s losing record, they aspire to greatness; as Dickens’ protagonist Pip sought to transform himself from a blacksmith to gentleman, the Bruins seek an escape from the forge of sub-mediocrity.

The King of the Capitals, who would be joining the battle had it not been for a lower body injury, has been surprised by the Bruins doggedness and, at the first intermission, informs his minions of the statistics: twelve shots on goal for the Bruins, four for his own team. Not good enough.

Angered by the uprising, the Capitals—skating right to left across your classic literature—wage an assault on goalie Steve Scansaroli. The brawny backstop’s defense seems to have given up the cause and offers only token support. Scansaroli is under siege. A pad save here, a glove save there, Scans holds his own until the Caps score off a rebound. Later in the second period, Cap center Brent “Scooter” Delehey displays Orr-like presence: Scooter carries the puck into Bruin territory and then confuses his opponents by pretending to fall. As his opponents wonder how to respond, Scooter—his twisted torso serving as a Zamboni—passes the puck left, to John Field, who beats Scansaroli.

The Bruins counterstrike on gatekeeper Ken Tarr, who has been alert and agile. But when his own defense is not able to reach a rebound, Tarr is helpless to stop a grateful Bruin.

However, the Capitals respond by pouncing on yet another rebound and then beat an abandoned Scansaroli.

After two periods, the king is content with his underlings’ offensive outburst: eighteen shots on goal. But the AMHL’s upper class allowed nine shots. His majesty knows that a 4–1 lead in this league is not insurmountable. And the Bruins (several of whom may have read Great Expectations in junior high school) still have high hopes.

The rebels regroup and then attack. Scott “A-Train” Arnold, once an apprentice blacksmith, chugs in on a breakaway. But Kenny Tarr, who traded in his smithing tools for a regal robe and a fine facemask, drops a metaphorical anvil in front of Arnold.

The king is pleased, even when the revolutionaries score on their sixth shot (another rebound) this period. The insurrection is about to be suppressed for good when, late in the game, Rob “Mr. Open Net” Mirak has a clear shot at the vacated goal. His teammates have been chiding him—all in good fun—about his penchant for scoring goals after the opponent’s netminder has been yanked for an extra skater. So Mirak passes to teammate Mike Hansen who, with his sixth goal this season, sticks a stake in the once buoyant Bruins.

Shots on Goal
Bruins: 10
Capitals: 12

The game over and their battle gear returned to malodorous hockey bags, the players turn their attention to the donut pantheon. What sort of sweets will Adam “Donut Meister Meister Donut” Berger have procured for this morning’s participants? Will there be a sprinkled donut for Chad Mikkelson? How about a Boston Kreme for Scansaroli? A Munchkin for the king?

Now, what I have to relate about these old fellows is that they have great expectations.

On the Shelf, Part V: Just in Time

“…Nothing hurting. Nothing sore. No one suffers anymore. The doctor’s found a simple cure. Just in time.”

-“When I am I King”
Great Big Sea

I miss playing hockey but am trying to count my blessings. The hockey and donut gods (I bet at least fifty percent live in Canada) have followed me more closely than they usually do, perhaps because the lower body injury I incurred six weeks ago is taking its own sweet time in healing. The deities haven’t cured my torn and tender iliopsoas but have delivered other extraordinary gifts.

On October 4th, the AMHL Photographer (a.k.a. my wife) and I watched the Bruins lose to the Islanders, and then we took the Green Line to the Theater District. We went to a comedy show, and a donut fight broke out. Almost. The warm-up dude (dude because he’s from California) for TV’s Craig Ferguson mentioned Krispy Kreme. I heard myself boo. And I wasn’t the only one. We caught him off guard, but the comedian recovered, joking that the audience was coming after him with “pitchforks and torches.”

On October 16th, Fort Collins’s Mr. Hockey (a.k.a. my dad) arrived from Colorado. The next morning, with my wife behind the wheel, we drove to Ottawa. We watched, from section 106, Row D (two rows behind the B’s bench) the Bruins beat the Senators, 4–2. The $176.00 (per seat) was a splurge but well worth it if only for providing a close-up view of Aaron Ward’s mouthpiece. After conducting extensive undercover ops, we returned to Boston—to watch a hockey game on October 20th.

