Companions in Courage

by Pat LaFontaine

  After a winter of rehabilitation in Florida, Vladdie returned home in May 1998. His recovery time was spent playing chess, watching cartoons with his daughter, Anastasia, and playing tic-tac-toe with the kids in the neighborhood. On his better days he sat in a wheelchair, put a hockey stick in his stronger arm, and played in the driveway. And how touching is this? Anastasia would often ask her dad how to spell a word for her homework. She knew how to spell. She was just trying to help him recover his memory. Children are incredible. I myself remember how my kids helped me through my struggles and what wonderful and bright-eyed cheerleaders they can be.

  The Konstantinovs’ positive attitude does not leave room for bitterness. When asked about the limo driver, Irina says, “He is justice’s business. A lot of people laugh at me, but I believe in justice in this country.” They have balanced faith, hope, and the gratifying support and love from Vladdie’s fans.

  The driver, Rich Gnida, was sentenced to nine months in jail, fifteen months of probation, and two hundred hours of community service for driving with a suspended license. He later got hit with a ninety-day sentence for violating probation. But let’s not talk about this part of the story anymore. Let me take you to Joe Louis Arena for the start of the 1997–98 season. It’s October and time to celebrate the Stanley Cup victory one last time.

  The opening ceremonies included the lowering of seven banners, slowly falling from the rafters. Each represented a Stanley Cup won by the Red Wings in their long and distinguished history. The crowd went wild. An eighth banner was in a box at center ice with the winged wheel emblem. The players were introduced one by one. Next, the names of the two men not present, Vladimir Konstantinov and Sergei Mnatsakanov, were flashed on the scoreboard. Former winger Mickey Redmond announced, “We know that Vladdie and Sergei are watching tonight. From all of us to all of you, come back soon. We love you. We believe.”

  Irina Konstantinov and Yelena Mnatsakanov took the ice to represent their husbands. The box was opened, and Steve Yzerman skated away with the Stanley Cup as the eighth Stanley Cup banner sailed toward the rafters. The seeds of a repeat were planted.

  With the Wings deep in the 1998 playoffs and leading Dallas two games to one, Vladdie made his first appearance in Joe Louis Arena. Before the game, Irina recalled, “He shook everybody’s hand in the locker room. I don’t think he had any trouble recognizing everyone.” The 20,000-plus fans greeted him with an overwhelming ovation. Just a few days later, on June 17, 1998, the Red Wings won the Cup again. As soon as possible they brought the Cup to Konstantinov. Kris Draper poured some bubbly in it and said to Vladdie, “Do you want a sip?” Konstantinov glowed with pride and appreciation. Draper and Chris Osgood went to his wheelchair and tipped the Cup to share the victory. A few seconds later Igor Larionov broke out with “We are the champions, we are the champions.” Two days later, more than a million fans celebrated with a victory parade down Woodward Avenue. Konstantinov and Mnatsakanov rode together. The cheers were so loud and inspirational that Konstantinov, with the help of Fetisov and trainer John Wharton, left his wheelchair and walked a few feet across the platform, the first public view of his determined recovery.

  Wharton spoke to the fans. “I don’t think anyone has to be reminded where this group of guys was one year ago today. A team that’s used to sharing a dressing room and sharing good times was sharing a waiting room at Beaumont Hospital. And while we shared that waiting room, we shared with you the belief, the faith, and hope that our two friends Sergei and Vladdie would recover. And because of you and your faith and your belief, this team found the strength to do the same.”

  Vladimir Konstantinov can walk with assistance but uses a wheelchair frequently. He pops in a few times a year to see the Red Wings and remembers the older players. He still has problems with short-term memory. Sergei Mnatsakanov recovered full use of his mental faculties, but his legs and one arm are paralyzed. He gets around in a wheel-chair. He had hoped to return to his career but has been unable to do so. He too takes in a few Red Wings games each season. When the two men show up, they provide a tremendous lift because of their dignity and commitment to healing their bodies and minds, but they try not to call attention to themselves.

