As the NHL playoffs start, Dan Nied is prepared to say goodbye to his hero.
When I was a boy, plopped two feet in front of a television set, you were there, skating like Scott Hamilton, passing like Magic Johnson, shooting like Billy The Kid.
When I was a teenager and my cereal bowl left milk rings around the morning sports section, you were there, in the box score: 17:34 Yzerman (Fedorov, Burr)
When 1995 rolled around and Game 7 against the Blues went to overtime, you were there. Shooting a sighted puck over Grant Fuhr’s left shoulder, putting that biscuit in the basket and sending the Red Wings, and me, to the next round.
When I was a senior in high school, and we were both starving for a championship, you were there, hoisting the Stanley Cup above your head the way I imagined Atlas hoisting the world.
And when I was at a downtown Detroit bar the next year struggling to see the televisions through a maze of heads, you held that cup again. But this time, instead of hoisting a city above your shoulders, you passed it to a wheelchair bound Vladimir Konstantinov, your former teammate left nearly lifeless in a limousine accident the year before.
You were there with me, and I hope that a little bit of me was there with you. But not just me, of course. No, me and the millions of people in Detroit who took you in as our own in 1984 when you were drafted by the Red Wings and showed us that hockey can matter in this baseball town.
But still I was with you when your knee gave out, forcing surgery in 2002 that no human has any business coming back from. I was with you when you came back late in that season, a year after our third Stanley Cup. I was with you when you bowed out to Anaheim in the first round in four straight games.
I was with you for those first 13 years you played, when you were known as the greatest player never to win a Cup. You lugged that baggage around like a hiker’s backpack while people whispered “He’s great, but he can’t win the big one.” I guess we showed them, eh.
Now, Steve Yzerman, you are nearly 40 years-old and that knee isn’t getting any better. Your sport is in trouble and next season’s existence is no guarantee. We all know that the end is near. I know that after this playoff run starts tonight against Nashville, I might have only two more months with you. But I can accept that. Every great relationship comes to an end. Every great athlete retires with a legacy in tact. Your legacy, Steve, will be that of a hero to a sport, a city and, most importantly, me.
I know that heroes don’t come along every day. That’s why I know how lucky I was to have you for 20 years.