A scar is born. In the NHL, each one tells a story

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 08/01/2022 (1706 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

It’s hard not to think about the many scars that adorn my face. After all, I look at them every morning in the mirror. Most often it’s a passing glance, but there are moments when specific memories are triggered.

The actual number of stitches is hard to determine — inside, outside, “about 10” from some doctors — but it’s safe to say the total from my playing days is well north of 200. Three times it was about 50, so I’m probably being conservative.

Flying into Winnipeg to work this past week, it was minus-26 C when we landed, reminding me of a day with that exact same temperature at the same airport more than 30 years prior.

It was just after Christmas in 1990, with the Boston Bruins to play the Jets. I picked up my biggest scar that evening (60-something stitches?) and the saga didn’t end until several hours later — in a different city.

Early in the first period, the Jets’ Eddie Olczyk circled behind his net with the puck under full siege by our forecheck. I was posted at the top of the circles with a defender between Eddie and me, limiting my sightline. He unexpectedly wound up for a full slapshot to try to ease the pressure. Not having seen the wind-up, I stepped into the line of fire and caught the puck fully on the right side of my chin, which cracked immediately.

In shock as the puck dropped to my feet, I actually shot it toward the net. I can still remember goalie Bob Essensa’s look of amazement that I was even standing. Skating to the bench, teammates were looking down or away; apparently I wasn’t a pleasant sight.

It didn’t take long for the excellent medical team in Winnipeg to determine two things: that my jaw was badly fractured, and that if I stayed to get it fixed I’d be there for at least a couple of weeks. Their advice was to jump on the team charter, which was heading to Minnesota for a game the next night against the North Stars, and connect back to Boston the following morning for repairs. They quickly whisked me to the airport, where I had to walk across the tarmac in — you guessed it — minus-26 C weather. So … my teeth were chattering in the cold, not good when one has a displaced jaw.

Home in Boston the next evening post-surgery — which included wiring both vertically and horizontally and a couple of screws in the bone — Dr. Kelly, our maxillofacial specialist, stopped by. “It cleaned up nicely,” the doc said. “Took about 60 to close things up, but we pulled it together and it shouldn’t change things too much.” What a ringing endorsement. He apparently knew that hockey players always ask, “How many?”

My first major sewing came at the hands of a true craftsman: Dr. Everett Borghesani, an oral surgeon and one of the Flyers’ first medical hires. That was great foresight by someone, likely owner Ed Snider, given the team’s pugilistic future.

It was my first time meeting Everett, in my fifth career game and our final playoff game in 1983 at Madison Square Garden. An undrafted college player who had just joined the team after a season in Sweden, I had very unwisely accepted a challenge to fight after I may have used my stick a little too liberally after a faceoff. Having been in college in Indiana — where hockey was hard to find on the small screen — before crossing the big pond to continue playing, I had no idea who most of the players in the league even were. Apparently I chose the wrong one to engage.

Ranger Ron Duguay, movie star looks and flowing hair aside, unloaded a right hand that ended things quickly at the expense of my left eyebrow, which exploded. Hence my horizontal position to meet the good doctor. Everett was very chatty and engaging while working away patiently. He smiled at me afterward and said, “About 40, probably a few more. Needed a lot of work inside. I know you’re going to ask.”

Other notable memories include a bad week at the office in March of 1990:

• On a Thursday against Winnipeg, an errant Phil Sykes stick (no penalty on the play!) sliced my lower lip to the tune of 20-plus stitches. A true fat lip. On steroids.

• Two days later, while hosting the L.A. Kings, Steve Duchesne’s lumber navigated over said fat lip and sheared my two front teeth in half, while also nicking the top lip for a couple of stitches. Once again, no penalty on the play.

• At Monday’s practice, teammate Dave Christian managed to break my nose in four places with the backswing on a slapshot. Huge fat lip, two sheared front teeth and a broken nose resulting in two black eyes. I was a sight. I put a visor on that week in self-preservation mode and never stopped wearing one, which I’m sure saved me a few more stitches along the way.

There were others. An altercation with Ranger James Patrick that opened up a matching souvenir for a multiple number over my right eye. An errant Jeff Chychrun pass that sliced my upper lip nicely during camp. A number of small, inconvenient stitches that would add to the mosaic: “Can’t you just glue it, doc?”

I’ve always maintained that I should have a shaving endorsement. If you can shave over this face, you’re good.

And very often at some point you smile, looking at a scar, and a story comes to mind.

Dave Poulin is a former NHL player, executive and TSN hockey analyst based in Toronto. He is a freelance contributing columnist for the Star. Follow him on Twitter: @djpoulin20