When Michael Schwass broke his neck on December 3rd, 1975, our season could have ended right there in that corner of the rink. Twenty-seven young men — most of us 17 and 18 years old — could have folded. Instead, something shifted. We stopped playing for wins. We started playing for Stosh.

Coach Jim Meyer planted this seed in our locker room after the injury. He didn't give us a tactical speech. He gave us a reason. From that moment on, every skate, every hit, every save had Stosh's name on it. The scoreboard was secondary. The mission was not.

Ask your team: If everything we've built together were wiped away tomorrow, what would we have been fighting for? Write that answer somewhere everyone can see it. Then make every decision in light of it.

Coach Meyer made an unusual decision our senior year. He named four alternate captains — me, Michael Schwass, Tony Salemi, and Don Hitzel — instead of one captain. He made each of us equal in leadership.

A goalie as a captain was almost unheard of. But Coach Meyer understood something most coaches miss: leadership multiplies when it isn't hoarded. When Michael went down, there was no void at the top — because three others were already ready, already trusted, already known by the team. The brotherhood held.

Identify your four. Who are the quiet leaders on your team who carry influence without the title? Elevate them now, not when you're desperate. Give them responsibility before you need them to take it.

Coach Jim Meyer — 'The Catman' — was demanding, intense, and had a temper. Coach Gary Weber was the opposite: easygoing, player-first, a guy who could "talk a teen's language."

Their system was intentional. If you had a problem — playing time, school trouble, girl problems — you went to Webs first. He'd handle it or bring it to Meyer when necessary. This protected Meyer's authority while giving players a safe path to be heard. Stosh himself wrote: "He was allied with the boys." You cannot build brotherhood in an environment where people are afraid to speak.

Who is your Gary Weber? If you're the leader, you need someone people trust enough to be honest with. If you don't have that person, you don't actually know what's happening in your culture.

Before every single game — home, away, regular season, playoffs — Coach Meyer gathered us in the center of the locker room. He stretched out his enormous hand and waited for each of us to stack our hands on top of his. He prayed that each of us would play to the best of our God-given abilities. Then he asked Mary to protect us and our opponents from injury.

Then, together, as one voice: "Queen of Victory — PRAY FOR US!"

I came from the public school system. I had never prayed before a game in my life. The first time it happened, I felt something I couldn't name: like I was part of something much larger than myself. That feeling never went away. Not once in three years.

Design one ritual your team does before every meeting, every game, every project launch. Make it theirs — not something you imposed. Something they would carry with them for 50 years.

After Michael's injury, I went to the hospital chapel and prayed for his full recovery. I prayed he'd be back in the lineup. He wasn't. He never played hockey again.

For years I carried a question that I couldn't answer: Why was I on the ice the night my best friend broke his neck? Why did God put me there? The answer took 50 years to arrive: because I was going to spend the rest of my life telling the story. The loss became the mission. The chapel became a daily stop. And the Now What Foundation — which has helped hundreds of quadriplegics find their way forward — exists directly because of the worst night of our team's life.

What is the hardest thing your team or organization has been through? Have you named it, honored it, and made it part of your identity? Or have you buried it and pretended it didn't happen?

The night Michael was injured, I remember being loose in the locker room beforehand. Ralph Dynek was trying to break my concentration — making everyone laugh, doing his Ralph Malph routine. That looseness wasn't a distraction. It was brotherhood.

There's a corollary nobody talks about: a great team knows how to stay loose when the pressure is highest. Our tightest games came when we tried to force it. Our best games — including the championship — came when the locker room felt like home.

Take an honest look at your pre-game environment. Is there laughter? Is there breath? Is there Ralph Dynek? If your people are already clenched before the first puck drops, that's a culture problem — not a preparation problem.

When the final buzzer sounded on March 25th, 1976 — Notre Dame 4, Glenbrook North 3 — I didn't go to my girlfriend. I didn't skate to center ice with my teammates.

I fought through the crowd, took the trophy, and skated to the corner of the arena where Michael was sitting in his wheelchair with his family. Tony Salemi and I lifted it over the glass. His family laid it in his lap.

I pressed my face against the glass, tears streaming, screaming over the noise: 'We did it. We won it for you.' I have done a lot of things in 50 years. Nothing I have ever done meant more than that moment.

Look around your team right now. Who is the Michael Schwass — the one who gave everything and didn't get to carry the trophy? How do you make sure they know what they meant? Do it before you need a reunion to tell them.