I got played by Mike Modano.

I try to be honest, I try to admit my faults. I call things like I see ‘em, even if that means I’m criticizing myself. Sudsy’s always said I’m too modest about my abilities, but I’m actually not that good of a player. I just have a knack for being open. The moment I lose that, I’ll have lost all utility, really, and I’ll have to say goodbye to this game. Hopefully, that won’t be for a while.

So, honestly, I’ve gotta be like the dumbest guy in the whole league. Well, not the dumbest. There are a couple thugs out there that better be thankful they can keep their balance while skating, because otherwise I don’t know what kind of job they would have been able to get. But given the caliber of players I’m normally grouped with, I’m probably the dumbest of the lot. Because I got played.

How this completely honest dude managed to fool me, to lie to me… It’s pathetic. Laughable. I’d liken it to a snow hare telling a lynx it was actually an elephant, and the lynx believing him. Tie Domi convincing you he’s an elite scorer. Marty Brodeur telling you he’s German. And a terrible goalie.

Mike can’t play card games. Poker? Bullshit? Not gonna happen because he wears his cards on his face. Couldn’t bluff if his life depended on it. You always know the moment he has a great hand. So how the hell did I get duped?

I wasn’t the only one lulled by success that season. The Wings, Avs, and Stars all sat atop their divisions, and who would’ve ever thunk they’d be toppled by Anaheim or Minnesota? The Stars went on a fervent tear the first half, but then began to slow, only showing up in the third period and managing to get the win on skill alone. Maybe that should have been a clue; experience tells you that will beats skill any day of the week. Barry Melrose too. That’s his favorite phrase during the post season.

I’m not one of those guys that doesn’t watch playoff hockey. So, of course, I watched the Stars fall to the Ducks. It’s not a masochistic thing. After a loss, I forget about the game. Wins too, unless it’s an especially notable game. Sport’s all about looking to the future—to the next season, the next game, the next play. You dwell on the past and you sink. So watching the hockey game was just that: watching hockey. And watching Mike play, I never would have guessed what would happen next.

Mike had a good season aside from its finish, so this last season was like a punch to the gut. Unexpected (because shouldn’t the first swing be to the face?), and knocking you down to your knees. Cruel almost, because he had plodded along so steadily, and I’d become accustomed to his even keel. Stuff like this wasn’t supposed to happen. Mike’s the kind of guy you rely on. I kept hoping it was just the beginning of the season—he always has slow starts. Takes him a while to lose whatever gut he’s acquired over the summer. Maybe it was the new responsibility, but surely the C couldn’t have been weighing that heavily already?

God dammit, aren’t you supposed to warn somebody before you go and just implode like that? How could he just lie to me that entire year, pretend everything was okay? There were signs, moments, when I knew that it was possible we’d drop all four to Anaheim. I wasn’t fucking blindsided—just frustrated and stonewalled by J.S. But he lied to me. He said he was okay. And then he just collapsed.

But I’ll take this. I’ll take one for all the things that I couldn’t take onto me, all the things I wished I could take, wished I could carry for him. I’ll call myself an idiot, the dumbest guy in the whole damn league. I’d rather be a fool than helpless. Useless.