Companions in Courage (20 page)

Off the field, she worked with Paul Cheney, a doctor she met through her study of her disease. He changed her diet, while
the team doctor began a program of IVs of electrolyte replacement solution to enhance recovery after a game.

She sought a balance between the needs of her game and the desire of her spirit. The label of “trainaholic” had to go, and
she had to alter her schedule. She needed to travel less, play more, pray more, and see the beauty of life as well as the
beauty of a well-struck ball sailing toward the corner of the net.

Michelle committed to more honesty in her relationship with herself, others, and God. “I don’t know how to explain it without
sounding syrupy,” she says, “but Christianity became my strength. It gave me peace of mind. As a Christian, you know that
things don’t happen without a purpose. You know that God is doing something and you’ve got to trust that. In fact the illness
brought me back to him.

“I think the challenge is to take these difficult and painful times and turn them into something beneficial, something that
makes you grow.”

F
or Jamie McLennan, a twenty-one-year-old rookie, signing with the New York Islanders of the National Hockey League brought
his dream to the edge of reality. Stardom couldn’t be far off.

As a free agent at the end of the 1996 season, Jamie began pursuing a starting role elsewhere in the league. Hey, change is
good. And life was good for this quiet, laid-back goalie, who thrived on the thought of establishing himself in the game he
loved so much. He was riding high in his athletic and personal life, but he would face something more frightening than a wicked
slap shot from the point.

In May 1996 Jamie spent a night with what he thought was a gut-wrenching case of the flu. The fever and vomiting would not
relent. Maybe it was food poisoning. Twice he visited the emergency room, and then checked into the hospital in Lethbridge,
Alberta.

The attending physician monitored his condition carefully and ordered intravenous medication. A rash developed and black spots
appeared on his arms and legs. The doctors, recognizing signs of a potentially fatal disease— bacterial meningitis—said, “We’d
better call your parents. You might not make it.” The symptoms of this disease that inflames the membranes around the brain
and spinal cord were now advanced. By the time Darlene and Stuart arrived, Jamie was fighting for his life.

Standing in front of the net and being blitzed in a 9–0 shutout would be mild compared to the next five days of head-spinning
delirium and a raging fever. Jamie was so drained that when the fever finally broke, it was days before he was even able to
manage a few steps without a walker. His eyes were sunken and puffy and his flesh had a yellow tint.

“I’ll never forget how I looked,” Jamie remembers. “Like it wasn’t me.” But he began to recover. His positive attitude, his
sense of humor (the nurses told his parents he never stopped joking throughout the ordeal), and his dream of returning to
the game he loved fueled his recovery. After what Darlene describes as “a dreadful, dreadful few weeks,” Jamie returned home
to Edmonton. He had lost thirty pounds and literally had to teach himself to walk again.

I remember so clearly the helplessness and frustration I experienced in my own recovery. I had always been able to do what
I wanted. To be reduced to such an out-of-control state truly challenged my capacity to cope. Though Jamie endured a great
deal of pain, his mind was clear. With so much time on his hands, and so little he could actively do, he contemplated and
sorted out life and death.

“I learned not to take anything for granted,” he recalls. “I can get out of bed in the morning. I wasn’t able to do that when
I was sick. When I was in the hospital there were kids who were sick and dying. I just think we’re very fortunate to have
our health.”

Just two months into his recovery, in July 1996, the St. Louis Blues signed Jamie as a free agent. With training camp so close
and his rehabilitation still ongoing, he did not have the strength to beat out veteran Jon Casey for the backup spot on the
roster behind Grant Fuhr. He spent the 1997 season with the Blues’ minor-league affiliate in Worcester, Massachusetts. He
played well and was ready to put his name on the 1998 roster for the parent club. But another obstacle blocked the comeback
path.

