Is that a bratwurst in your glove or are you just happy to see me?

January 26^th, 1990 is a date that will live on in my personal history. On that date there was a solar eclipse, but that is not why the date is etched in my memory. I recall the date for what happened one day prior, and what occurred one day after.

On January 25^th of 1990 one of my favorite NHL players, Chicago Blackhawk Denis Savard, broke his left index finger while killing a penalty in a game against the Buffalo Sabres. The next day as the moon passed between the sun and the earth, Savard had surgery to repair his broken finger. He would be out of action for only 17 days, returning while healing, to finish the season as hockey players are wont to do.

The day AFTER the eclipse I broke my left index finger in an intramural hockey game at the University of Minnesota. While tying up an opponent in front of the net in my defensive zone I looked to the point to see a rising slapshot heading directly at us. Baseball instinct set in and I attempted to use my non-throwing hand to either catch, or at least deflect the puck away. About a nanosecond after making contact with the puck an intense burning sensation replaced the feel of moist rotting leather that one normally feels in a hockey glove. Unable to grip my stick tightly with my left hand I waited until we cleared the zone and skated to the bench to regroup.

As often happens we did not have two full lines to play the game that night so breathers on the bench had to be short-lived. After about 10 seconds of rest a teammate skated to the bench for a break to catch his breath. Another teammate told me I was up and should get on the ice. I told him to go ahead as I was not ready. He had come off the ice just after me and wanted a bit longer to get a drink of water. I decided I better assess the situation so I took off my glove and was truly amazed at the amount of swelling and discoloration that had already occurred due to a middle phalanx (second bone) of the index finger that was broken into 4 pieces. (Hence the name "The Sausage Finger Incident") The teammate who was urging me onto the ice gasped, his eyes bulged, he turned a greenish pale, but in true hockey spirit he hopped over the boards to skate his shift. I attempted one more shift but receiving a hard, crisp pass from a teammate was a new experience in pain, nearly bringing tears to my eyes.

Not being a professional athlete meant that I was finally having surgery a few days before Savard was back skating for the Blackhawks. My season was done. Having the “Best Hand Surgeon” in the Midwest doing my surgery did not preclude me from sporting a hooked finger to this day. Somehow he didn’t re-attach the tendon taut enough so my finger still lists a little to port and cannot be straightened.

While I enjoy baseball and football I LOVE hockey. Unfortunately, at least medically, hockey does not seem to love me back. I still think hockey is the greatest sport at all levels; at the park, youth hockey, high school, college, Olympic, NHL and even pickup games.

I played the game as a kid in my backyard on a rink my parents would flood for us and the rest of the neighborhood kids. What could be better than a sheet of ice in your own backyard? Skating after school until dinner, then skating some more under beautiful winter skies until bedtime; and all day Saturday and Sunday. My first year of organized hockey ended with 7 stitches near my eye due to a friendly fire incident. Skating around our half of the ice before a game a slapshot taken by a teammate sailed wide of the net just as I passed behind the net. BOOM, took that one right in the head.

Years later at the last practice we had before an adult league season began I had finally bought a mouth guard as the league required them. The damn thing would not fit right and the arena had no scissors to cut it down, so I left it in the locker room figuring, what the hell, I’ve spent hundreds of hours on the ice and never got hit in the mouth. Bad, bad decision. Next rush up the ice I skated to the far post of the net, as all the great forwards do, looking for a rebound or deflection, only to take the goalie’s stick directly in the mouth, as he moved to block the initial shot. I had shattered my left upper central incisor (left front tooth). Portions of the tooth dangled from my gums. X-rays revealed the roots to be cracked and the tooth was not salvageable. Oddly enough, wearing the mouth guard to sleep at night became a necessity until the remainder of the tooth was extracted. Drawing air as I breathed across the exposed nerves was NOT conducive to restful sleep.

