The Sketch King rides again!

Boston, a splendid Labor Day

I admit it ... I'd almost forgotten. The sweet, cool breezes of early autumn and splintered sunlight filtering through the trees. That distinct loamy smell of the earth, and the absence of bugs. The sublime thrill of fat tires on skinny trails winding like a roller coaster through the woods. I'd almost forgotten how quickly your breathing becomes labored the moment those trails tilt uphill. The nuisance roots and rocks that litter New England's rugged landscape. And I'd almost forgotten the spontaneous laughter that erupts when it all comes together.

Yes, the memories had faded. In the four years since I trashed my right shoulder after augering my bike's front wheel in a washed-out section of trail, and gone flying over the handlebars, I'd taken a self-imposed sabbatical from the singletrack. I had dabbled here and there, but I'd lost my nerve, frankly. I was scared. Scared of every slick, off-camber root or tire-grabbing chunk of granite that might send me to the ground or into a tree, and eventually the Emergency Room, again. Between hockey and mountain biking, I'd suffered a litany of injuries that had me feeling my age. The shoulder was the worst of the recent vintage, though, and I began contemplating more genteel pursuits.

I turned to the road bike, not so much because I enjoyed it more, but because I felt like I had more control. The irony, of course, is that, among my cycling friends, road accidents typically have proven to be much more devastating. My thinking was (and this is probably as good an indication as I can offer of how far my confidence had sunk), if I tumbled on the road, someone would eventually find me, and help me get back home. In the woods, I could lie there for days. Ridiculous? Of course. But that's the mindset of a rider who has lost his bravado.

Fortunately, my friends wouldn't let me fade away. They kept prodding me to join them, luring me with tales of new trails being carved in nearby parks, Bradley Palmer and Willowdale. Eventually, they wore me down, and I relented. I suited up Sunday with a fair amount of trepidation, but the morning was so damned beautiful it was hard to feel too negative about anything. I asked my buddies -- Billy E. and Mark O. -- to go easy on me. Not only was I venturing back into the woods after a long hiatus, but I was also riding on a bum right hip, compliments of a recently diagnosed torn labrum. It didn't hurt while I was riding, unless the incline got real steep, or unless I had to get off the bike. Which I did. Often.

It was a strange sensation. I spied old, familiar obstacles that I'd cleared easily in years gone by, but I was unable to stop myself from stopping. I realized this was going to be a slow process. I told myself to be patient, even as I publicly admonished myself for being such a wuss. I was the ride's anchor, but Billy and Mark never once made me feel like I as holding them up. Every time I apologized, they would just look around, and comment on what a gorgeous day it was. The support was a huge boost. So were the trails, which had been cut with an artist's flare.

I started to link some sections together, started to look where I wanted to go (instead of focusing on the trail's not-so-hidden dangers), started to reconnect with my Fat Beat's supple Ti feel. I started, even so subtly, to feel that flow train. I was back. Not all the way, but back nonetheless. I was still riding like the Sketch King, but I was riding. Off-road. And smiling just about the entire time.

Best,
-B

The Divot

Boston, allergy season

Not all that long ago, my brother Sean and I were out for a road spin, decked out in full cycling regalia. The thing about cycling gear, to be blunt, is that there's no hiding anything. Ladies, you know what I mean (wink, wink!). Not that I have anything to, ahem, "show off," mind you. It's just the reality of Lycra. Whatever curves you've got will show, good curves as well as bad curves. Which is just a way of setting up this little anecdote about Sean and I pedaling along. He was drafting behind me when he suddenly asks, "What is up with your hip?"

I turned around, and in the most sarcastic tone I could muster, say: "Oh, this hip? You mean this dent right here?" I pointed to the distinct crease in my left flank. "You don't remember Boys Weekend at Chris's house, when I got hurt, and everyone said I was faking it?" And therein lies the story.

The Divot

I'm not a cross-country ski guy. Never have been. Too much work. I like gravity, and I like chairlifts. Cross-country skiing is for those skinny, endorphin-fueled endurance athletes who can push their heart rates into the stratosphere and just motor all day long. I'm not built that way. So it was with some trepidation that I agreed, during a festive Boys Weekend one frosty February at my brother Chris's place in Washington, N.H., to a cross-country ski outing through the woods back behind his house.

Now, we're not talking smooth, tracked cross-country trails here, like you might find at the Jackson Ski Touring Center. Nope, nothing even close. These were rough-cut logging roads (known colloquially in New Hampshire as Class VI highways!), better suited for ATVs and 4X4s. In fact, most World War II tanks would have trouble navigating some of these "roads." They're actually decent hiking trails during the warmer months, but during the thick of a Northeast winter, they're a minefield, loaded with booby traps lurking underneath a fresh cover of snow.

There were at least six of us, including me, my brothers Sean and Chris, Tommy Duval, and two of Chris's college cohorts, Bill Riley and Tom Paul. A really good group of guys. We all knew the evening would be a raucous boozefest, as we had an enormous pot of chili simmering and enough tequila to keep a Mexican border town looped for days. So, we decided we'd do something good for our bodies before pickling our livers. It was a beautiful day, if I recall (it's been a good 10 years now), cold but crisp. We all had our skinny skis and poles, and Chris picked out one of his favorite "highways" for a little exploration.