Earlier in the summer, the Blues had signed free agent Rich Parent to be the backup to Fuhr for the 1998 season. They penciled
McLennan back at Worcester for another season. But Jamie had worked too hard to allow that. He beat out Parent and Brent Johnson
for the backup role behind Fuhr for the 1998 season. He was solid. His 16-8-2 record and 2.17 goals-against average, accompanied
by his two victories over the Dallas Stars, told the world he’d come all the way back.

His relentless approach and gutty performance throughout the year won Jamie the 1998 Masterton Trophy, an award for the player
who exhibits perseverance, sportsmanship, and dedication to hockey. He proved his ability, character, and commitment to excellence.
I am proud to have him on the list of Companions in Courage.

Jamie McLennan, sick as he was, could have spent his time singing the blues. Instead he impressed the heck out of the Blues
and all of us.

Escaping the
Darkness

M
y success in hockey has opened doors and given me opportunities for which I am grateful. When I was asked to go see Seymour
Knox III when he was very ill near the end of his life, another special event took place. When the last game was played in
the Buffalo Sabres’ old arena, known as The Aud, the organization wanted the closing to be memorable. Sure, Marine Midland
Arena would have all the amenities the old building lacked, but it would not have history or Seymour’s presence.

Everyone knew that Seymour, the team’s owner, would probably not make it to the celebration because of the advanced state
of his illness. As I sat with him that last time, he held my hand. We both had tears in our eyes, and he talked about how
much he was going to miss not being there. Seymour had talked to his wife, Jean, about putting his initials on the new jerseys
as a way of being with the team even after he was gone.

I felt very fortunate to play in that last game. We beat Hartford 4–1, and after the game, three players—one from each decade
of the Sabres’ history—took the puck and skated it around the rink. They waved to the crowd and shot the puck into the net.
It was a high honor for me to be chosen to shoot the last puck. I skated around the rink, stopped in front of the net, waved
to the crowd, and shot the last puck in the net. The whole building went dark except for a spotlight that illuminated the
puck.

Emotions ran high for everyone in attendance that evening, whether on the ice or in the seats. Farewells are like that. I
felt as though I was waving and saying thank you on behalf of all of the players to the great building and to all the fans
who had supported the Sabres for over thirty years. Seymour, in one of his last speeches, had referred to The Aud as an old
friend he was saying good-bye to. The Aud had been like a friend to all of us. I’ll never forget him sitting behind the bench
during every game wearing headphones and listening to the radio and watching at the same time with Jean beside him. He loved
the game. And he loved the players like we were his family.

After I shot the puck in the net for the last time, I made sure one of the guards grabbed it so the players could give it
to Seymour at the end-of-the-year dinner party. Kenny Martin, a good friend of mine who works in the office, was able to put
together a nice plaque that read, “Farewell Old Friend.” It was our way of saying the same thing to Seymour. We gave Seymour
the puck mounted on that plaque. That puck was very special to Seymour. And that’s what made Seymour so special—the little
things in life meant so much to him. Friendships, compassion, caring, the gifts, and all the people who had supported the
Sabres meant the world to him. That puck expressed how we felt about him and the old Aud.

I remember him holding my hand before he died and saying proudly to his wife, “Show Pat where I put the puck.” I hugged Seymour
and told him that I and all the players loved him. Jean took me into his favorite room and there, by his favorite chair, sat
the plaque with the puck. Three years later, at my retirement party, Jean presented me with that puck and said, “Seymour would
want you to have this.” And I have it hanging up in my office.

When I read Mitch Albom’s moving book
Tuesdays with Morrie,
I thought very much about Seymour. Seymour and I loved the game of hockey and even though our social and life circles were
different, we were able to connect with each other on a very deep level. We had a desire to care and express our compassion
for others. We talked about how we felt blessed and how we wanted to be a part of the community and give back to it in genuine,
helpful ways. I felt very fortunate that I was able to mean that much to a man like Seymour. He had told me that he thought
of me as another one of his sons.

