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?