Enlarge By Ezra Shaw, Getty Images Dany Heatley's appearance at a summer hockey game was an eye-opener for Justin Bourne. BOURNE'S IDENTITY BOURNE'S IDENTITY Justin Bourne, a former minor league hockey player, writes a column for USA TODAY during the NHL season. See Bourne's previous column.

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I was made aware of my place in the hockey hierarchy by Dany Heatley When I lived in Kelowna, British Columbia, a couple times a week I would play in a locally known summer hockey game that includes the likes of Ryan Getzlaf, Duncan Keith, Shea Weber, Scott Hannan, Chuck Kobasew and dozen other NHL names that are well above fringe players. The shinny game is good, but I could hang. I was by no means in the top half of the talent, but I was good enough to score some daily goals and not be a write-off. Then Heatley moved to town. This first time I saw him, I was surprised by his size. Not because he's built like a guy who lives in the gym — in fact, he's built like a massive, unsculpted block of clay — but he's just an imposing figure, in every measurable direction. When we did get on the ice, it turned out that he was, in fact, in great shape. And though I always thought he looked lumbering, it turned out that he was, in fact, fast. And his shot was really, really hard. And really, really accurate. The guy was, simply put, really, really good. Before skating with him, I had heard stories from my WCHA teammates that played against him when he was still with Wisconsin, how he used to stand on the half-wall during the power play, cocked for a slap shot the whole time, while University of Wisconsin coach Mike Eaves stood on the bench and yelled "GET THE PUCK TO HEEEAAAAATS! GET THE PUCK TO HEEEAAAATS!" After seeing it from up close, I immediately recognized that his ability was unattainable for me – a depressing moment for any aspiring NHLer, you can imagine. So much of it was so obviously god-given. You simply cannot bench-press yourself a few inches taller, or reaction-ball yourself into that much better hand-eye, or learn to think and overpower the game like him. You just can't. Seven or eight years ago, I started losing interest in the game from a fan's perspective. Playing at a high level was taking the fun out of watching it – Not only did I know the crappy truths about why some guys made it while others of equal talent didn't (agents, drafts, birth years and size overriding concepts like "who's the better player?"), but I started to feel like I could do a lot of what I was watching, and in some cases, better. I never totally drifted from the game, of course. And, as I trained and grew and improved and developed, I was realizing something. There were still a couple dozen players around the league who made me think "Wow, not with all the training, nutrition, practice and encouragement could I ever do that." And that's what's sucked me back into fanhood, and what keeps me here — isn't it for you? That awe, the respect for a level of ability you yourself just weren't blessed with possessing? If you can get past a little envy to admire the abilities of your fellow man, you get to enjoy one of the coolest parts of life. I don't enjoy watching lower-level hockey because I get it. I comprehend what they do. I'm in awe when Alex Ovechkin, Nicklas Backstrom and Alexander Semin work the puck around like virtuosos. For me, it's the same as when people first heard Whitney Houston belt out Greatest Love of All, and everyone imagined what it must feel like to be able to sing like that. Or to paint like Michelangelo, or think like Bobby Fisher, or to swim like Michael Phelps. I've been sucked back into the NHL because Evgeni Malkin is 6-3 and has hands made of some rare concoction of lotion and butter, while the rest of our hands function like a pre-mixed wheelbarrow of sand, gravel and water. A week ago, I stood in the Zamboni gates while Martin Brodeur played goal directly in front of me, a treat not many hockey fans have ever been afforded. He played the puck like a d-man, stacked the pads like it was the '80s, and just did what Marty does — be incredible. Because of the elite few, I've managed to find a little piece of the fandom I had when I was as a kid, when I assumed every player in the league was exceptional. Just like I could never sing or paint or swim like the most talented people on the planet, I admire certain players because I could never enter the hockey realm in which they live. Lord knows I tried — I was good, but Sidney Crosby? He's great. These are the people I watch the NHL for today. So thank you, Ovy-wan-kenobe. The rebirth of my inner fan has been pretty damn great. We've updated the Conversation Guidelines. Changes include a brief review of the moderation process and an explanation on how to use the "Report Abuse" button. Read more