  Sergei, Vladdie, all of the Red Wings, and their great fans proved something to me. We’re not in this alone, no matter how great the struggle. We all have fans to cheer us on, if only we make ourselves able to hear them. We are not forgotten in our times of despair or suffering.

  Strength, support, and love are all around. That’s what ennobles us and enables us to reach for the stars.

  39

  Super Mario,

  Super Stars,

  Super People

  I first heard of Mario Lemieux in 1982, at the start of my first and only season in junior hockey. He and Sylvain Turgeon were the two names that kept coming up as I ventured from the United States into Canada to play for Verdun, just five minutes from Montreal.

  Mario played for Laval, and we engaged in quite a duel for the scoring title, a duel I would ultimately win. My club went on to win the championship (played at the Montreal Forum, no less) and I was named Junior Player of the Year.

  Mario became the first player selected in the draft and went on to a brilliant career with the Pittsburgh Penguins. Ten years after we went head-to-head for the scoring title in juniors, we matched up again in the NHL, and Mario topped me. If all we had to consider were his achievements on the ice, I would still admire him.

  But Mario succeeded because he did not let injuries drive him out of the game and because he had the guts to conquer Hodgkin’s disease. When he beat me out for that NHL scoring title, he had just returned from an absence caused by cancer. Now what kind of strength does something like that take?

  Mario’s abilities helped save hockey in Pittsburgh, and his business savvy saved it again. My old friend and competitor owns the Penguins, having stepped in to buy a money-losing franchise and keep it from moving to another city. Mario did not grow up in Pittsburgh, but I’d call him a hometown hero. He combines heart, brains, and dedication. He was never a fighter on the ice, but he’s a warrior in life.

  To me, that’s uplifting on every level. We set our goals and dream our dreams, but we cannot know how treacherous a path we must navigate. We never know how much strength we will need or where we will find it until we really look inside. That’s what makes Mario Lemieux a Companion in Courage. Here is a professional athlete who is to be admired for the way he performed in his sport and how he conducted himself and triumphed over ill health.

  So many fine athletes achieve similar greatness away from their particular game and leave me moved by their grace, their determination, their dignity. I’m awed by the way they marshal their inner forces and refuse to bow to pain or disease. Even though I’m sharing the stories of less well-known people with you, I do want to take a moment to acknowledge some of the great names in sports. They too are Companions in Courage. You probably already know about their struggles, but I want to salute them just the same.

  I’m thinking of folks like Andres Galarraga. The Atlanta Braves missed him as he sought to recover from cancer, but he came back in 2000 with that same old smile. He swung the bat just like he had never been away, and you could see that the joy in him had never left.

  I’m thinking of Ernie Irvan. Here is a man who nearly died in an auto racing accident at the Michigan Speedway in 1994 and yet returned to win again. He closed out his thirteen-year career on that very same track in 1997, winning in his final race. After spending most of his forty years around racing, Ernie really didn’t want to quit. But he knew the time had come. “I have two kids and a wife that mean a lot to me. The doctors told me that if I was able to drive my daughter to school that it was going to be a very pleasurable moment,” he said. “This is something that I treasure.”

  I tip my cap to Alberto Salazar, the fine distance runner. Eight years after a disappointing fifteenth-place finish in the marathon in the 1984 Olympics, he c
ame back to compete again for a place on the 1992 U.S. team. He changed his running style and his personal style, welcoming God and spirituality into his life while chasing out bitterness and frustration.

  Maybe you don’t know about Kevin Glover, the longtime center for the Detroit Lions and Seattle Seahawks. Back surgery could have ended his career, but he saved it by dedicating himself to, of all things, swimming. Fifteen NFL seasons, more than two hundred games, three trips to the Pro Bowl. And yet his teammates found more to respect in the bravery and intensity of Kevin Glover’s efforts to return. All they had to do was watch him walk. “It’s incredible that he’s come back from that kind of injury,” said Seahawks guard Pete Kendall. “You look at the scar and you just shake your head.”

