Learning the Mortality Curve
It was a gruesome NHL moment for a 16-year-old neophyte ice hockey player to witness. I remember all of it quite clearly. March 1989, as if it were just last season.
Sabres goaltender Clint Malarchuk had his net crashed by a number of opposing St. Louis Blues players and Buffalo defenders in a generally uninspiring play. But it was the inadvertent flick of Blues winger Steve Tuttle's skate blade that sliced the neck of the oblivious goalie. As the group pushed and shoved behind Malarchuk, the goalie remained on his knees in his crease, as if in worship, while a thin stream of blood shot from beneath his mask. His hand found his throat, maybe instinctively or maybe to plug the gash with pressure. Either way, when he removed his mask, an excess of blood, pooled from inside the mask, splashed onto the ice, which was quickly staining red in front of his knees. The goalie's face was stoic (with shock, I presume) as he watched the strong stream squirt through his fingers. A few of his on-ice teammates recognized the severity of the gory scene, yet were rendered as useless as stunned bystanders until the medical staff could reach the injured player.
Reports vary today. Some have said that Malarchuk's jugular vein was severed; others have reported that his jugular was missed, but by just centimeters - this is the account I recall from the goalie himself in an intermission interview during a Ranger/Sabre matchup more than ten years ago.
Regardless of what was severed, the injury was deadly - offering me no choice but to trade in my ice hockey equipment for supplemental insurance in case a piano should drop onto my head during fifth period Earth Science class. Sure, I was being dramatic, but until that point, I never considered playing a sport to be life threatening. There was serious trepidation as I stepped onto the ice for the next pickup game. My concern that day was not for the contest's outcome, but for the sharp weapons that every player had upon his feet. My goal was not to score, it was not to die.
Bitter reality for a 16-year-old, but reality indeed. Since that 1989 event that made Clint Malarchuk a household hockey name, I haven't had to wince at the threat of a fatal injury (fractured vertebrae, concussions and eyeball lacerations aside). Then came Canadians winger Trent McCleary and the slapshot he blocked with his throat in January 2000.
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