The first time I put on skates, I was nine years old. I took two steps and fell right on my ass. Somebody yelled at me to get out of the path, since the newly-built ice rink at the Fish Hawk Rec Center was pushing capacity and I was in the way. The rink was the first new facility built there in ten years at the time.

I wobbled back over to the bench where my Dad was sitting with my sister, brother and our stuff. I sat down and started pulling at the laces. Dad looked up from tying Joey's skates and just said, "Quittin', Dan?"

He used to say that there's no shame in being a quitter except the shame you assign to yourself. If you gave it all you've got and did all you can, sometimes you have to quit. But if you haven't done that, have you really even started?

So I said "NO!", re-tied the lace I'd just gotten loose, and stomped out onto the floor.

I slipped, getting out, and fell on my face. I busted my lip on the ice. It made me mad. I've never taken bleeding out there well. I got up, realized that the crowd was too thick to skate right back to the gate, and had to skate all the way back around.

It was a slow shuffle, but I eventually made it back to the gate. It took multiple laps, on account of there being so many people, and by the time I was able to get back to my Dad, I had found a rhythm. He didn't comment on my bloody lip or the spots on the front of my hoodie. Nicole did, and she was the one who told Mom when we got home.

On our way out of the rink, a guy stopped us. He introduced himself as the youth hockey coach, handed me a flyer, and asked if I'd ever considered playing. I said "No," and he said, "Well you've got the basics down, it looked like. Skate, get back up, and keep working until there's an opening. You look like a hockey player to me."

I was sold, and the rest is history.