Fast forward a few years to another group of guys playing hockey as a regular Friday night activity. This time an errant deflection of a shot hit the outside of my right skate causing me to stand, flamingo-like on only my left leg for a few seconds. Again, with great pain I skated to the bench and hobbled directly to the locker room where, upon removing my skates, I was able to watch the swelling and discoloration occur quite rapidly. X-rays the next day revealed a broken fifth metatarsal (often referred to as a Dancer’s Break as ballet dancers break them routinely). A few weeks in a boot and walking with a cane and I was as good as new. I guess that explains why it was so hard that night for me to crush my empty beer cans by stomping on them as we typically did when gathering in the arena parking lot after skating to tell stories, bullshit, and generally hang out.

I relate these tales of woe to let you know I’ve seen how dangerous hockey can be, but I still love it.

Hockey has been a great source of entertainment and exercise for me. Even though I am not particular skilled at playing it I generally have a dopey grin when skating because the game is so much fun.

Hockey helped get my daughter into one of, if not the, best universities in the world. Sure she had great grades and outstanding test scores, but nothing helps more than having a coach on campus who wants you on his team to aid in the admissions process.

Hockey has provided both of my kids with lifelong friends, and our family with very fond memories.

How can you not love a sport where teams battle bitter rivals but respectfully line up and shake hands with their opponent after one team advances and the other’s season has ended?

In college football the storied Notre Dame players traditionally tap the “Play Like A Champion Today” sign as they leave the locker room on game days as the program's legends who preceded them have been doing for decades. Not bad. In hockey, the storied Montreal Canadiens locker room has pictures of the franchies’ Hall of Famers beneath a line from the poem, In Flander’s Fields, “To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high.” How much more awesome is that?

In basketball the slightest bit of physicality results in personal fouls, random car horns honking, and free throws. Really? Are they athletes or just really tall entertainers? A cut and bleeding hockey player may miss a shift or two to get stitched up during a game but will return as soon as possible to keep on playing. Ya gotta respect that.

The 1980 Lake Placid Olympics? Would’ve been the Eric Heiden Show if not for hockey.

So if you ever wonder why I don’t mind it too much when old aches and pains give me some grief, or when the old wounds allow me to predict changing weather patterns, perhaps you’ll understand that I wear my scars with great pride and affection for all the joy that hockey has provided me and my family.

Who knew?

Who are you?

The rock group The Who famously asked this question with a hit song when I was young and CSI now uses that song as their theme every Thursday night. It got me thinking recently.

The simple answer would be, to quote the esteemed sailor Popeye, “I yam what I yam.” But that seems a little too simple. I can’t really be defined by my job as I’ve had so many positions in extremely different fields; grocery bagger, student, equipment manager, insurance salesman, billing clerk, mortgage loan officer, entrepreneur, pizza deliverer, pressbox food server, accountant. I think a more thorough examination is in order. So, here goes

.

If you are a proponent of the Acorn Doesn’t Fall Far From The Oak school of thought you’ll probably be comforted by the following. Like dad I’ve never had a problem talking in front of groups of people. I probably haven’t had anything as interesting to say as he did, but I feel comfortable just spit-ballin’ in front of a group nonetheless. Also, like my father, I can be a bit of a smart-ass, often saying or doing things just to get a rise out of people. These actions are typically followed by a smirk, and a bit of a laugh by both me and dad. Disproving the Acorn > Oak theory however is the fact that dad was an ordained minister. Me? I think theology is a personal matter that one develops as they grow and age. I’d never attempt to influence anyone’s personal religious beliefs, of course unless I wanted to stir up some shit, to get a reaction. So that theory does not adequately describe who I am.

In addition to being my father’s son I am also a Libra. Many who have taken courses with me at the UofM are aware of this fact. You know that first night of class when you all have to introduce yourselves? Typically after listening to people struggle with this dreaded task I would stand up and tell the class, “Hi. My name is Todd, I’m a Libra who likes long walks on the beach… yada, yada, yada.” (See, I told you I was a bit of a smart-ass) This intro usually got a laugh and lightened the mood. But I digress.

