BOSTON -- The sounds of a locker room coming to life still echo in Travis Roy's mind. The passage of 10 years has not dulled that.

The ritual of pulling on his Boston University uniform, lacing his skates and stretching his leg muscles is a sharp memory.

"I remember sitting on the bench, waiting for my turn to get into the game," said Roy. "I was pretty anxious. It was my first game. Do I replay those moments? Yes, I do."

Which means he replays the last 11 seconds, too, when he dashed onto the ice for the first shift of his college career. He fell and crashed head-first into the sideboards at the Walter Brown Arena. His instinct was to pop back up.

"That's when I knew," says Roy. "I couldn't feel anything. I was very calm. I remember that."

The life he knew as a talented 20-year-old hockey player was unalterably changed. He was paralyzed.

Sunshine streams through the open windows of his seventh-floor condominium as he talks. So does the afternoon noise from the Massachusetts Turnpike.

"I love the sounds of sirens and horns beeping," said Roy, grinning. "Those are the sounds of a city. But those cars on the pike? I can do without them."

Summer days are spent on the shores of Lake Champlain in Vermont where he has a camp. It is his refuge, his piece of heaven. Boston, with its big-city energy, is his home.

From his windows he can see across to Boylston Street and the Berklee College of Music. The Prudential looms nearby.

"I can see the championship parades pretty good from here," said Roy, referring to the past Patriots and Red Sox celebrations. Look out another window toward Kenmore Square and there's Fenway Park.

On one wall is the Olympic torch he carried with his father when it passed through Massachusetts on its way to Atlanta in 1996. It represents an unforgettable moment of another kind.

A framed poster of Portland's Old Port reminds him of his home state. He grew up in Yarmouth and won't forget where he's from.

A framed photo of Roy's two nieces and nephews sits in the center of the dining room table. Olivia, 6, Grady, 4, and Sophie, 2. The summer sun plays in their blonde hair. Their smiles are pure innocence. They never saw their beloved uncle skate or walk.

Several of Roy's still-life paintings, done with the brush clenched between his teeth, hang near the dining room table. The colors are vibrant, the images uncluttered. They are beautiful.

He put his brushes away four years ago, he says a little sheepishly. One of his caretakers was allergic to his paints. Roy didn't want to cause her discomfort or lose her.

"I'll get them back out again," he says.

Ask Roy how he's doing and he thinks for a moment. "I'm doing well. I'm living a good life. A real good life, all things considered."

He is 30 years old and the last 10 have been spent in a wheelchair. The slide across the ice into the boards the night of Oct. 20, 1995, left him with virtually no feeling from the shoulders down.

He can lift his right arm to greet you, but he cannot grasp your hand. He cannot do the countless things you and I take for granted.

But his heart gives him unimagined strength and his mind takes him where his legs - or his wheels - won't permit.

Wednesday afternoon, the phone rang regularly in his condo. "It's the 10th anniversary and people want to talk to me," said Roy as he removes a wand from his shirt pocket with his teeth.

He uses it to press the remote control on his armrest that will answer the phone. "Excuse me."

He had asked his publicist to contact the media in advance of Oct. 20 to arrange what he knew was coming.

"I don't need to see my name or my face out there again. This story is dead. The next story you'll do about me is when there's a cure and I walk again."

In the meantime, he understands the business of giving. Through financial grants, the Travis Roy Foundation helps others with spinal cord paralysis to lead independent lives. It also supports research for a cure. For those reasons, it's important for Roy to remain in the public eye.

Even more, Roy remembers the people who sent cards and prayers and the children who came to his aid in the months after the accident. "They broke open their piggy banks for me. I owe it to them to let them know how I'm doing today."

"Eleven Seconds," his book of inspiration and tears that was co-authored with Sports Illustrated writer E.M. Swift, still sells. Last week he spoke to middle school students in Lewiston and Auburn and was surprised that so many copies had been pulled from bookcases at home.

Most of his audience was in diapers in 1995. Many of them told Roy they had read the book not once, but twice.

"Aw, well, you know those are hockey towns and a lot of the kids said they were hockey players and this was a hockey book."

Roy sounded a little uncomfortable. It's a powerful thing when you learn you've touched the lives of children.

In another interview, four or five years ago, Roy wondered what his life's work would be. For much of the first 20 years of his life he had prepared to be a hockey player.

Yet the power of his words can't replace the snap of his slapshot.

"This motivational speaking is not it," said Roy. "Or maybe I'm feeling a little guilty right now because I'm not the one to move that mountain."

Stem-cell research, which some believe could lead to delivering relief and a cure for spinal cord injuries, has become a victim of American politics.

"There's so much partisanship in this country," says Roy. "It takes the wind out of your sails. The system is so disheartening. We can find a cure, we've got the resources, but we're doing so little."

He believed Bill Clinton was a champion for stem-cell research but has learned that George W. Bush is not. Now his hopes rest with a new generation of political leaders, such as Illinois Sen. Barack Obama. Or with overseas research.

Israel is putting more emphasis on research the study since suicide bombers have created a new group of spinal cord injury victims, says Roy.

In a video that accompanies Roy's talks, his father says that in his lifetime, he will see Travis walk again. Lee Roy is 60 and his son prays that his parents will live to see it happen.

"There was a time when I wasn't religious," says Roy. "In the last 10 years that's changed. I believe in prayer."

He does return to Boston University to watch the Terriers play hockey. He doesn't see many of his teammates at games. So many are still playing hockey in the NHL or somewhere in the minor leagues.

On and on one visit, to the school's new Agganis Arena at the end of the summer, he saw a few of Boston University's the school's past stars skate on the ice in preparation practicing for their pro pre-season camps.

"That was an out-of-body experience. Looking at these guys turns my stomach upside down."

Make no mistake, Roy has accepted the reality of his injury. He lives for his new goals.

Yet the passage of 10 years has done little to dull the dreams of a boy who could skate like the wind.

Staff Writer Steve Solloway can be contacted at 791-6412 or at:

ssolloway@pressherald.com