Recalling my relationship with Seymour filled me with gratitude. I was also grateful to my psychologist, Ernie Valutis, and
the doctors at the Mayo Clinic for their work that helped me return from the darkness of depression, enabling me once again
to see the good things in life and to savor them fully. Getting to know Seymour in that time before his death, feeling his
love and compassion for me as a human being and simply being with him at his most vulnerable times before he died, remains
a part of me that I cherish deeply.

I remember him holding my hands and telling me his thoughts about death and life. He wanted to have a happy funeral and he
wanted everybody not to worry. Even though he had withered away and the cancer had eaten away at him, his spirit was vibrant
and alive. In his book about Morrie, Albom wrote of how he picked up his old and ailing college professor to move him to a
more comfortable position. I did the same with Seymour. I’ll never forget lifting him up and seeing the love, confidence,
and trust in his eyes. And I’ll never forget the spring day that Jean called me to come and visit him. She told me that Seymour
wanted to see me Sunday if I could come. She told me that he was ready to see me because he was going to die soon. He passed
away that Wednesday.

Speaking at Seymour’s funeral proved to be one of the hardest things I think I ever had to do. I sat there listening to his
son speak and I felt very honored that Seymour included me like a son after so many years of his life and the many acquaintances
and many people he knew. I feel fortunate that he chose me and I feel lucky that our paths crossed.

Things do happen for a reason. I believe that one of the reasons I was brought to Buffalo was to meet Seymour and to know
him and Jean. That friendship changed my life dramatically. Seymour was a professional owner who had millions of dollars but
drove an old Mercedes that he had kept for years. Humble, casual, innocent, and shy at times, he was not afraid to be himself.
You would never know his family had founded Marine Midland Bank. I think it was remarkable that in the midst of all that surrounded
him, he was able to keep that inner, gentle, caring, and compassionate person intact. He touched everyone and everybody.

To me, there’s only one unhappy element of knowing and respecting people like Seymour Knox. When they’re gone, you miss them
even more.

T
he loss of my childhood friend John Brown, as well as my relationship with Erik Fanara, helped me realize how much loss can
challenge and test us, even those who are tough and strong. Cam Neely, who played forward for the Boston Bruins, learned to
reach down and find that inner grace as death touched his personal and professional life.

When he retired from hockey in 1996, Cam proudly carried the well-deserved reputation of a superstar who epitomized the balance
between intelligence and physical strength. Yet the circumstances of his life on and off the ice pushed him to the edge of
his capacity to cope. The combination of hockey injuries and the loss of his parents to cancer demanded all of the emotional
strength he had. Both of these experiences forced him to change his approach to the game and to life.

Neely’s hockey career changed dramatically on May 5, 1991, when he collided with Ulf Samuelsson of the Pittsburgh Penguins.
The bruise from that blow was deep, causing his thigh muscles to calcify. The condition required surgery and a lengthy recovery.

Cam approached his two years of rehab with the same vengeance that he displayed on the ice. He persevered through a demanding
exercise regimen and returned to score fifty goals in forty-four games. In March 1994 his comeback received another setback
when he tore the medial collateral ligaments in his right knee. More surgery followed, but Cam bounced back and played two
more seasons.

It seems so easy, in the space of a couple of sentences, to sum up what Cam went through. But as a professional athlete who
has coped with injuries, I know just how exasperating it is to show up for rehab day after day when your teammates are on
the ice, doing what you love to do and cannot. Cam gutted out ninety-three more games, relying on the intelligence and savvy
that always characterized his game, to score fifty-three more goals. An arthritic hip finally forced him to retire on February
21, 1996.

Now let’s go back nine years. That’s when Cam’s mom, Marlene, died of stomach and colon cancer. The year before, his father,
Mike, a twenty-two-year veteran of the Canadian air force, was also diagnosed with a cancerous brain tumor and began radiation
treatments. There’s an emotional load that can crush a person in a tidal wave of grief. But Cam’s heartaches pushed him to
compete more intensely and ultimately helped him deal with his injuries.