The Bruins, in their home opener, would lose to the Penguins in a shootout, but to watch Mark Stuart during the pre-game ceremony was priceless. In numerical order, Bruin after Bruin heard his name announced and then glided to the blue line. Stuart, (Number 45) watched Aaron Ward (Number 44) embark for the blue line as Stuart waited for his turn. “Number 46, David Krejci.” Stuart, still waiting in the tunnel, shrugged his shoulders and then walked to the back of the line…“Number 91, Marc Savard.” Before the house lights came on and the smoke machine was dissembled, though, Stuart (unannounced) stepped on to the ice and raised his stick to acknowledge the cheering crowd. Then he joined his guffawing teammates.

My own teammates were in the locker room this Thursday morning when, for the first time in six weeks, I was on the ice, a stick in my hands and a helmet on my head. After a few tentative clockwise twirls around Rink Two and then a few counter-clock wise rings around the center face-off circle, I returned to the scene of my injury. Backwards, I crossed my left foot over my right and then vice-versa. No pain. I retrieved a puck, aimed for the seam in the boards, and then wristed a shot toward the target. Right on.

On Friday night, my wife and I and two non-hockey friends were at the Orpheum Theatre for a Great Big Sea show. We listened to front man Alan Doyle segue from one song to another. Boston is a great hockey town, he said, and “Helmethead” is a great hockey song.

“Helmethead,” “When I am King”…they’re Something Beautiful, and they came just in time. “Lucky Me.” Amen.

Check it Out

Check it out: It’s Thursday night. The AMHL Photographer and I gaze upon the scene at Verizon Wireless Arena in Manchester, home of the AHL’s Monarchs. To our right, a giant Canadian flag hangs from the rafters. Left, banners commemorating the home team’s championships dangle from the girders. But the Monarchs won’t play here until Saturday night—against the Chicago Wolves. We’re here for the John (Cougar) Mellencamp concert, an early birthday present my wife has orchestrated. Below us, Mellencamp and his team—a fiddler, a drummer, a keyboard player, and two guitarists—are in the middle of Check It Out—but I’m thinking back to my game this morning.

Check it out: Only one goalie showed up. Mine. Kenny Tarr was ready to help the Panthers halt our five-game losing streak. Who knows where the first-place Bruins’ backstops (Mike Chase and second fiddle Dana Salvo) were. Tarr was our goalie for the first and third periods, but we had to loan him to the Bruins for the second period. Our performance, unlike Mr. Mellencamp’s, was less than harmonious. But we won anyway, 11–7, stepping out of the cellar and into third place just in time for the play-offs. I consider the victory the first of several gifts during my birthday season.

The win, the concert…the dinner out my wife is planning for this Saturday night, and the pick-up game she’ll plan for January. My birthday isn’t a one-day affair. God love her, she heaps upon me gift after gift, before and after December 10.

On Saturday afternoon, she gives me two presents. The first is another hockey book, Jonesy: Put Your Head Down and Skate. The second is a dark gray, long-sleeve sweatshirt with these words pressed upon the front: IT”S ALL IN THE BOOK

This is something I say to anyone who asks me about our travels to Canada. It’s also my response to someone who asks about our favorite sport and my favorite food—the words on the back: HOCKEY & DONUTS

You see, I’ve documented my charmed life in not only in this blog but also in the book I’ll someday publish, AMHL Glory. Check it out!

CAN/AM Hockey, Part III: Happiness Is…

Charles M. Schultz loved hockey as much as he did Snoopy, so much that the prolific Peanuts’ creator named a senior hockey tournament after the beloved beagle; I love that dog—name someone who doesn’t—almost as much as hockey, so this piece, the third of three, is dedicated to happiness and warm puppies.

It’s Sunday morning. While many are dressed in their Sunday best and at church, I’m decked out in a red, white and blue jersey at the shrine called Herb Brooks Arena, so named in 2005 for the mastermind behind the Miracle on Ice. Number 32 on the back of my jersey and the CAN/AM logo on the front, I practice passing and stickhandling with fellow camper Michael Vacanti, who’s sporting a dark blue CAN/AM jersey. We try to master the flip pass Coach “Brody” Broderick, taught us a minute ago. Cradling the puck on our sticks and flinging the ebonite “Frisbee” toward each other less than hour before our grand finale game—before Michael returns to Buffalo, NY and I to Maynard, MA—hoping to repeat the intermittent successes we’ve enjoyed these past few days when it counts.

The hour-long practice session complete, players gather on their benches and wait to be introduced. When my name is announce, I hop, helmet-less, onto the glistening and beckoning glazed surface. My fan club cheers and applauds as I stride along the blue line connecting the bench and far boards. About to join my teammates, I perform my best hockey stop.

Happiness is …not falling down in front of a crowd.

