First Love - Written 5/17/08

Who knew a piece of plastic could transform a 5-year-old on a pair of beat up roller skates into the 1995 Hart Trophy award winner.

A Sunday tradition, the Holly Hill Lane kids would grab our respective Fischer Price hockey sticks, strap up and roll into the street. Like the pros, we’d warm up, lines of shooters against the lucky kid picked to be the starter in net. With our hands to our hearts, we’d form a single file line, swaying side-to-side like Hextall, in tune with every note of the national anthem.

Thoreau once said that “the world is but a canvas to the imagination.” We knew no rules on the streets those sun-spilled afternoons. With the leaves of the evergreen as our flag, the yellow boom box as our speaker system, we’d emulate in exact detail the ones who ruled the game we loved. The laps, the gloves, the sticks; every seemingly miniscule aspect of the game we eventually perfected with time. We started with a piece of clay, adolescent sculptors with a model to match; kids with a vast knowledge of a game attempting to imitate movements with non-existent muscles.

The actual event, at least compared to the pre-game festivities, would be disappointing for those expecting us to measure up to the pros. Yet through our eyes, the asphalt was no different than ice, we expected each other to shake off scraped up knees – who’s ever seen Eric Desjardins leave the game after skidding on the ice?

The games were truly like no other. Where else could I skate up-ice, look to my left and see John LeClair, look to my right and see Mikael Renberg, yet return home with my two brothers? I was a legend in my own mind long before I was ever cocky.