Hockey Dreams (Home Run Edition)

Chapter 1: New Skates

I am sitting on a stool in an NHL locker room. I can't believe this is happening. Tonight, I will play in my first professional hockey game. At five foot six, and just over 160 pounds, I am very small, probably the smallest player in the league. That won't stop me, though.

A few of the older guys are looking me over. They look very calm as they prepare for another long NHL season. I recognize most of these players. After all, I've been cheering for this team since I was in diapers. Being around these guys is much different than watching them on TV, though.

My eyes dart around the room. I notice a few guys putting tape on their sticks. I see others listening to music. I even see one who seems to be asleep. After taking a deep breath, I pull on my game jersey. A chill runs down my spine. I'm actually here. I'm in the locker room of the Minnesota Elk. All the people who told me I was too short, too skinny--they were all wrong. In twenty minutes, my lifelong dream will come true.

I grab a pair of new skates from my locker. The blade at the bottom is shiny and sharp. I run my finger along it. Then I close my eyes, remembering my first pair.

I was just seven when my parents bought them for me. They were black and white with blue laces. I still have them today. They had been in the display window at a sporting goods store in town. Every time we passed by, I would ask Mom to please buy them for me. She'd always tell me the same thing: "Hockey is too dangerous for such a little boy, Wayne."

I grew up in the small town of Robbinsdale, Minnesota. Hockey is a very big deal in Robbinsdale. Second grade was the first year of youth hockey. I would beg Mom to sign me up almost every day. Hockey flyers littered our house. I would bring them home from school every day. I put them up with hockey magnets on the refrigerator. I stuck one under Mom's pillow. Dad would find them in his briefcase, too.

With constant pressure, Mom finally caved in. When she handed me my new skates, a signed consent form was stuffed in the left one. I was going to play hockey.

Lacing my new skates up on the living room floor wasn't easy. Dad warned me about how important it was to lace my skates correctly. If I missed a loop or twisted the laces, the skates wouldn't work right. So I really took my time. I pulled the laces through the tiny holes slowly. Dad repeated himself while I laced: "Hockey starts with your feet, Wayne. Great hockey players have great balance, great feet."

Jack Miller, my father, lived and breathed hockey. From the time I was a baby, he breathed it into me. "Hockey requires talent--that's true. But the best players aren't always the most talented. They're the guys with the biggest hearts. A great hockey player never quits, Wayne."

Putting on my new footwear was difficult. The skates were tight and uncomfortable. Hockey skates are different than figure skates. They are sturdy and heavy, even a bit clunky. The sharp metal blade is supported by thick plastic. The tongue is huge, too. And the high ankle support is hard to get used to.

"Do they fit?" Mom asked.

I tried not to show the pain on my face. Then I struggled to wiggle my toes for Mom. "Yeah, I think so."

Honestly, I didn't care how they fit. All I cared about was getting on the ice. I wanted to skate like Wayne Gretzky. Gretzky is widely known as the greatest hockey player of all time. My parents, who grew up in Canada, had been Gretzky fans since before I was born. When they learned they were having a boy, they named me Wayne right away. Before I was even born, I had a lot to live up to.

Once the skates were on, I tried to stand. I was unsuccessful. The blades dug into our carpet. This caused me to lose balance. I fell flat on my back. But first, I smacked my head on the side of the couch. I was frustrated, but I got back up. I was too excited to stay down.

A moment later, I was begging my parents to take me down to Mickey's. Mickey's Ice Arena was the place to play hockey in Robbinsdale. Dad was going to meet some friends there that night. I asked him to please let me go along with him. It didn't matter if I only got to skate for ten seconds. I just had to try out my skates on the ice--that night.

It didn't take much for them to let me go. Mom wanted to come, too. She wouldn't miss watching me skate for the first time. When we hopped in the car, my legs felt numb. The tightness of the skates around my ankles was killing me. Still, I couldn't stop smiling.

We made our way through the streets of Robbinsdale. The town I was born in was hockey-crazy. We had two hockey stores and three ice rinks downtown. That didn't include the rinks at the middle school and the high school. Plus, we played pond hockey from late October through March. Nobody played hockey during Minnesota Elk games, though. They were all glued to their TV sets.

The NHL franchise is located in the city of Saint Paul, just a few minutes away. Sure, we rooted hard for our football and baseball teams. When it came to hockey, though, we were fanatics. We went nuts for the Elk.

The drive from our house to the ice rink took about ten minutes. It felt more like thirty. I simply couldn't wait to get out there. When we pulled up to Mickey's, my heart jumped. Sure, I had been on the ice a few times before--but never in skates. That was because I hadn't owned skates until an hour earlier. I looked over at my mother and she smiled. She shut the car off and said, "Now, Wayne, this is your first time out there. Promise me you'll take it slow." I had a history of being a little too fearless in my life. Like the time I rode my bike down an ice-covered hill in Lion's Park. I hit a bump, flew over my handle bars, and broke my arm. Mom already looked worried.

"I promise," I said with my smile spreading from ear to ear. Then we made our way inside.

