An extraordinarily average story about Carey Price – Deseret News

I’ve always had two useless God-given talents: Remembering every tidbit of hockey information I ever learn and seeing details from really far away.

Of course, I use both of those abilities on a near-daily basis now as a hockey reporter, but as a tire technician in the fall of 2023, they only came in handy once.

It was particularly warm for a late-November day in Vernon, British Columbia, so we were working with the bay doors open at the tire shop. As I was installing my umpteenth tire of the day on yet another boring sedan, a particular truck caught my eye: A brand-new Ford F-350 with the Tremor package — dignified and not flashy, but unmistakably expensive.

My glance lingered for a few seconds, giving me just enough time to see the driver as he stepped out — tall, dark-haired guy in his mid-to-late thirties.

Despite the sunglasses that veiled his face and the relative distance between him and me, I knew him instantly.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Carey Price,” I excitedly told the guys near me, though I got the sense they weren’t convinced.

The next few minutes turned into a reconnaissance mission. I grabbed my already-full water bottle and headed to the showroom, where I could “get a refill” from the customer waiting area.

I just wanted a closer look to confirm or deny my suspicion.

Just as I opened the door, the man turned toward the counter opposite me, so I only saw his back. I hurried back to my hoist and finished the work on the sedan as quickly as possible to give me the best chance to work on the truck if it was the Montreal Canadiens great.

Before long, the work order was hanging in front of my bay.

Usually when I’d read a work order, the name in the top-left corner was irrelevant. I just needed some key information on the vehicle and what was to be done. But in this instance, the name was all I cared about.

No 10 letters have ever excited me as much as those. The keys to Carey Price’s truck were sitting there, waiting for me to grab them.

Most customers wouldn’t wait around for their work to be done. Some would drop their vehicles off and head to work. Others went around the corner to wander around the mall. But to the elation of our entire staff, Mr. Price plopped down in an uncomfortable orange armchair and waited.

The next 20 minutes must have felt like a wedding receiving line for the superstar.

My co-workers were digging through their lockers to find anything he could sign. I’d never pegged most of them as hockey fans, but then again, the entire country cared about the 2014 Olympics, where Price posted a shutout in the gold medal game to give Team Canada its second consecutive title as hockey’s most dominant country.

I took my turn, too, opting for an awkward selfie over a signature.

He introduced his dad, Jerry, who also had a pro hockey career as a goalie and was traveling with him to Alberta to visit his sister. They had simply stopped at the nearest tire shop when the truck started shaking — an easy indication that a wheel balance is needed — less than an hour into their eight-hour trek through the Rocky Mountains.

It’s not altogether uncommon to run into NHL players in the Okanagan Valley, most people’s preferred vacation spot in Western Canada. Everyone seems to have a Jarome Iginla story and an uncle who’s friends with Barry Trotz.

But you never wholly expect to run into these immortals during the monotony of daily life.

I kept the conversation brief, so as to not keep him waiting longer than necessary. I always paid attention to the details, but on this truck in particular, I used a little extra tire shine and made certain the seat cover was fully in place as I pulled it up to the front doors, rather than into a stall.

We usually called that “rockstar” parking, but in this case, we could have called it “Hall of Famer” parking. Price will be inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame in November, alongside longtime rival Patrice Bergeron and fellow goalie Pekka Rinne, among several others.

Knowing how excited I was, one of the front-counter employees gave me the work order as a souvenir. I still have it in a box somewhere.

Maybe I should frame it. The only question is: Should I hang it in my garage — where I still change my own tires — as a nod to the job that allowed me to meet one of my heroes? Or should it go in my office, where I now write daily about my conversations with people like Carey Price?