In the winter of 1969, my best friends Bryan and Ronnie Bouchard, and my little brother David, decided to brave the hill at nearby Lake Gerard. It was a good snow year for us, not so good for our parents.
We had a toboggan, long and fast. We carefully mounted it at the top of the hill with Ronnie in front, head tucked under the prow, Bryan next, then myself, and lastly, David, each of us piled atop the next.
We pushed off, the toboggan quickly picking up speed. Unfortunately, the trail was narrow, and we soon veered to the left (toboggans were notoriously difficult to steer). I remember yelling, “We need to bail!” First David, then myself, and then Bryan all jettisoned themselves from the toboggan. Only Ronnie remained, the toboggan picking up more and more speed.
The toboggan crashed into a large tree, and I knew that Ronnie was dead. Sure enough, when we ran to him, he was unresponsive. We yelled at him for two or three minutes, “Ronnie, Ronnie, are you okay?”
Finally, faintly, he opened his eyes. “Don’t tell Mom!” he yelled. We never did. As far as I can recall, the toboggan remained unused in the garage after that.
I started skating at age 3 or 4. I remember my father, Noel Stenoien, taking me to a local pond and lacing up my skates, skates that were way too large for me (that way they didn’t have to buy new skates every year). When my nose and toes were completely frozen, he would take me to sit in front of a kerosene stove to warm up.
I started playing organized hockey in Bloomington, Minnesota at age 9. There was one extremely cold day, with wind chills of minus 40 F, and my mom Jan had be bundled up in multiple layers. I still can’t believe they let us play that cold and windy day. At any rate, I remember skating with the puck, and taking it up the ice, skating past all of the defenders with what seemed ease at the time. As I neared the goal, I was blinded as my cap slipped down over my eyes. I continued to skate, and careened into the boards, running into the end of my hockey stick and knocking the wind out of myself. From glory to goat, neither the first nor the last time.
At the end of that inaugural season, I was chosen to play in the All-Star game. It was West versus East, and for some reason, I found myself on the opposite team of one of my best friends and neighbor, Ronnie Bouchard.
I only remember one thing from the game. Ronnie was skating the puck towards our zone. He played forward, and I played defense. He looked up, and I looked up. We locked eyes. I’m pretty sure he forgot all about the puck (I know that I did). All of a sudden, we found ourselves skating as fast as we possibly could, directly at each other. There was a massive collision (all 70 pounds of me and 90 pounds of Ronnie). The stands, full of parents, were silent. You could have heard a pin drop.
Ronnie and I were laid out on the ice next to each other, flat on our stomachs, facing opposite directions. I remember turning my head to the left and looking into his face, as he did the same turning to his right. We started to giggle. At the same time, sounds erupted from the stands from concerned parents, “Oh my God, are they okay?” As our giggles turned to laugher, the spectator parents and coaches realized that we were not hurt, and the place erupted in laughter. I don’t remember who won the game, but I’ll never forget the last time Ronnie and I faced each other as opponents. From that day on, we would only play as teammates.
