Only one man can truly get inside Eric Lindros's head -- and it's not his neurologist.

It is Mark Messier.

Lindros became a Ranger on Monday, and the Rangers belong to Messier, and if there ever was a match made in heaven (or Canada), this is it.

Anyone who has met Lindros knows he is a reticent soul, a 28-year-old millionaire who's always been torn down. And anyone who has met Messier knows the drinks are on him, that he's a 40-year-old millionaire who's always built people up. That they should meet, in Madison Square Garden, is a stroke of good fortune or, as Messier would say, excellent karma. But, either way, by the time Messier gets through with him, Eric Lindros will be able to skate past Scott Stevens with his head up.

Who knows why it came to this, this desperate Lindros trade from Philadelphia to New York. There isn't one reason; there are at least 50. But the main reason, and this is from personal experience, is that Flyers management never understood Lindros, never was willing to accept him for who he was.

Bob Clarke, the Flyers GM, knew Lindros was sensitive, knew Lindros loved his dog, knew Lindros couldn't live alone, knew Lindros called home every week, but, the problem was, he hated him for it. Clarke considered himself a man's man, a Broad Street Bully for life, and he called Lindros "a baby" to his face, and that's no way to motivate your best player, and that's a fact. I wrote about Lindros and Clarke for The Magazine early last year, before their feud went terribly public, and Clarke called me at home afterward to say: "You're a *&#$%! You didn't need to go and make Eric look good."

This was right before Lindros would suffer a series of concussions -- first in the regular season and then when Stevens buffaloed him in the playoffs -- and, by that time, the Clarke-Lindros rift was irreparable. The owner, Ed Snider, wasn't in Lindros's corner either. Snider considered Lindros's parents, Carl and Bonnie, to be a nuisance, and it got to the point that when Carl (who was Eric's agent) telephoned the Flyers offices, Clarke would say, "Oh, crap, Toronto's on the phone."

Meanwhile, Messier was close to rejoining the Rangers for a second go-round, to try to reprise what he did for them in 1994. He was the catalyst for their Stanley Cup that season, throwing team Halloween parties and dressing up like Elvis and turning the Madison Square Garden wives' room into a virtual nightclub. He created a family atmosphere -- corny, but it worked. He and his foot soldiers -- Mike Richter and Brian Leetch -- managed to read the pulse of the team , and if any player needed a talking-to or a night out on the town or to be slapped on the rear with a wet towel, Messier knew when and where to do it. It was his version of Zen, and he admitted in the story I did on him for The Magazine last fall that he stole a bit from Phil Jackson. But, in the end, he kissed the Cup, and now he's back in New York trying to woo the damn thing again.

And so, on Monday, into the fray stepped Lindros. The same Lindros who's had six concussions and will undoubtedly have the deer-in-the-headlights look when he re-takes the ice this season. The same Lindros who needs to reinvent himself if the Rangers want to play in another playoff game anytime soon. And so it became Messier's job, like it or not, to prop the kid up again, and the process began Monday when The Captain flew up from Hilton Head to sit by Lindros at the news conference.

There the two of them were -- so similar, so diverse. Both are bachelors, both have their fathers for an agent, both go nowhere without their moms, both grew up watching Hockey Night In Canada, both love to boat and fish, both read books that have nothing to do with faceoffs.

But then you look at their fingers, and on Messier's, you see championship rings. And on Lindros's, you see not a one. Then you look into their eyes and you see verve in Messier's and fear in Lindros's. What the kid needs is someone who will listen to him. Someone who will stick up for him with management. Someone who understands what it's like to be the go-to guy. Someone who understands what it's like to be the goat. Someone he admires. Someone who won't be Bob Clarke. Someone who will listen, who will be his Phil Jackson, who will hand him a book, who will take him out to Shun Lee Palace and pick up the tab and introduce him to some blonde and just friggin' take the heat off of him. Someone else to be the team spokesman. For once.

Because, the truth is, Messier's poster still hangs in Lindros's childhood bedroom, and Lindros always wanted to be Messier, and now is his chance. He just has to watch. And learn. And watch some more.

Tom Friend is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at tom.friend@espnmag.com.