I knew it wasn’t good from the sound my cheek had made when it hit the dasher above the boards. I knew it wasn’t good because the referee had blown his whistle so quickly. I knew it wasn’t good because our trainer, John Wharton, had jumped over the boards right away to check on me.
I saw the blood on the ice, but I didn’t know the right side of my face was caved in.
My only thought was, O.K., this is a bad one. How many stitches?
I frigging love hockey the way liberals pretend to love science.