I journeyed to Miami, Florida in June of 1996. I loved hockey, and I wanted to be in attendance for the fourth game of the Stanley Cup finals, as the Florida Panthers hosted the Colorado Avalanche at Miami Arena.

Thus far, it had been an exciting series. The slightly favored Colorado team was ahead three games to none in the best-of-seven finals competition, but the final scores had been close. The two youthful teams, both aspiring to win their first Stanley Cup, matched up well with each other. However, Marc Crawford, the head coach of the Avalanche, was apprehensive about the fourth game because his back-up goaltender Craig Billington was not suited up. He was at home in bed. He had a bad case of the flu.

Crawford hoped that Patrick Roy (pronounced W-a-h), the team’s veteran All-star goalie, could finish the series without injury. Up to that point, Roy had been fabulous in both the regular season and the playoffs.

I had a front-row seat right behind the Colorado bench. I really enjoyed the hard checking and the great defensive play, by both teams, as they skated to a scoreless tie after three periods of regulation time and two periods of overtime.

Patrick Roy, my favorite player, had been spectacular in goal. He turned back over sixty of Florida’s shots on goal during the game. It was as if the Panthers’ players had tried to shoot into a net the size of a hockey puck. Roy routinely blocked one hard slap shot after another.

The contest was still scoreless with less than a minute played in the third overtime. Then the unthinkable happened to Marc Crawford and his hopeful Avalanche team. Roy bumped his left skate against the right post on the net as he was making yet another great save. The stalwart goaltender stubbed the big toe on his left foot.

In field sports, such an injury is called “turf toe.” In hockey, it must be called “ice toe.” Whatever it’s called, Roy couldn’t walk, let alone continue to dance in front of the net. He was finished for the evening.

Without an experienced backup goaltender, it appeared as though the “Avs” were destined to surrender a goal and lose the fourth game. Crawford was frantic. He turned to the crowd and saw me watching the action from behind the Colorado bench. I heard him say to a couple of his players, “Anybody who has the nerve to attend a sporting event dressed in a suit of armor—either that individual isn’t playing with a full deck or he’s got to be one-hell-of-a tough competitor.”

The desperate coach had few options. “Hey there, Sir . . . whoever you are! We’ve got an extra jersey, #13. Do you think that you could stand out there in front of our net and knock down that little puck every time it comes your way?”

“No problem! I’m on my way,” I said.

I put the colorful burgundy-and-white-and-blue Avalanche road uniform on over my full-armored suit. Then I pulled down the visor on my helmet and borrowed a hockey stick. There wasn’t an extra pair of skates, so I slid out on the ice in my steel boots. The game continued in front of some 16,000 restless and wondering Panthers’ fans.

About fifteen seconds later, following a pace-off in the Colorado zone, Florida’s right-winger Ray Sheppard broke into the open and took the puck straight in on me from the far right side of the rink. I calmly and strategically scooted out a few feet from the net, shrewdly shrinking the angle on his pending shot.

Sheppard faked a shot and skated a little to his left. He wanted to position himself directly in front of the net. But I didn’t bite on Sheppard’s fake. Instead I slid to my right and patiently waited for the skater’s next move.

The Panthers’ star player ran out of space to maneuver. Sheppard elected to wind up and uncoil his best slap shot. When he did, the coal-black hockey puck flew directly toward my head and at a speed in excess of a hundred miles per hour.

The rock-hard puck smacked me on the side of my metal visor and deflected off the right-side post of the net. Colorado’s All-star puck handler Peter Forsberg tapped the puck out from in front of the open net and slapped it out of the Avalanche’s zone. Forsberg’s defensive savvy saved me from giving up the winning goal.

The blow had flattened me. It took me a minute to gather my senses. Then I said, “What treachery befalls me and makes me momentarily depressed. Lord, how can I get excited and enthusiastically defend our goal?”

When God arrived, She was suited up in a Colorado Avalanche jersey, #1. Almost immediately, She slipped on the slick ice. The Lord crash-landed, hard, on Her hind quarters. I reached down and helped Her to get back up and on Her feet. God grimaced in pain and said, “Thank you, Wantsalittle! . . . If you can give someone only one gift, let it be enthusiasm. You can do more to persuade others and lead by example by the depth of your convictions and enthusiasm than by any other means. As Emerson wrote, ‘Every great and commanding moment in the annals of the world is the triumph of some enthusiasm.’”

God stopped talking for a moment. Once again, Her face reflected pain and She frowned in disgust. With Her right hand, the Lord reached around and rubbed a sore spot on Her right rump. Then God yelled out, a shrill tone in Her voice, “God dammit! I’m hurting. I likely bruised my butt when I fell on that damn, rock-hard, fu—e-r-r—freakin’ ice!”

I exclaimed, “Lord, I can’t believe my ears! You, God Almighty, of all people, using the Lord’s—e-r-r—Your name in vein! And the ‘dammit’ and the ‘damn’ and nearly the ‘f’ word! My God, my Lord, what have You got to say for Yourself?”

