Paul Coffey was on the commish’s radio show yesterday and it reminded me of yet another one of my dumb stories, as Coffey always does.
Not sure if it was the ‘83 or ‘84 Cup finals at Nassau Coliseum. My softball season had already begun, and in the opener, I stumbled coming out of the batter’s box, fell and broke my wrist. Naturally, that was cause for much mockery from my teammates—me going down about two steps toward first base, sliding head-first, and wrecking my season in the first inning.
Anyway, I was back at work pretty quickly with one of those removable casts with the velcro, and a tape recorder, since I couldn’t write. It was postgame and I’m standing right next to Coffey’s locker with a large group of writers. I put my bad arm up toward the top of the side of his locker just to get it out of the way, while I held the recorder in my left.
Well, Coffey’s agitated about something or other, and as he’s snapping at questions, I decided to move for some reason. Only the velcro on my wrist had grabbed the velcro on his shoulder pads up on top of his locker, and now the shoulder pads were pulling pretty much everything—his helmet, pads, even a skate, I think, down on top of Coffey. He wasn’t happy.