One by one, my teammates are introduced, and then it’s Vacanti and Team Blue’s turn. Lining our respective blue lines, we turn to face the immense drooping flags—American on the left, Canadian on the right—gracing the arena where the Miracle on Ice unfolded more than twenty seven years ago. How lucky I am to be here, I think, knowing my father and my wife are watching me from the stands to my far left.

Happiness is… the horripilation—goose pimples of pride—upon listening to the Star Spangled Banner and then O Canada!

Game on. Team White skating left to right across your imagination against Team Blue. I’m the fifth defenseman behind “Cement Block” Bob McCall, Peter Cooper, Marc “PQ” (Province of Quebec) Perras and Scott “Doc” Hanan. Seated to the far left, I watch Jan “the Man” Slow score to give us an early lead.

Still in the first, I’ve played a shift or two and have been making good decisions and good passes. I skate toward a loose puck near my own blue line—perhaps fifteen feet away from the spot where Mike Eruzione scored his game-winner against the Russians—thinking I’ll try what Brody terms an “escape” move: two quick sharp turns to deke an opponent. In practice, Brody demonstrated the moves flawlessly. I tried to do the same. Brody critiqued my form. At first, my feet were too close together. After practicing again, Coach Uens said they were too far apart. Now was the time to get it right. My back to my pursuer, I control the puck. Instead of playing it safe and blindly banging puck off the boards, I dig my blades into the ice to turn, but I fake only myself. As I auger toward the ice, I wave my stick to bat the puck from harm’s way. I miss. By the time I prop myself up, Team Blue has tied the game.

But back on the bench, I don’t fume at myself. Brody suggested early on in camp that if we weren’t falling down, we weren’t learning. And, last night on Hockey Night in Canada, I watched an unattended Montreal Canadian flop to the ice when he tried to corral a puck.

After one period, the score is still 1–1. But Team Blue has lost two players: one who needs stitches and another whose hamstring is hampering him so much he can’t walk—much less skate—without doubling over in pain. While the trainer attends to the first, the second stays on the bench to open the door for players exiting and entering the ice.

I switch benches and jerseys. I’m paired with a Canadian Peach, Chris Isaacson. On Right D, I’m skating well, making good decisions, and improving without falling down. Chris watches from Left D as I skate forward toward my blue line and an opponent approaching. With my head up, I flip a perfect saucer pass—a tight spin with no wobble—over my opponent’s stick blade an onto a teammate’s as he breaks out of our zone.

Happiness is…when practice has made perfect.

I’m on the ice later that period when Robert Koppel, who’s from New Jersey but whose name I’ve become fond of pronouncing as if he were from Nouveau Quebec (RO-bear co-PELL, sounds cool, ce n’est pas?), puts himself in perfect position—hanging around the crease—for a garbage goal off his skate blade.

Because we’ve played the first period with stop-time and have only been allotted an hour of total ice time, the second period morphs into the third, a hodgepodge format filled with five-on-five, followed by four-on-four, three-on-three, and then two-on-two helter-skelter action. Team White has tied the game as the last minutes bleed from the massive scoreboard above center ice.

At 2–2 and time running out, dog-tired Michael Vacanti, steps onto the ice for a one-on-one against a weary Andrew Arena (his real name). Andrew, skating left to right, zigzags with the puck as Michael retreats. Arena makes some sweet moves but can’t progress into what our CAN/AM coaches have dubbed PSA: Prime Scoring Area—the patch of ice in front of the goal that Jimmy Craig defended in the final frame that famous February. The play goes back the other way. Vacanti has the puck now, deep into White territory. Along the back boards to the goalie’s left, Vacanti and Arena battle for the black treasure. They fall to the ice but continue the fight.

“Is the Miracle on Ice or the Ice Follies?” I joke to Keith Pelletier, whose hamstring has reduced his role from goal scorer to gatekeeper.

Meanwhile, Vacanti and Arena rise. Vacanti gains possession, steps past the weary Arena and over the goal line to the goalie’s right. Vacanti shoots…and the puck finds its way past the magic line separating victory and defeat!

Happiness is…watching my teammate collapse from relief, joy, and exhaustion as our teammates whoop and holler and rush to congratulate the kid who wears a Snoopy T-shirt beneath his CAN/AM jersey.

Update
10/31/07

The reference to the Canadian Peaches was erroneous. Sorry for that. Although one player wore a shirt advertising a collection of Canadians in Atlanta, none of the three campers from Georgia is Canadian (but one's wife is). See comments below for details.