The subject of fighting in hockey is by far and away the
most divisive topic in the game. There is no middle ground. You either love the
idea or you hate it, and there are equal amounts of support for both camps in
the upper echelon of the National Hockey League.
The first article I wrote for The Roar was an opinion piece pushing the need for fighting to remain a part of the game. Fighting
still happens, though to a somewhat lesser extent than in seasons gone by in
the NHL, and remains a feature of minor leagues like the AHL and ECHL, where
barely a night goes by without a line brawl of some sort, and remains a part of
the landscape in Canadian Major Junior Hockey, where kids as young as sixteen
flick the gloves off, toss their helmets and try their best to pummel the
daylights out of the guy doing the same to him, wearing the other uniform.
As far as fighting goes, I’ve had an epiphany – and a major
change of heart. In fact, I’ve done a complete turnaround. What made me reverse
my stance? I just finished a book by Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist John
Branch, called Boy on Ice – The Life and
Death of Derek Boogaard.
Most hockey fans have heard of Boogaard, the gentle giant
whose on-ice nickname ‘The Boogeyman’ was completely at odds with the laidback,
relaxed persona that was his trademark away from the rink. Let’s not mince
words. Boogaard was, for want of a better word, a goon, and made it to the top
of the hockey pile – the NHL – not because he was a smooth skater or possessed
hands like Gretzky, but because he was able to go out onto the ice when the
need arose and fight the opposition’s goon.
Tragically, Derek Boogaard died in the North American summer of 2011, at
the tender age of 28, his demise caused by a shocking cocktail of prescription
drugs and alcohol. It emerged thereafter that he had been in and out of rehab
for drug addiction, and simply hadn’t been right for months and months.
Yet, as an enforcer in a world where there are many guys in
the AHL and ECHL wanting to claim that last roster spot, Boogaard kept going,
kept playing, kept dropping the gloves to fight. He did it because it was his
lifeline to the NHL. He would never have made it as a skilled player, but as an
enforcer, and in an environment where a guy is only as good as his last winning
fight, to take too much time away from the game likely meant being replaced by
someone younger and fitter, and the odds are against a player in that situation
ever regaining his position. Such is the fighting culture in the NHL.
So Derek Boogaard, a kid from the plains of Canada who grew
up idolising Toronto’s Doug Gilmour – the sort of skilled player Derek likely
knew he could never be – and had made it to the NHL as a fan favourite first
with Minnesota and then the New York Rangers, continued to manage his raft of
physical and mental injuries by taking more and more painkillers particularly
the potent Percocet tablet, doing absolutely anything to dull the aches in his
hands, his knuckles, his legs, his head…everywhere. Anything to get back onto
the ice. Anything to shape up for that next fight. Anything to keep his spot in
the League. Despite the inevitable addiction that soon arrived.
We now know that Derek Boogaard was a broken man, mentally
and physically, a fact that he kept from the rest of the world. Scarce few knew
the truth of his life until after his untimely death. Only a handful truly
understood the pain that was a large part of his life for too long. All because
of the fighting culture in the NHL where an enforcer is only as good as his
last scrap, and his employment is on shaky ground if it isn’t a win.
Branch’s book had a profound effect on me – I’m not ashamed
to say that, at times, I wanted to cry as Derek’s life spiralled dramatically
out of control – as is Boogaard’s death nearly four years ago now. I’m a
Rangers fan and, back before I knew better, I stood and cheered, applauding the
big man on multiple occasions at Madison Square Garden when he squared off
against the other team’s enforcer. On the surface, Boogey didn’t lose many
fights. Beneath the surface, however, it was a different story.
Alas, Derek Boogaard is far from the first of his kind –
hockey enforcers – to lose his life. The feared Bob Probert, one of many NHL
enforcers from the blood-soaked early 90s, died of a heart attack, and it was
later revealed that Probert, a man who had taken sustained and repeated blows
to the head, had the brain-related disease, chronic traumatic encephalopathy
(CTE), a particularly nasty one, the symptoms of which include early onset memory
loss, depression, aggressive behaviour and more. It was determined post-mortem
that Derek Boogaard also suffered from CTE.
Back in Probert’s day, if you sustained a concussion, it was
simply seen as a guy “getting his bell rung” and players were looked at as
being weak if they didn’t get back out and keep going. Now, there are
concussion tests and players are barely allowed to move if they’re even
remotely suspected of having sustained a concussion. Not back then. Back then
it was about sucking it up, ignoring the pain and dizziness and getting on with
the game.
Even with modern treatments, there are dangers. Ask yourself: what’s the easiest
way to sustain a concussion? Answer: a blow to the head. If you’re an NHL
enforcer out there to fight a guy, the chances are good that you’re going to
take a shot to the head. Too many of those, and bad things happen to enforcers
in hockey and others, like NFL stars Junior Seau and Dave Duerson, who both, when committing suicide,
deliberately shot themselves in the chest to preserve their brains for CTE research.
The common denominator? Repeated blows to the head, night after night.
Yes, the entertainment value of a fight in hockey is huge.
There’s often a bigger roar of approval for a winning fighter than there is for
a nice goal, but we cannot be expecting these men to front up night after
night, doing something that, whilst it can look pretty spectacular, is
decidedly dangerous to their health. Sure, you can sustain a concussion in
other ways – just ask Sidney Crosby, who was out for multiple games a few years
back, after being diagnosed with one after seemingly light contact – but
repeated blows at or near the head is a recipe for disaster.
Hockey has seen first hand what this terrible disease can do, and as
fighters become stronger and better at their bloody craft, the potential for so much worse is near at
hand. We cannot continue to lose young men in the prime of their lives. Derek
Boogaard should be enjoying the best years of his life right now. Instead, he
died alone, likely miserably, in a downtown Minneapolis apartment, thanks
largely to hockey’s fighting culture.
Boogaard is a cautionary tale. His story has been told by
Branch, at the behest of his family, to shed light on the real and scary
dangers of such repeated blows to the head as fighting can bring about. There
will be more young men dead or debilitated if the NHL doesn’t come to it’s
senses and ban fighting completely and immediately.
One thing is certain: I’ll never watch another on-ice fight the same way.
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