We set up near center ice. Once there, we sat in folding chairs just outside of the rink. Dad waved as he grabbed his stick and jumped onto the ice. Although I loved watching him play, tonight was different. Tonight was going to be my turn. I could hardly stay in my seat. I wanted to get out there.

Dad was skating so fast that he looked like a blur. I honestly had a hard time seeing him as he flew by. At six feet four inches tall, Dad is big and powerful. But he's fast, too. He had been a forward for his high school team. During his junior season, he set a Canadian scoring record. There's a really cool plaque up at his high school with his name on it.

If things had gone differently, he would have played in the NHL. But then he broke his leg--really badly. The sad part was that it happened at the end of his senior season. Just like that, his NHL dreams fell apart. Dad sat in a wheelchair for a year. Eventually, he was able to walk again. By that time, though, his window of opportunity had closed. Hockey became his hobby, but was no longer a career option.

These games at Mickey's were something he did for fun. That didn't mean he didn't take them seriously. During league games, a different side of my father would come out. He was a tough-as-nails athlete--a warrior. Although well past his prime, he could still play the game extremely well. I wanted to play like him some day, but even better.

I shook my leg impatiently. I couldn't wait another second to get out on the ice. Just when I was about to explode, the game paused. Dad spoke to one of his teammates. "Phil, let's call it a night, okay? Little Wayne got a pair of skates. He's gonna try 'em out for a bit."

Dad skated toward me, pushing off the ice with smooth and powerful movements. When he was about five feet from Mom and I, he stopped short. He pushed his skate into the ice. This motion shot a thin mist of snow right at my face. I wiped the snow from my eyes and laughed. Then Dad grabbed me, lifting me in the air and over the boards. He planted me on the ice carefully. Once there, I held his shirt for balance.

Even though I was just seven, I'll never forget standing there on the ice. I'll never forget how the slippery surface felt beneath the blades. I couldn't understand how Dad moved the way he did. I couldn't imagine being in control like that on the ice. It was too slippery. The blade was too thin. My ankles kept rolling. And I hadn't even tried to skate yet! This didn't make sense. How was it possible to stay balanced? All of my weight was leaned on a blade no thicker than the point of a pencil. How was I ever going to be good at this? I never had the chance to answer those questions. In a flash, Dad grabbed my hand and started to skate. "Hang on to me!" he yelled.

Then he took off, pumping his legs and moving his arms. For a forty-year-old, he was lightning fast. We started at center ice and made our way toward the far goal first. "Do you want me to slow down, Wayne? If you're scared, I can." My sense of adventure had taken over. "No way," I yelled. "This is great! Go faster!"

"Faster? Okay, here we go." Then he really took off. We skated from goal to goal at full speed. My brown hair blew back from my face in the wind. I was really skating! Well, my father was skating--I was coasting. Still, it felt amazing! I held tight to Dad's jacket. The thin blades on my new skates kissed the ground below them. They barely made contact with the ice.

"Yeah!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. "I'm flying!"

Mom watched us closely from outside the rink. Once in a while, she would yell "slow down!" Dad kept skating with me hanging on tight. Occasionally I slipped, but I was always scooped up by my father. He never stopped moving or lost his balance--even for a second.

After about ten minutes, we reached the far goal. Dad stopped. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. With his hands resting on his knees, he told me to try skating on my own. So I did. Skating was not easy. I never got more than a few feet without falling. I was hooked right away, though.

"Stay right here," Dad said, skating back to the far goal. There, two hockey sticks lay on top of the empty net. He grabbed them both and made his way back toward me. Then he handed me a stick that was much too big for me. He dropped a puck. I slowly skated until I was about twenty feet from the goal.

"Take a shot, Wayne. Shift your weight back, and then forward when you hit the puck. Stay low. Make sure to hit the ice before the puck. Oh, and snap your wrist on the follow-through." I looked back at him with one eyebrow raised. "Just hit it," he said.

I took a deep breath. Then I zeroed in on the goal as I tried to stay balanced. I imagined myself being a professional with an open shot. I bent my knees the way I'd seen Wayne Gretzky do. I gripped the giant stick with two hands. Then I reached back and swung at the puck with all of my might. Because the stick was so long, I lost my balance. I fell backwards. Amazingly, I still connected with the puck. Dropping my stick to the ground, I hit the ice with a loud thud. My head banged on the hard glassy surface.

I lay there on the ice, feeling a bump form on my head. Mom ran out to see if I was okay. She yelled at my father as he skated over. While rubbing my head, she blocked my view of the goal. My eyes welled up with tears, but I fought hard against crying. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" Mom said, kissing the bump on my head.

"You alright, champ?" Dad followed. "Keep your balance next time. I liked the way you snapped your wrist, but you have to focus on the . . ." "Jack!" Mom interrupted. "He just hit his head. Give him a second." Dad never stopped coaching me.

A single tear streamed down my cheek. Dad lifted me back up to my feet. Once there, I looked over his shoulder and through my tears. There, sitting in the corner of the goal, was the puck. I'd made it.

A huge smile swept across my face.