“Wantsalittle, I’m terribly sorry! It’s a good thing that I’m invisible and that nobody else in the building could see Me or hear Me. I don’t know what, exactly, possessed Me to use foul language like that. My assuming a human form, a clone of Jessica Simpson—well, I think that you people—you fallible human beings are beginning to rub off on Me. And please excuse My next expression: At times, you humanoids become a pain in My ass! Still, I’m thoroughly ashamed of Myself! Wantsalittle, from now on, try to do as I do, not always as I say, okay? That didn’t come out right, did it? Never mind! Wantsalittle, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I get the drift. Lord, this is another perfect example of ‘claiming your right to be wrong’ and ‘granting that right to others.’ God, I grant You the right to be wrong! Just make sure it doesn’t happen again, alright?”

“Wantsalittle, don’t get carried away with yourself! But, yes, you’re absolutely right about the ‘your right to be wrong and granting that right to others’ philosophy.” Suddenly God spun around, Her backside to me, and pulled Her hockey bottoms down, about halfway to Her knees. She wasn’t wearing any underwear! The Lord said, “Wantsalittle, it still hurts back there. Would you check to see if I have a big bruise?”

Happily, I complied with the Lord’s request. I wanted to take off my right steel glove and investigate the area—every square inch of the smooth, well-rounded, enticing surface, first hand. But I remembered God’s earlier threat of appearing before me as “Medusa,” so I quickly changed my mind! After I got an eye-full of the Lord’s adorable bare buttocks, I said, “No, there’s just a small reddish spot on Your right cheek from where You made hard contact with the ice. . . . Say, You’ve got a great caboo—”

God interrupted me. “Stop right there, Wantsalittle!” God exclaimed, still facing in the opposite direction. “As of late, you’ve really cleaned up your act with respect to your sexist attitude and your unnecessary, uncalled-for, sexist remarks. Please don’t regress in that important character area!”

“You’re right. I apologize!”

I really hated to see Her do it, but the Lord pulled up Her hockey pants. Then She turned back around and said, “Okay, Wantsalittle, where were we? . . . Oh, yeah—get full of enthusiasm. Enthusiasm is contagious. It is the spirit that spreads! As you think with feelings of enthusiasm, you will enjoy life and positively influence others by your bursts of excitement. What will you do to lift your spirits and reflect your enthusiastic nature?”

“Lord, it would be hard for me to get any more enthusiastic than I was just moments ago! Anyway, I’m going to make a big play and help the Colorado Avalanche to victory.”

“That’s the spirit, Wantsalittle. Good luck!” Then God slid across the ice and disappeared from my sight.

The Panthers were intent on spoiling the Avalanche’s chance to win the Stanley Cup in a four-game “sweep.” With a little more than two minutes into the third-overtime period, Ray Sheppard stole the puck near center-ice. He dashed, uncontested, toward me. Heavily armored, I tried my best to fulfill my role as Colorado’s fill-in goalie. Sheppard stopped just short of the net, wheeled completely around, and tapped the puck toward an open area on the left side of the net.

Sheppard had tricked me. I had gotten caught off balance and had leaned too far to my left, just before Sheppard had triggered his shot. Out of position and with virtually no chance to make the save, I instantly shifted my weight and dived to my right. I stretched out as far as I could in front of the net. I was spread out, belly first, on the ice. Then I lifted my head and saw the puck latched between the palm and folded fingers in my right iron glove. I had made the “save” on the play.

My teammates gathered all around me. Excited and happy, they took turns patting me on the back. I said to myself, “Sometimes, it’s fun being me!”

Enthusiasm radiated throughout the Colorado bench and warmed the ice-chilled, Miami Arena air. My heroic defensive effort ignited a spark among all of the Avalanche’s players. They were inspired by my tenacious “rookie” defensive efforts; collectively, my enthusiastic teammates picked up the pace.

Assisted by Joe Sakic, the Colorado Avalanche’s Uwe Krupp gathered the puck about thirty feet out from the Florida Panthers’ goal. After 104-plus minutes into the hotly contested game, Krupp wound up and sent a “one-timer” into the upper-right corner of the Panthers’ net. The puck whizzed just over the left shoulder of Florida’s goal-stingy net-minder John Van Biesbrouck. Krupp’s fast, hard, slap shot promptly ended the game.

Hundreds of fans from Colorado, also in attendance, clapped and cheered with their approval. To a person, the Avalanche’s players all stood tall and roared in the aftermath of their multiple-overtime victory. In a hard fought battle by both sides, the Colorado Avalanche defeated the Florida Panthers 1-0 to win hockey’s most coveted award—the prestigious Stanley Cup Trophy.

After the game, several of the jubilant Avalanche players hoisted me up and carried me off the ice. Then our entire team proudly raised our well-deserved, magnificent trophy high over our heads. The appreciative crowd roared and the celebration began.

(The moral of this episode: If you can give someone only one gift, let it be “enthusiasm”!)

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