Well, I did it anyways.
…and, I’m glad I did.
It wasn’t some elaborate ordeal. In my mind, I’d built it up to be so much more than it would, or could, be. I think that’s where people struggle with such things. They harbor unrealistic expectations of what an encounter like this should be. I’d envisioned having the charisma of offering to buy him a beer or two, just to listen to the stories he could tell, helping me to relive my childhood memories of watching him play, but through his own eyes, first hand. I wanted to ask if the stories I’d heard about him, like drinking two beers before every game to calm his nerves, were true. I could’ve, but I didn’t.
It’s such an impersonal thing, these public autograph signings. One by one, items are signed, photographs and selfies are taken, and then they’re on to the next paying customer. Red marker for this item, silver paint pen for that, and the iconic black Sharpie for most items.
In that moment, you’re so fixated on what’s happening, getting your items signed, or your perfect picture taken, that you aren’t thinking about all of the questions you want answers to. You’re simply living in the moment, somewhat in awe. There’s a beautiful innocence and honesty to it all.
25 years after Mike Vernon was traded to Detroit from Calgary in exchange for defenseman Steve Chaisson, I was finally able to meet the man that inspired me not only to be a goalie, but to play hockey in general. His tenacious, feisty persona was wholly indicative of an individual having had a life long battle of being small in stature, and standing a mere 5′ 7″ tall, who could blame him?
He took absolutely no shit from anybody, regardless of how much bigger, or badder they were, or seemed. He never backed down, even when that put him toe-to-toe with arguably one of the greatest goaltenders of all time in a knuckle chucking blood-fest that saw him come out on top, quite literally, regardless of him having a height discrepancy of more than half a foot.
I admired that.
On top of his physicality, he was an absolutely underrated wealth of talent, serving as part of the NHL record setting goaltending duo that still holds the title for most wins in a regular season. Then, in 1997, he helped Detroit to their first Stanley Cup in nearly 50 years, his second Cup, and winning playoff MVP honors in the process after sweeping the Philadelphia Flyers.
As a 13, nearly 14, year old kid living through it, I would never be the same. My best friend at the time, Dave, and I celebrated their Stanley Cup win by shaking up 2-Liter bottles of Mountain Dew, and spraying one another with them in his driveway as if we were in that locker room as a part of their celebration.
Leading up to that moment, I’d rush into baseball card shops whenever I could find a ride, scraping together money through performing chores or whatever other odds and ends I could handle, likely violating a few child labor laws in the process. I’d find myself buying up any and everything with Vernon’s likeness, from cards to Starting Lineup figurines, to posters and anything in between. For my thirteenth birthday, my parents had surprised me with a 100% authentic Mike Vernon home jersey. I was floored. It was about a million sizes too big, but I’m grateful for that as it allowed me to continue wearing it well into adulthood, finally retiring it about 20 years later after the final game at Joe Louis Arena, where Mike Vernon was in attendance at the closing ceremonies, introduced to a raucous roar of applause from a crowd of over 20,000. I was so elated to see him step onto that “Joe” ice again, my voice cracked amidst my screaming, emotion that bordered on fanaticism had taken over. Suddenly, I was 13 again.
Today, I met Mike Vernon.
Me: Approaching the table- “Mike, I think I have something here that nobody else will have. This is a ticket stub from your first NHL game.”
I slid him an original ticket stub, front row, from his first NHL start, December 12, 1982, ironically against the same Detroit Red Wings that he would backstop to a Stanley Cup 15 years later.
MV: “Holy crimeny, that was a long time ago, eh? 1982. Yep. I got pulled in that game. I think Ogrodnick scored twice on me in that one… John Ogrodnick…” His smile shone brightly, as he was clearly reliving a moment from his past.
Me: “Johnny O, what a talent.”
MV: Continuing to look at the stub, talking to the assistants- “Wow, $12.50! How times have changed, eh?” Looking back at me, “Were you at that game?”
Me: “Oh, no sir, I wasn’t born yet. I had to track this thing down.”
MV: “I can’t imagine there’s many of those left.”
As he went on to sign my jersey, I mentioned that I’d received it as a gift for my thirteenth birthday, “Oh, my,” he responded, like a parent acknowledging a toddler. Not disingenuously, mind you, but more so in a manner that said he wasn’t really sure what else to say.
He signed my game used stick, and then I piped up again.
Me: “Alright, now I think I might have the strangest thing you’ll sign all day.”
I began rolling up the left sleeve to my black Under Armour polo shirt…
Me: “I have a tattoo of your original Detroit mask,” I beamed
MV: “Well look at that…”
Me: “I’d like you to sign it.”
MV: “You’re kidding!”
Me: “Nope, I’m dead serious. I have an appointment at 9PM to get it tattooed on.”
MV: “Weird, are you sure about this?” His voice resembling that of a concerned father.
Me: “Absolutely.”
Seeing the sincerity in my face, he smiled, “Ok!”
There was some discussion amongst he and the assistants about what to use; Fine tip, bold, what color… we all agreed that a standard Sharpie would likely be the best option to avoid fading before I could find my way to my appointment.
I helped stretch the skin to ensure as much of a taunt surface as possible, and right beside the tattoo likeness of his original Red Wings goalie mask on the head of my bicep he signed his name, along with his iconic number 29.
Granted, it was a marker onto flesh, leaving it even more illegible than his normal signatures, but it was his, and it indicated that he’d personally seen the level of illogical, almost unhealthy appreciation, bordering on obsession, that I’d had for him.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but amidst him signing my arm, people were apparently surrounding us, snapping pictures, immortalizing my moment in their camera rolls. A bit humbling, I guess, but perhaps they needed photographic proof of just how crazy I was.
As we left, I had my ticket stub officially authenticated by Beckett Authentication Services, the representative noting in the description that it was a ticket stub from his NHL debut, along with the date. I began to gather myself to leave, and as I did, fan after fan that had watched what transpired, wanted to see my tattoo, and his signature. In those moments, I almost became the main attraction.
Perhaps they were impressed, but I’d like to think they felt pity for me. Let’s be realistic, I had another grown man write his name on me, and I was just crazy enough to plan to have it permanently embedded into my skin. If that doesn’t border on lunacy, I guess I don’t know what does.
Regardless, I wouldn’t back down from my plan.
So here I am, not even twelve hours later, with my arm wrapped in cellophane to assist with the initial healing. The signature, exactly as he signed it, begins to heal, along with the little bit of red that my artist had touched up a bit.
Due to scarring, and a still healing process, the remainder of the tattoo, along with its white fill, will have to wait a bit longer…
Until then, I’ll ride the high of meeting my childhood hero.
It wasn’t so bad, regardless of what anybody says…
From the desk of Dave Foster 