Libras “have elegance, charm and good taste, are naturally kind, very gentle, and lovers of beauty, harmony (both in music and social living) and the pleasures that these bring.” (http://www.astrology-online.com/libra.htm) I like to think I dress with a bit of flair, but Elegance? Not quite. I like to think I’m charming as I’ve been able to stay together with my lovely and talented bride for 30 years. Good taste? A subjective measure, but yeah, I think it fits. Kind and Gentle? Yes, but don’t piss me off because if you do we’ll go ‘round and ‘round. I do really love Beauty and Harmony. Although not musically inclined I do appreciate the beauty of many kinds of music AND the magnificent vistas of State and National Parks, bike trails, and the grandeur of just about every place I’ve ever found myself situated. As far as Harmony, don’t get me started. No one avoids confrontation any more than I do. The scales of justice as my zodiacal symbol are a perfect fit for me. Everyone on even footing is my ideal. But, “Libras have good perception and observation and their critical ability, with which they are able to view their own efforts as well as those of others, gives their work integrity.” does NOT describe me very well so perhaps my astrological sign is not a good way to describe me.

A thorough inquiry has to include the Chinese zodiac as well. I was born in the year of the Pig. “Pigs seek peace and will do what is necessary to maintain it. They enjoy opportunities that allow them to express their creativity. They enjoy what they have, especially their home and family. Once they find the right partner, they’re typically committed for the long-term.” (http://www.chinesezodiac.com/index.php) I think those Pig attributes fit me pretty well as I avoid confrontation, have been told I am good at creative endeavors, and I cherish time spent with family. Also, in a time when 50% of marriages are said to end in divorce I am the exception and am happy as a (Chinese?) Pig in slop staying wed to my lovely and talented bride.

However, “Pigs are always doing for others, helping anyway they can, but rarely will they ask others for help. Pigs are detail-oriented.” My ineptitude with technology has me CONSTANTLY asking for help and I am more of a ‘Big Idea’ guy preferring to let others sweat the details, so maybe the Chinese zodiac is not the best tool to use to describe me either.

I am a member of the Bear Clan of the Ho-Chunk Nation (http://www.mpm.edu/wirp/icw-52.html). Ho-Chunks have been known to be long-winded storytellers and I fit that bill fairly well. The Bear Clan is known for being the ones to uphold rules and procedures. Despite my constant reminders to my kids that, “I’m a stickler, a stickler for the rules” they’ve seen through that ruse for years. So there appears to be nothing substantial in my Native American heritage to describe me well either.

I am a lastborn, yep, the baby of my family. (http://www.birthorderandpersonality.com/). Last Borns are Idealists, have a good sense of humor, and are hardworking, which I think are traits that I possess. Suggested careers for last borns are sales, or something that would allow me to work alone. I don’t enjoy sales and really would be lonely working alone, so this theory doesn’t describe to well either.

So I guess maybe Popeye was onto something. But, I’d like to combine his “I yam what I yam,” theory with a line from Ulysses by Lord Alfred Tennyson, “I am a part of all that I have met.” To me that combination says, “What you see is what you get,” and if you’ve known and interacted with me you’ve helped to make me who I am today. I only hope that I’ve also contributed (for the better) to who you are today as well.

Who knew?

In your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it, You'll be the grandest lady in the Easter Parade

It has long been believed that my favorite US President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was largely responsible for the decline of men wearing hats in the USA. He wore a top hat TO his inauguration, but abandoned it and did not wear it AT his inauguration. The night before his assassination, at a banquet in Fort Worth Texas, JFK was presented with, by his Texan hosts, a cowboy hat as a gift. He politely refused to put it on preferring perhaps to remain true to his New England roots. (Hell, my friend and I wore cowboy hats instead of the traditional mortarboards for our high school graduation ceremony- no big whoop) Some say that the men’s hat industry was declining anyway and that JFK was merely a symbol of this trend, not a causative factor. Who knows?

I like wearing hats. Unfortunately, common business dress codes prevent me from wearing a ball cap most days at work. Who wants their financial reports prepared by an accountant in a baseball cap? I do own a fedora, but I just can’t rock it on the bus to and from work quite the way Don Draper does on Mad Men so why even bother?

I do however get a chance to wear hats on the weekends. I bought a new Twins cap recently that has the old Twins logo with the outline of the state of Minnesota with the twins (Minnie and Paul) shaking hands over the Mississippi River. I bought it in preparation of weekends and evenings I intend to spend listening on the radio and following the Twin's on-line through the Gameday feed on the web.