Admittedly, I had my doubts about our agenda. First, I've never been all that stable on cross-country skis, with my heels flopping all around. I've snowboarded and skied on alpine boards for years, and prefer the control that comes with having my heels locked down (again, requiring gravity's assistance). I understand the necessity to have a free heel during the push-and-glide movements of Nordic skiing, but the corresponding instability makes me a tad uncertain. Add to that the unpredictable terrain that Chris had selected, and I was sweating bullets long before I started red-lining my heart rate.

The first hour was relatively uneventful, though the ruts and troughs in the trail were challenging, as were the dozens of downed trees that crisscrossed our route. Plus, the road wasn't flat. The uphill portions were a slog, and the downhills, combined with those inadequate bindings and my dubious Nordic skills, were much too sketchy for my liking. Still, we made the best of it, laughing at each other and our plodding attempts to master the art of skinny skis. Some, like Sean and Tom Paul, actually looked pretty good, but most of us just flailed about, huffing and puffing and I'm certain making the task more difficult than it needed to be. Finally, the group agreed that the trails weren't going to improve, and we decided that both the chili and the tequila had probably aged to perfection, and any delay in consumption would be a crime against humanity. So we turned around. And, immediately, we faced a downhill that suddenly looked a whole lot more daunting than it had during the previous climb.

Eager to get back to Chris's house and the blender, I volunteered to go first. My enthusiasm proved my undoing. Despite a pizza wedge that would make any ski instructor proud, I kept picking up speed. Toward the bottom of the slope was a huge fallen pine suspended across the trail. For a split second, I envisioned impaling myself on one of its branches. So, I took the only option my oxygen-starved brain offered, which was a head-first dive. And damn if I didn't pull it off, pitching my 200-pound frame underneath the hulking trunk. And that's when a white flash of pain flashed through my body.

Hidden underneath the pristine blanket of snow was a tree stump, and I found it squarely with my left hip. I knew instantly I had done some serious damage. I got light-headed, my stomach started doing cartwheels, and my leg actually began convulsing. But to the guys at the top of the hill, it was a perfectly executed Pete Rose dive, and as I was writhing in pain, they howled and shouted encouragement. For a little while. Finally, Sean, an orthopedic surgeon, came to my aid. At worst, we thought it was a bad bruise (after all, I have plenty of padding in that particular area). Regardless, it was a long, painful trek back to Chris's house. And the guys -- being guys -- kept riding me, unconvinced it was anything serious. I tried convincing them otherwise, but they wouldn't hear of it. And, of course, the last thing any red-blooded male wants to be called is a wimp. Never has being the "butt" of others' jokes been so rife with irony.

That evening, I wasted no time in masking the pain with a few rounds of beer margaritas. I strapped a bag of ice to the hip, gulped down a few heavy-duty painkillers, and then let the tequila works its magic. The gang sat around for hours, sharing laughs, singing songs, telling tall tales, and generally getting shnockered. The overnight, though, was tough. Each time I rolled onto the hip, the stabbing pain woke me up. The next morning, unwilling to give in to the group's sophomoric taunts, I agreed to go on another cross-country outing, and even managed to fall on the same hip again, sending another bolt of agony through my gray matter. So much for discretion being the better part of valor.

The accompanying photo was taken two weeks after the fall. That's how long it took for the bruises to surface (and spread). Sorry if it's a little risque, but there's really no modest way to take that shot. Believe it or not, it looked even worse a few days afterward, but this is the only photographic evidence I kept. After a month, Lauri convinced me to go see my doctor. His diagnosis? I had sheared some of the muscles in my hip (that was the divot), and adjacent bump was the torn fibers curling into a ball. "Well," I thought, "that would explain why it felt like the top of my head was ripped off." Eventually, the colors subsided. But the divot remains.

Best,
-Brion

Frozen in time ...

Boston, light snow.

The first thing I notice about Boston's Fenway Park, driving into the city at night in January, is the enormous banks of lights that loom over the century-old stadium. In winter, with the city covered by a dirt-splattered comforter of snow that is not quite white, the ballpark lights seem totally incongruous with their surroundings. Yet here I am, standing outside the park, my 50-something heart racing with the excitement of a grade-school student.

I had all but resigned myself to having to pass up the opportunity to skate at Fenway Park, thanks to a lingering groin injury that simply refused to heal. The invitation came by way of Joe Bertagna, a good friend and the Hockey East commissioner who I've known for almost 10 years now. When the NHL selected Boston to host the Winter Classic on New Year's Day, Bertagna, along with BU coach Jack Parker and BC coach Jerry York, quickly jumped on board, organizing a college hockey double-header the following Friday.

During the week in between, the ice at Fenway was rented out, and a number of high-rollers didn't blink at the $10,000-an-hour asking price. That meant roughly $250 per player, and though I had a few inquiries, the price was a bit too rich for me. Then came the invite from Bertagna, who got an hour compliments of the Red Sox brass.