  Scars? Monica Seles bears scars. As if defeating an opponent on the tennis court doesn’t take enough concentration and energy, she had to overcome the stab wounds inflicted during a match by a knife-wielding “fan.” Imagine the courage it took just to get back on the court. Flesh wounds close. Psychic wounds often require a greater strength, and I’m a Monica Seles fan because of her inner toughness. Same for Jennifer Capriati, who lost her way but managed to deal with her personal problems and make it back to the tennis tour. I’m also very moved by the plight of Chinese gymnast Sang Lan, paralyzed below the middle of her chest at the age of seventeen in 1998 after a fall during warmups for the Goodwill Games in New York. The attending physician, Dr. Vincent Leone, had himself been a high school gymnast. In comforting his young patient, he mentioned he had injured his back in his pursuit of excelling in the sport and decided to become a doctor. She told him, “Then I’ll be a doctor too.”

  I could go on forever. Lance Armstrong beat testicular cancer, then defeated the best cyclists in the world to win the Tour de France—twice. He observed, “If I never had cancer, I never would have won the Tour de France. I wouldn’t want to go through that again. But I wouldn’t change what happened to me.” Lance emerged stronger and showed us all that a killer disease can be turned inside out. Scott Hamilton also survived testicular cancer. The gold medal winner in figure skating at the 1984 Olympics, he now runs a program called CARES (Cancer Alliance for Research, Education and Survivorship). “My dream in my lifetime is that cancer no longer exists,” he said.

  I remember Houston Astros manager Larry Dierker suffering a seizure on the field in 1999. I had my TV on and watched in disbelief as his athletic body flailed uncontrollably in front of a shocked, silent crowd of 39,773. It took twenty minutes to bring him under control. Finally he lay quietly enough to be strapped onto a stretcher and rolled into a waiting ambulance. The crowd and Larry’s players watched as he was taken from the field. He had a blood clot in his brain. Surgeons did their job well, and Larry Dierker returned to do his well too—in a month. “Having received so many cards and letters, knowing that people all over the world were praying for me, making donations in my name to charities, such a massive show of support made me realize how important what we do is to others,” he observed. “I have a new appreciation for the precious things in life. This is the most important thing that has ever happened to me in life. I am blessed.”

  Aren’t we all, even if at times it seems we are cursed? We don’t win our wars without a struggle, and we don’t always emerge unscathed. But we’re here, alive, in this world, and we need to take all the good we can from that, even as we prepare to give back.

  I think of jockey Chris Antley, beset by weight and drug problems, turning himself back into a well-conditioned athlete and winning the Kentucky Derby. I think of golfer Muffin Spencer-Devlin, fighting on many fronts against drugs, depression, and bipolar disorder, and surviving to help others find the proper treatment.

  Sean Elliott. Here’s a basketball player who needed a kidney transplant and returned to play in the NBA. And Roger Neilson, coach of the Philadelphia Flyers, who refuses to let cancer keep him from trying to get back behind the bench. Paul Stewart, a tough American in love with hockey, who made it both as a player and an NHL referee while defeating cancer. Cris Carter, whose NFL career nearly ended because of drugs, and whose spirituality and rebirth enabled him to ultimately become one of the finest receivers to ever wear an NFL uniform.

  Few lives unwind untouched by difficulties and pain. We must face and fight what fate puts in our path if we’re to get to the place we want to be. Isn’t it just a little easier when we know that others have preceded us and we can profit by their example?

  40

  Gail Devers

  As Gail Devers placed her feet into the blocks at the 1988 Seoul Olympics, her heart raced out of control.

  But not because she was pumped for the start of the race. Here she was at the Olympics, with the whole world watching, and her life seemed like a nightmare. Her mental and physical strength kept ebbing away, other symptoms manifested themselves, and no one, least of all Gail, had any answers.

  Some questioned her sanity; others wondered if drugs were her problem. She heard the whispers about whether she was starving herself with an eating disorder. Gail weighed a mere eighty-nine pounds and her hair had started to fall out. Her face turned an ashen gray. She felt increasingly desperate, even suicidal.

