JiveSync

Twenty-five years later, my brain cannot make up its mind.

Perhaps it was after Midnight Madness, Boston University’s tradition of holding its first practice of the season. Maybe it was after one of their usual exhibition games against a Canadian university. I don’t even remember the question I asked.

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But today, I can see the smile on Travis Roy’s face and hear the joy in his voice as he told me the following: “It’s an absolute dream.”

As a freshman reporter for BU’s student newspaper, I had asked Travis, deducing from his answer, what it was like to be on the ice as a Terrier. He loved it.

Most of the world knew Travis as a consequence of what happened about a week later. I had a glimpse of his life before he became unwillingly but unflinchingly famous. He was like a lot of wide-eyed college freshmen: young, strong, full of dreams about what was to come.

Dan Ronan remembers all of this.

Ronan, a Woburn native, was a fellow freshman. There were four other hockey players in their Shelton Hall dorm. Scott King, son of Dave King, practically Canadian hockey royalty. Michel Larocque, a New Brunswick native who, as Ronan recalled snidely, could barely speak English. Two city kids in Brendan Walsh and Albie O’Connell, whose current professions as Boston police officer and BU head coach would have been laughable concepts when they first reported to Comm. Ave.

Among this mismatched collection, it wasn’t hard for the preppy kid from Maine, one who turned down Shawn Walsh and the University of Maine for Jack Parker and BU, to stand out.

“We’re all older. We all think we’re pretty cool,” Ronan recalled. “None of us had our parents with us. Travis comes in with his parents and sister. They’re unpacking his bag. We’re all sitting there thinking, ‘Who is this kid?’ ”

Of course, nobody knew what would happen next. I didn’t even see it, even though I had a bird’s-eye view.

The press box at Walter Brown is above one end of the rink. That end happened to be the one in which Travis fell headfirst. I was in the press box that night on Oct. 20, 1995, starting my career above the rink just as Travis was beginning his on the ice.

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Instead of watching the action, I was looking at the BU bench. Chris O’Sullivan had just scored the first goal against North Dakota. Parker was giving O’Sullivan the business for hot-dogging his celebration.

The next thing I knew, Travis was on his stomach, arms out at his side. He had missed his check, tumbled into the boards and broken his C-4 vertebra. He never moved — not when the medical staff came to his side, not when parents Lee and Brenda walked onto the ice, not when he was placed on a stretcher and taken to Boston City Hospital.

Neither Parker nor the players talked after the game. It must have been the following day that BU hosted a press conference at BCH to disclose Travis’ condition: paralyzed and fighting for his life. It wasn’t good.

In the following days, BU hosted a vigil for Roy at Marsh Chapel. All of his teammates attended. I remember interviewing the Marsh Chapel dean. His name escapes me.

Some other names come back instantly. Mitch Vig, the player Travis tried to hit. Tony Schepsis, BU’s team doctor. Maija Langeland, Travis’ girlfriend. Images, too, like of Jay Pandolfo, then the BU captain and now a Bruins assistant, skating away from a handshake line with Travis’ No. 24 jersey on a hanger after every game.

Ronan remembers how he had barely gotten to know Travis before the accident. By the time of his friend’s death, Ronan had become familiar with just about every part of his life — how committed Travis was to being his groomsman, the things they’d talk about during visits at BU, the purpose with which Lee and Brenda cared for their son.

Ronan even knew about Travis’ vulnerabilities. Publicly, he was known as an accomplished motivational speaker. Off the stage, Travis was human, tired of his wheelchair. It’s what gave his life story arc and roundness. Travis did not lead a Disney existence.

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“My senior year at BU was horrible. It was the first bad year we had in forever,” Ronan said. “Talking to him, he was like, ‘I’m so glad you guys are done.’ Because in his head, then he was done. Then when I finished playing in the minors or when Larocque finished playing with Chicago, he was like, ‘I’m so glad you guys are done.’ He had a lot of thoughts going through his head. He wanted to be a dad, a husband. As much as we celebrated those life events, there was a little piece inside of me that was sad for him. I could see it in his eyes. He wouldn’t say it. But I could see in his eyes what he was thinking. Those were things he wanted. That stuff was the hardest part for him. But the foundation gave him a ton of purpose. There were so many people around him that cared for him. The foundation became his kid, his passion.”

Throughout their friendship, in person or on the phone, Travis regularly told Ronan he loved him. Ronan waved him off.

In the end, Travis broke through.

“He’d say, ‘I’ll get you to say it. Someday you’re going to say it,’” Ronan recalled. “In our conversations the last couple weeks, that’s what I said.”

Fellow spinal cord patients like Matt Brown, the former Norwood High School hockey player, view Travis as an inspiration. Ronan remembers him as one of his best friends. I see Travis like I did on that good night 25 years ago when we first spoke: vibrant, lively, eager to take on life.

He certainly did.

(Photo of Roy with the Beanpot-winning 1998 BU team: Jim Davis / The Boston Globe via Getty Images)

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