I won’t be seeing as many games this year as Grandma Ole, and her cable TV connection, are no longer available to me. I will think of her often though as I follow the Twins. I’ll also think of my dad’s dad. He was a HUGE baseball fanatic too. He enjoyed watching baseball as an older man nearly as much as he enjoyed playing it in his younger years.

I’ll think of my dad, who taught me how to play both baseball and football; and of mom, who supported me in all my sports pursuits, even though she was too frightened of my being injured to attend very many games. Of course it didn’t help that as a light-hitting leadoff hitter I realized early on that it was usually easier for me to reach base by getting hit by a pitch rather than me actually hitting a pitch. I only wish that I’d thought of the line Joe Pepitone (an old-time NY Yankee) used when he deliberately got hit by a pitch. After going down like a ton of bricks and laying motionless, the trainer rushed to his side and asked, “Joe, how ya doin’?” With a wink, hidden from the opposing catcher and the home plate umpire, Pepitone replied, “I’m okay, how’s the crowd takin’ it?”

Hats are a great way to set a mood, to let people know where you stand, and to form bonds of affection.

In my youth Easter bonnets were a way of making that Sunday a special event. Grandma Ole embraced that tradition for most of her life as far as I remember.

Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, across many generations sport the caps of their hometown teams at sporting events (especially baseball games) to support their favorites.

Despite what actress Julia Roberts once said, “I enjoy hats. And when one has filthy hair, that is a good accessory.” If I’m wearing a hat it’s not ALWAYS that I didn’t make time to wash my hair.

Sometimes I just want to feel like a kid again.

Or maybe I just want to support my team.

Or, I just feel like havin’ fun.

Who knows?

I’m not a doctor; but I play one on TV.

You spend enough time in this world and you pass any number of physical milestones. Babies roll over, crawl, pull themselves up and take their first steps, all too great parental acclaim. Later, as a child develops, there will be other physical changes. Hair sprouts in any number of places, voices change, and physiques morph into more adult forms. These changes seem inevitable but are accomplished more smoothly when aided by care and advice from medical professionals.

If you are fortunate to live to the ripe old age of 50 it is recommended that you get a colonoscopy done to check out the plumbing. In a possible case of Too Much Information (TMI; as all the kids are saying) I am proud to admit that my colonoscopy yielded a good result. I had it done some time ago and am overjoyed to report that Dr. Rubberhosen (not his actual name – but the name I refer to him by) found nothing for me to be concerned about and gave me a clean bill of tail-pipe health (“Not for a lack of looking.” Chevy Chase as Fletch).

The procedure itself is relatively easy but not something I would voluntarily sign on again for before the 10 year span for a second procedure that my good initial result warrants. At the beginning of the procedure a mild anesthesia is administered so you get a little drowsy, but you are generally awake throughout the procedure.

Word has it that W. Bush had a colonoscopy done while he was President and that for the first five minutes of the anesthesia Dick Cheney was in charge of the country until the anesthesiologist determined that W. was in as complete control of his faculties as he could be, so he retook the reins of power while still on the exam table. Evidently properly pronouncing “NUCLEAR” is NOT one of the tests they use to gauge mental faculties when administering drugs. For me the very thought of “President Cheney” scares me more than my next visit with Dr. Rubberhosen does.

Everyone I’ve ever spoken to that has had a colonoscopy has agreed that the prep FOR the test is far, far worse than the test itself. Here is a list of the instructions:

7 Days Prior: Stop taking certain meds & Aspirin 3 Days Prior: Confirm your ride to & from the procedure & plan and prepare for your diet. 2 Days Prior: Start drinking 8 glasses of water a day. Stop taking any anti-inflammation meds. Stop eating seeds, popcorn and nuts. No solid food after midnight. 1 Day Prior: Start a clear (liquid) only diet. Mix your gallon of prescribed liquid laxative. Take the prescribed laxative pills and drink the liquid laxative every 15 minutes for two hours. Day of the Procedure: Clear liquids only until 3 hours before the procedure. Arrive ½ hour early with someone to drive you home and prepare to be probed where the sun don’t shine.