  Gail had always been able to overcome her inner demons by pushing herself; this time she drove herself beyond all reason. Up until 1987 she had enjoyed good health, becoming a nationally ranked runner on the UCLA track team. The first signs of a problem occurred when her trademark fingernails began to break for no apparent reason. When her eyes started to bulge, her weight began to fluctuate, and her heart rate became erratic, her confidence turned to confusion and concern. Because she had set the world record in the 100-meter hurdles, her expectations, along with everyone else’s, were high as she tried her best to focus on getting off to a good start that day in Seoul. But she was an emotional and physical wreck as the race began, and she ran nowhere near her best.

  The “Alligator Woman,” as she now called herself, returned home—terrified, depressed, and suicidally reclusive. Her coach, Bob Kersee, tried every conceivable diet to help his star athlete recover, but she continued to waste away. She stopped looking in the mirror because she was horrified at the sight of her scaly skin and bulging eyes. Gail didn’t know it but she had what is called Graves’ disease— an overactive thyroid. Gail felt a little better one day, so she decided to attend a UCLA track practice instead of staying in seclusion. Carol Otis, the UCLA team physician, almost fell over when she saw Devers. She told her she needed to have her thyroid checked immediately.

  One visit to a specialist later, Devers began treatment. She began to take radioactive iodine to shut down her over-active thyroid and synthetic hormones to replace what the iodine destroyed. Gradually she began to recover, but not without a very frightening episode.

  At one point, with her feet swollen almost beyond recognition, doctors told her they were contemplating amputation. Could there be a crueler irony for a track star? She refused to even consider it. In her own words, “I reached down inside myself, to find the inner strength to survive and run again.”

  In what seemed like an eternity, Gail Devers moved from a wheelchair to crutches and back to her feet. Her faith in God and the loving support of her family and friends enabled her to get her life back and return to the track. She made the U.S. Olympic track team and won the gold medal in the 100-meter sprint at the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. She also ran in the 1996 Olympics, where she won golds in the 100-meter sprint and the 4-by-100 relay, and ran the 100-meter hurdles at the 2000 Olympics in Sydney.

  “Everyone has obstacles to overcome. No matter how hopeless things may seem, never give up on yourself,” she says.

  On August 29, 1999, the thirty-two-year-old Devers set a new American record in the 100-meter hurdles at the World Championships in Seville, Spain. Her time of 12.37 was the fastest in the world in seven years.

  The “Alligator Woman,” who wanted to die because she was losing her athletic body and mind, survived despair b
ecause a champion’s heart beat within her.

  41

  Jon Brianas

  The winter wind coming off the Severn River in Annapolis, Maryland, puts a bite on the heart and soul, not to mention the flesh. It’s one more test the lacrosse players at the United States Naval Academy must face as they prepare for their season.

  Jon Brianas knew that all too well. He had gone to high school in Annapolis before gaining his appointment to the academy. As a senior in 2000, and as a team captain, he felt he could not shirk the responsibility of leading his team-mates in their stretching exercises on the banks of the Severn.

  He couldn’t do it every day. It’s one thing to fight that wind. It’s another to struggle against a recurrence of testicular cancer.

  Some days the weather and his fatigue just conspired against him. Other times, Brianas got out there in front of his teammates and amazed and awed them with his determination.

  “Seeing him do that made us practice and play so much harder,” said teammate Chad Donnelly, a defenseman. “He is our captain. We would follow him anywhere.”

  During the spring of his junior year, Brianas had seen triumph fade into the gloom of illness. On April 3, 1999, he scored twice in a 12–11 overtime victory over Georgetown that clinched an NCAA tournament bid for Navy. Later, he told his roommates he had found a lump on one of his testicles. After a few jokes and some nervous laughter, Brianas saw a doctor. Surgery immediately followed, and he was expected to remain cancer-free.

  He didn’t tell many people about the operation, and he missed only two games. Then, in the NCAA tournament, he tore a ligament in his left knee and needed more surgery. Just before Thanksgiving, while playing football, he tore a ligament in his right knee. That injury might have been a blessing, for as he underwent presurgical blood tests, doctors found he had a low red blood cell count.