This was a very difficult column to write, because it hits so close to home.
What is “it”?
“It” is the fine line. Pro athletes are built to compete. We’re built to keep going, to push through, to get the job done. It’s what we do.
I have often said that my greatest skill in hockey was the ability to keep going. Whatever challenge was ahead, I could keep going. I didn’t have the greatest technical skill set, but what I did have was the mental strength to maximize my physical traits.
But what if that strength isn’t always a good thing? What if the finely tuned ability to keep going isn’t what is best for the person?
Where is the fine line in pro sports, or any walk of life, when it comes to mental health? Is my line higher than yours, and if so is that a good thing or harmful? Or perhaps better expressed: good short term but harmful long term?
This past week, one of the biggest stars in the NHL, Montreal goalie Carey Price, stepped away from the game. In a move that surprised everyone — just days before the season — news broke that Price had checked into the NHL/NHLPA player assistance program, founded in 1996 to help players and their families with mental health, substance abuse and other matters.
I don’t know Carey Price personally, but my thoughts and perception of him from the seats I’ve sat in mirror closely what his long-time teammate Brendan Gallagher said post-game on Thursday. He used the words respect and courageous, and spoke about how “he does so many things right.” He talked about Price “handling every situation he’s dealt with” with a reverence that was clear. He shared that “you look at him as kind of this Superman, and it’s really unfair to put that on him just because he’s a great hockey player.”
Yes it is unfair, and yes we do that. We always have. I’ve lived it and watched it.
In my 13 years in the NHL, there were many tough days — dark days when it seemed like there was no light to be found. I’m not just talking about wins and losses. I’m talking about the expectation of everyday performance. Excellence is both demanded and expected by all involved, but most of all by the players themselves. The outside world has no knowledge of, or respect for, what is happening in your life. You are judged on performance. You learn to compartmentalize. You put things in their appropriate boxes and you play.
/https://www.thestar.com/content/dam/thestar/sports/hockey/opinion/2021/10/09/the-nhl-can-be-a-dark-place-for-a-player-help-for-carey-price-shows-how-far-the-sport-has-come/leafs_price.jpg)
In training camp one season, I had twin daughters born prematurely early in the 26th week. The Flyers were terrific in their support, insisting I take as much time away from the game as I needed. As the days progressed, I needed the game more than it needed me. I was the captain, the leader. Hockey was my safe place, where I could go to escape with a fury. It was where I could take all of my frustrations out.
It was 83 days before our medical miracles came home from the hospital, and I think often of how I got through those times. Life was a blur. I compartmentalized. I separated life and hockey. That year I helped lead the team to the Stanley Cup final, won the Selke Trophy, played in the mid-season all-star Rendez-vous ’87, and did it despite many very challenging days. I kept going.
How was I affected by my choices? Who else was affected? Immediate family? What kind of an impact does your life have on loved ones around you? How do you slow things down, take a deep breath and find a balance?
I believe this is a common question among pro athletes. Because the longer I played, the harder I drove, the more unreasonable I became with myself. No coach, manager or organization put more pressure on me than I did on myself.
As a player, I was always consuming information from different worlds, trying to find things that would make me better equipped to succeed, and to manage my overall life. Coping with the pressure was left up to the player. Anything short of total commitment was seen as a potential sign of weakness. There was no player assistance program. I sought balance, but had to do so on my own. Quietly.
Asking for help wasn’t an option when I played, but now the fine line between silence and support is being eliminated. In the greatest team sport of all, players are realizing they have the support of teammates for their on- and off-ice challenges. Loud and clear.
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The NHL can be a dark place for a player. Help for Carey Price shows how far the sport has come - Toronto Star
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