I illustrated that whole involved preparation to offer it as a contrast. Those of you that have had the pleasure of meeting my now 80 year old Dad may have noticed that he suffers from a malady known as Essential Tremors. His situation manifests itself as shaky hands when he attempts to grasp, lift, or otherwise manipulate things with his hands. Over the years his shaking hands have gotten to be a real nuisance for him and he has recently seen specialists at the Mayo Clinic where he will be having Deep Brain Stimulation to address the situation. This procedure involves opening his skull and placing electrical leads into his brain, then attaching a device similar to a pacemaker, to control the current to regulate the portion of the brain that causes the tremors. An invasive procedure in the brain seems quite involved and delicate but here is the preparation he needs to go through for the brain portion of HIS procedure:

The night before Surgery: Wash the head and neck with an antiseptic soap. Get a good night of sleep. No food or drink after midnight. Day of Surgery: Take your usual meds with a little bit of water. Get to the clinic ½ hour before the surgery.

I find it odd that a colonoscopy patient has a whole week of detailed preparation just to get their caboose checked out but Dad, who is getting his skull opened to have probes implanted in his brain, merely has to follow instructions that each of our kindergarten teachers gave us; practice good hygiene and get a good night’s sleep. WOW. Please keep us Stroessners, particularly Dad, in your thoughts and prayers on May 4^th, as he undergoes the brain part of the procedure. The pacemaker part follows a week or two later.

Incidentally, in the last few months I have undergone some physical therapy on my elbow as I screwed it up being a weekend warrior and lifting too much weight repetitively as part of my workouts. I now know a little about brain surgery, colonoscopies, and elbow therapy. So for those of you that have invariably often wondered; I DO know my ass from my elbow.

Who knew?

The Great White Buffalo

Back in the day the plains of Wisconsin (my tribe’s ancestral homeland) and Minnesota (the state I’ve resided in my whole life) were teeming with massive herds of buffalo. My forefathers depended on the buffalo for food, housing, clothing and energy. EVERY part of the buffalo was utilized for daily subsistence. But the white man came and wiped out the buffalo herds.

Buffalo of any kind are rare, white buffalo are extremely rare. It is estimated that white buffalo births occur roughly once in 10 million births. In addition to being rare they are also considered sacred by many Native American people. The appearance of a white buffalo is seen as a sign of hope and renewal for humanity and gives many native peoples reason to believe all peoples of the world may live together in harmony.

Except in zoos, I have not often seen buffalo, except for an almost ill-fated encounter near Devil’s Tower in Montana on a family vacation. Stepping outside of the family truckster, with the kids in tow, I figured, what the hell, it’s only a young buffalo, and it’s at least 20 feet away. My native spirit was high, so I attempted to charm the beast with a hang loose hand gesture a la Crocodile Dundee (with the water buffalo). The 800 pound beast was mesmerized right up until he went

from standing still to charging at me and my off-spring. None of you have ever seen three people move so fast, scurrying back inside to the safety of the van. Miraculously no one was harmed (although some underwear may have been soiled in the process). My lovely and talented bride had a good laugh at my expense and the kids had yet another story to tell of how stupid their dad could be. The young buffalo, after absolutely scaring the bejeezus out of me, pretty much looked bored. The tagline for the rest of that vacation became, “The prairie was angry that day my friend,” as a cheap imitation of George Costanza’s description of retrieving a golf ball from a whale’s blow hole. I did, however, earn a newfound respect for buffalo that I will carry with me to the day I die.

I haven’t seen a buffalo of ANY color since that vacation but I have witnessed a rare sight in our neighborhood. While squirrels are not as numerous as the buffalo once were, they still are quite plentiful in Hopkins. In the last two Aprils, and again this past week I have spied a white squirrel on my way to and from the bus. It may not be much, but in times of uncertainty, with political polarization, and hate groups on the rise, ministers in Florida burning the Koran, and American soldiers embroiled in 2 (or maybe 3 – depending on who you believe) wars, this white squirrel is an omen to this modern-day, urbanized Native American that there is hope. We can live in harmony. I gotta believe it. Maybe if we all believed it just might happen.

Who knows?