Patrick Roy, How I Miss Thee

My life as a hockey fan began in 1996 on a sunny June afternoon. My 14-year-old self was sitting in the waiting room at my optometrist's office, and I was killing time by flipping through the magazine collection on the coffee table.

My scan for an entertaining read stopped when I saw "Champs!" in bold white type. It was the headline on the cover of the latest Sports Illustrated. Just above the headline was a man dressed in dark blue and burgundy red. Swirls of blue and white on his helmet accentuated the color of his bright blue eyes. And his eyes were glued to the puck that had landed in his glove. At the top of the magazine read "Colorado Avalanche: Special Collector's Edition."

I was intrigued.

As a Wyoming resident, I was aware that the neighboring state of Colorado had acquired an NHL hockey team. I didn't know, however, that the Avalanche had won the championship in their inaugural year. Not until I read the article in SI.

"Wow, they must be pretty good," I thought. "Maybe I should watch them next season."

It is important to understand that at this point in my life, I was not much of a sports fan. I didn't like baseball or basketball, and the only time I would watch football was when my mom would start yelling at the TV during a Denver Broncos game. Almost every autumn Sunday, I would be in my quiet room doing homework, when, without warning, my mom would yell an obscenity or a cheer at the top of her lungs.

Startled, I would yell back, "Mom, I am trying to do homework here! Cut it out!"

She'd be quiet for awhile, but more often than not, a bad call or a great play would rouse her up again and I'd walk into the living room just to see what she was so excited about.

She would say, "See! Look at that!" as the announcers dissected the replay.

Shrugging my shoulders, I would reply, "I don't get it. It's just a game," and walk back to my room.

Sports was not an interest of mine. It was a nuisance at best, a waste of time at worst.

***

Fall 1996.

I am sitting in my room, my eyes fixed on the television. They move back and forth at a frantic pace, trying desperately to keep tabs on some little black thing that's being slapped left, then right, then left again, ad nauseam, with a wooden stick. I am studying the game of hockey.

My mom walks in and catches me in the act. "What are you doing?"

"Watching hockey," I say, still fixated on the TV. "The Avs are pretty good, and since they're a Colorado team, I thought I would check them out."

My mom's reaction is one of shock and amusement, but not disapproval. She mumbles something along the lines of, "Okay then," and leaves me to it.

I don't even notice that she's left the room. My eyes are locked on the guy defending Colorado's net. It's the same guy that was on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

The way his entire body follows the puck intrigues me. His every move is made with such precise accuracy that he could be mistaken for a machine if it weren't for the unmistakable color of flesh behind his mask.

Also unmistakable are his eyes. Never have I seen a pair of eyes so blue, so focused, so intense. They never lose sight of the puck. His passion for the game is clearly reflected in his eyes.

His last name is Roy, but it's pronounced more like "wah" instead of "roi." I chant his name along with the crowd after he makes an amazing save. "Hey, that's pretty fun," I think to myself with a giggle. "Wah! Wah! WAAAH!"

***

In five years, my interest in hockey progressed from a casual interest to a must-not-miss-a-game passion. The first thing that happened was that I became a fan of that Avalanche team I checked out. From there, I studied the rules so I better understood the game. Then I learned the who's who throughout the league. It was a major progression for a girl whose starting knowledge began and ended with the name Wayne Gretzky.

Back in the early days, I never would have thought that I would be at a game and watching history unfold. But there I was, in 2001, at Game 7 in the Western Conference Semifinals, chanting Roy's name with all the lung capacity I could muster.

I had been to a couple of games by then, but none like this. Not only was it a playoff game, but my seat was only three rows up and just to the left of the goaltender's net. I was just a few feet away from Patrick Roy.

The hefty cost for such a close seat became priceless once the Avalanche took the ice for the pre-game warmup. Skating directly to me (or so it seemed), Roy took the net in front of me and began his practice ritual.

My eyes were glued. There he was, the guy whose intensity intrigued me enough to start watching hockey. I basically stared at him throughout the entire practice, but with one exception — when Peter Forsberg and Joe Sakic skated by, sans helmets.

My reactionary thought process went something like this:

1. Peter Forsberg! Joe Sakic!
2. Wow, they look intimidatingly huge with all their equipment on.
3. They both have gorgeous, thick hair.

It was one of the few hockey fangirl moments I've had in my day, so I'm not ashamed.

The entire building had an electricity running through it that comes only on a seventh game in a playoff series. What starts it is the foreknowledge that someone's season will be over at the end of the game, and the home crowd will be damned if it's their team. When the home team plays as well as the Avalanche did versus the L.A. Kings that night, the game takes that energy, feeds off of it, and returns it even stronger. That in itself is a memory I will never forget.

Adding to that excitement, however, was Roy playing the first and third periods of the game in the net just a few feet away. I stared in awe as I watched him do his work. It was the little things that amazed me — the things that just weren't captured on TV — like the smallest of twitches that put him in perfect alignment with the puck, or the way his glove always stood ready for a catch. It was as though I was witnessing the magic of Roy's play for the first time all over again.

As the third period wore on, the Kings became desperate. They were behind by three. Their offense seized control of the puck and attempted an onslaught of shots that only a human slinky could save. Or "the wall," Patrick Roy.

Over and over, as the Kings skated into the Avs zone and set up their attack, my eyes were on Roy. I watched as his entire body followed the puck coming down the ice, and just when the shooter thought he had a chance, Roy denied him each and every time. It didn't matter where the puck was coming from or how Roy had to save it — he did. And some of those saves looked downright impossible. Not for Roy. His composure was stronger than ever. The Kings, deflated, took a time out.

The crowd got on its feet and started the chant: "Roy! Roy! ROY!"

He took a moment and did something that I rarely saw him do: he looked into the crowd. He wasn't just staring at it in a dazed moment before the next play. He was really looking in the crowd, staring into each face as if he were looking for somebody. But he wasn't. He was simply reveling in the moment.

Roy slowly turned around until he was looking at those of us who had watched him make countless saves from behind the net. When he was in just the right position, I made eye contact, and in that briefest fraction of a second, I said "thank you."

I was thanking him for the excitement of that night. For being so amazing to watch every night. For all the memories. For being a part of my life, whether he knew it or not.

And in the blink of an eye, the moment was gone. But it was one of the most vivid experiences of my life.

Now, another five years later, I think about the memories Patrick Roy has given me over the years and I'd like to thank him again. I'd like to thank him for the memories he's given me since that incredible game seven — the Avs' Stanley Cup win in 2001; the parade in Denver just a couple of days after; his retirement ceremony at Pepsi Center, which I attended; and now, his induction into the Hockey Hall of Fame.

Thank you, Patrick Roy, for making me a hockey fan. You still amaze me.