I think back to when I was only four or five, living in Raytown, MO where my parents still live. We lived far enough out from the next town that our only neighbors were my cousins, who were seven and nine years older than me. My dad wasn't into hockey, and neither was the rest of my siblings, but my cousins were all in.

I couldn't really play close to their level because they were so much older than me. So my cousins would put me in the net and just use me as target practice. Calling it "playing goalie" would be too much of a stretch. That's how I first was introduced to hockey. Sometimes I would run home crying because I got hurt or something like that, but I would never stop. I would be back at their house the next day, ringing their doorbell and begging them to play with me.

After that, I had to know all I could about hockey. It was obvious to me that I had to play it. Our town was small enough that we had to drive a ways to see professional hockey, but my dad drove me over several times. I couldn't keep my eyes off the goalies. I'd watch them in warmups. I'd watch them during the games. One of my cousins had also become a goalie at this point, so I would sit and try on his gear. It was always too big for me, but trying on his glove and pretending to make saves was still the best.

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