Tempting as it was, I almost didn't go. I've been struggling with a persistent groin pull for the better part of four months, and I simply wasn't ready to get back on the ice. I'd been patient, and really didn't want to screw up what was left of the winter season by playing prematurely. I thought that made perfect sense, especially since it put the game before the venue. So I told Joe "Thanks, but no thanks."

Still, the more I talked to friends, the more I began to have doubts about my reasoning. Essentially, most responded by saying, in short: "You're nuts if you don't go!" Eventually, I came to the same conclusion. There were going to be four goalies, so even if I reaggravated the injury, I could gracefully bow out, and just enjoy the game from a front-row seat on the bench. More importantly, I realized that, no matter how bad my injury, it would heal before they brought ice back to Fenway. It was truly shaping up to be a "once in a lifetime" opportunity.

So I quickly backtracked, fired Joe an email, asking back in. Fortunately, he hadn't filled my spot, and I was back on the roster. That afternoon was a mix of excitement and trepidation. I hadn't put the pads on in a month, so I was concerned not only about the injury, but being woefully out of game shape and playing poorly. I've always jitters before playing, but this was especially acute. I drove down with a friend and fellow goalie, Andrew Huntoon, and he was keen to discuss our game plan. Game plan? I just wanted to take it all in, and get though the skate relatively unscathed.

As we pulled off Storrow Drive, I could see the banks of lights perched high above the park’s façade, and my pulse started racing. We entered Fenway underneath the stands, the bowels of the ballpark adorned with concrete and red brick. Nothing fancy there. That all changed the moment I walked up a short runway, though a large, hanging tarp, and out into stands.

The setting was, in all honesty, a bit surreal. It looked more like a giant Hollywood movie set than the grand old ballpark that I cherished. I had been on the field twice before, the first time in 1999 to take 15 swings as part of a fund-raiser for the Jimmy Fund and a story for Continental Airlines (see here). The second time, I stopped in to chat with a few Red Sox stars, including Jason Varitek and David "Big Papi" Ortiz for a story on The Players Trust. Both those visits came during the daytime, mid-summer, during baseball season.

This time, it was the dead of winter, barely 25 degrees outside, and at night.

There was the rink, seemingly suspended in the middle of the field, a large patch of white ice where I've only seen beautifully maintained green lawn and a manicured dirt infield. The left field wall – the famed Green Monster – was festooned with enormous banners announcing the upcoming Frozen Fenway college doubleheader. Other players started filtering in, including a number from the Over-50 Tuesday night league that Joe and I play in. The mood was light and fun, just like every Tuesday night at HockeyTown in Saugus. There were no locker rooms, so after putting on my undergarments and pads, I grabbed the rest of my gear and hobbled down the aisles on the third-base side and parked myself in a folding chair beside the rink. I kept peeking at my surrounding, shaking my head, laughing to myself; "How lucky am I?"

But once the game got under way, it was, just as Jack Parker predicted, "a hockey game." And, as much as I love Fenway, my affections for the park pale in comparison to the game. While I was happy to steal the occasional glimpse at the looming stands beyond the rink, pinching myself the entire time, I made it a priority to focus on the action in front of me. My breathing was labored and my movements stiff. Clearly, once past the half-century mark, the body doesn't respond well to a month of inactivity. So I tried to get by on my wits and experience. It quickly became obvious that this would be a Fenway version of the NHL All-Star game, where defense is nothing but an afterthought.

Our squad took an early lead, but soon the Bad Guys were buzzing my net. They tied the game when an old friend, Scott Donnelly, zipped a cross-crease pass to an unmarked forward, who calmly potted the puck behind me. Even though I anticipated the pass, I couldn't get anywhere close to the puck. So much for being game ready.

But the groin held together, so I couldn't complain. I dug the puck out of the net, and got on with the game. I managed one ridiculously lucky save, reaching back with my glove hand to steal a shot bound for a wide open net (left vacant because I had fallen, and couldn't get back up). And I even managed to stuff young Mr. Donnelly on a breakaway (captured in the photo above). However, Scott got the better of me during several scrums in front, slipping in a couple of garbage goals. He was quick to remind me, with a broad smile, that in hockey, the goals don't have to be pretty, they just have to cross the line.

When the hour came to a close, I'm pretty sure we had "lost," but no one seemed to care. Everyone lined up, shook hands, slapped a few backs, shared a few more laughs, and made plans to meet at the Game On pub around the corner (where our Peter Pan celebration would last another 90 minutes or so). No one was in a rush to leave the field, least of all me.

As most of the players slipped on their skate guards and clomped back underneath the stands, I slowly peeled off my pads and skates. Just as I was about to zip up my bag, the lights suddenly went dark, and I chuckled to myself: "Party's over." Except for a couple of Fenway security guards, I was the last one off the field. A bright winter moon cast a ghostly glow over the field. I tossed my bag over my shoulder, and shuffled toward the exit.

At the padded infield wall, I stopped to take one last look around. I want to sear the moonlit panorama into my mind's eye. It was, just as friends had predicted, a memory to last a lifetime. I'm grateful.

Best,
-Brion