Once the brightest rising star in American hockey, goalie Rick DiPietro is now struggling in the minors. Looking back for warning signs, a writer who knew him way back when still can't believe it never worked out.
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Thirteen years ago, Rick DiPietro was the hottest thing in American hockey. As a freshman, the Winthrop, Massachusetts native fast became the biggest man on Boston University's campus, having arrived by way of the U.S. National Development Team, a prestigious high-school-type program in Ann Arbor, Michigan, that looks to churn out our next great hockey pro much in the way that baseball-crazy Caribbean nations fund specialized academies for elite prospects. He was skilled, photogenic, a rising American star in a sport that could always use a few more. After just one season at BU, one that ended in a heart-breaking loss in the NCAA Tournament, he declared for the NHL Draft and the New York Islanders made him the first goalie ever taken No. 1 overall.
Now, at only 31, DiPietro may have already played his final game in the NHL. Two weeks ago, still smack in the middle of a 15-year, $67 million contract that's dogged him since he put ink to paper, DiPietro was waived by the New York Islanders and eventually sent away to their minor-league affiliate. He told a local TV reporter he felt the Islanders had "ripped my heart out, stabbed it, set it on fire and flushed it down the toilet." He struggled mightily in his first two starts in the minors, allowing 11 goals on 64 shots. It looks like a miserable coda (in all likelihood) to a professional sports career that once held limitless promise.
When I heard about DiPietro's demotion, I couldn't help but feel for him personally. My sophomore year was his freshman season, and as the hockey beat writer for the student paper, I spent more time with the team than almost anyone who wasn't actually on it. I'd call him in his dorm room. He'd chat with me after games. I wrote an extended profile of him, one that focused almost exclusively on the bravado and tenacity that made earned him the conference's Rookie of the Year Award. Some wünderkinds might wash out because they never really like playing that much in the first place, pushed into playing by overzealous parents and coaches because of their natural athleticism and skill. That wasn't Rick.
The end of DiPietro's career is not a surprise — the player I'd seen the last 12-plus years rarely matched with the one frozen within the sliver of my brain labeled "2000" — but the drama surrounding his demotion made me ponder the person I once knew (or thought I knew) and how he could have possibly arrived at this point.
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Stillness was not in Rick DiPietro's DNA. That was one fact any Boston University hockey fan learned quickly during the fall of 1999. He skated in, out, through, and around the crease as though he were avoiding a swarm of bees on the ice. DiPietro was a manic hockey player and everyone loved him for this. His trademark move was skating far beyond the crease and sweeping a long, unsuspecting pass down the ice and through the befuddled defense. (He had three assists on goals that season, outscoring several other players on his own team.) The BU fans also loved that he was a winner. He was the starter by Thanksgiving and slowly propelled the school up the poll rankings. By December, they were No. 7. By Valentine's Day, No. 2. Going into the NCAA Tournament, the Terriers were one of the heavies expected to advance the Frozen Four in Providence, a short car ride from BU's campus. All that stood in the team's way in the round of eight was little St. Lawrence University. Defeat them and BU would play rival Boston College for a spot in the national championship.
To this day, it stands as the longest hockey game in NCAA Tournament history. It started a couple of minutes after noon and ended just after 6 p.m. The game went into a fourth overtime, and there was little precedent for what we were witnessing. Whole injuries came and went — players disappeared to the locker room during the second OT and emerged in time to play the fourth. Instead of hopping over the boards after their shifts, the teams simply flopped exhaustedly over the wall and onto the bench. It felt as if a recording of real life were being played at half-speed, a video editor with his hand on the knob. Finally, a player named Robin Carruthers was able to slide a loose puck past DiPietro's pads not four minutes into the fourth OT. From high up in Albany's Pepsi Arena, the puck looked like a coffee bean bouncing on the ice. We were all a bit delirious from fatigue, even us scribes. When the puck crossed the line, I don't remember much cheering from anyone on either side.
