Breaking Away

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE 1 Breaking Away

  2 A Medal and a Trophy

  3 No More Secrets

  PART TWO 4 The O’Sullivans

  5 My Father’s (Not So Glorious) Career

  6 Getting Out of the Game and Getting Back In

  7 The Hockey Handbook

  8 The Training Table

  9 His Do-Over

  10 Kicked Out of Practice

  11 Night Work

  12 Wite-Out

  13 A Boy among Men

  14 Junior B

  15 Exceptional

  16 All-American Boy

  17 Road Game

  18 The Pitches

  19 Suitcase

  20 Debut

  21 Job Application

  22 The Night I Saved My Life

  23 Getting Back on My Skates and Getting My Skates Back

  24 Not Quite a Fresh Start

  25 All-American Again

  26 Going Public

  27 Draft Day

  28 Sophie

  29 Comeback

  30 Long Distance

  31 Old School

  32 Crow

  33 Wedding Invitations and Christmas Gifts Unopened and Returned

  34 Scratched

  35 The Last Time

  36 When It Was Gone

  37 Help

  PART THREE 38 How It Happened

  39 Schnurr

  40 Foster

  41 Alvinston

  42 Strathroy

  43 Mantha

  44 Washkurak

  Epilogue: Real Life

  Photo Section

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  part one

  1

  BREAKING AWAY

  I was sixteen when I decided to fight back.

  It was almost midnight. I was sitting in the back seat of the conversion van, staring out the window as we drove down the highway for five hours through the wind and snow. I was trying not to look at the driver. Every time he looked in the rearview mirror and saw that I wasn’t paying attention to him, he grabbed anything that was handy—a can of Coke he hadn’t opened, his thermos, his lighter, whatever was close—and threw it at my head. I was trying to tune him out, but I couldn’t help hearing him insult and threaten me. Like he had for three hours before he even dragged me into the van.

  “You fuckin’ faggot,” he yelled.

  Minutes passed and I said nothing. There was silence in the van, interrupted only by the hum of the motor, windshield wipers squeaking and his hyperventilating. The van filled with smoke as he worked his way through a pack of Marlboros.

  “You’re fuckin’ soft,” he yelled.

  More minutes passed and I said nothing. I had heard it all before. He yelled again.

  “All my fuckin’ time, all my fuckin’ money.”

  He sped past cars. He floored it. He yelled again.

  “You’re never gonna amount to fuckin’ anything. I’m pullin’ you out of school and you’re getting’ a fuckin’ job.”

  He gritted his teeth, his eyes open wide. I knew that look.

  “It’s fuckin’ over,” he said.

  And he was right about that. It had to be over. I had to put an end to it. I had already made my mind up earlier that night, before he pulled out of the parking lot.

  I knew what was coming.

  I had a reasonable fear that one of us was going to die that night.

  If I didn’t fight back, it was going to be me.

  It’s not like his anger was ever going to pass. For years it had been the same way. The way he saw it, he was always right, the only one who knew what was right. He pushed people around and intimidated anyone who got in his way. I was the one always around, always in the way, so I had been afraid for my life every hour of every day. It had been the only life I’d ever known.

  Some of the worst of it happened on the road, on the back roads going from one small town to another. On cold nights like this one, he would kick me out of the van and make me run beside or behind it for a mile, maybe two, maybe more. I had to run hard enough to satisfy him. He threatened to leave me behind if I didn’t measure up. Sometimes he would drive off into the distance on the highway in the middle of the night until the van would be out of sight and I’d run down the soft shoulder not knowing if he was still out there. That started when I was eight or nine years old.

  My life had been no easier at home. I never knew what I was going to have to do just to get by. I never knew when it would happen. It could be the middle of the night, three in the morning, even a school night, when he’d be coming home or just leaving for one of the shift-work jobs he picked up but couldn’t keep. He’d make me run or do push-ups and sit-ups until I couldn’t do one more and then he would slap me around. “Toughen you up, make you tough like me,” he’d say.

  I was never good enough, never tough enough, not as tough as he thought he was. He punched me and kicked me and humiliated me. I just had to suck it up. I couldn’t even cry. If I did cry, he’d call me faggot or pussy and just beat me worse.

  It never stopped. I’d go to school—grade 5, grade 6, right up to high school—and I’d be scratched or cut or bruised and would come up with an explanation if anyone asked. They almost never did. I’d go to school exhausted, barely able to sit up and keep my eyes open. I could have laid my head on a desk and fallen asleep anytime, but I didn’t. I stayed awake, because there’d have been questions if I fell asleep, and my father didn’t want anyone poking around our house.

  The older I got, the clearer it was to me. It was only getting worse.

  It was me or my father.

  My mind was racing on the drive that night. He pulled off the highway at a gas station. Only a few cars were out at two a.m. There was no running from him, not in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t even have a quarter to make a phone call and call the cops. Even if I did, what could I do until they got there, which might have been a half-hour, an hour, or maybe not at all?

  He knew I didn’t have options out on the road. He didn’t need to handcuff me or tie me up or lock me in. I was stuck. He thought I couldn’t run and had nowhere to hide, not at the gas station. He was right. He believed, really believed, that I was always going to have to give in to him. He was wrong.

  I had made up my mind. It had to go down tonight.

  An hour from the city, he was still going off, threatening to kick the shit out of me. If he had looked in the rearview mirror, he’d have seen my head turned away. I was hiding a smile. It wasn’t that I was afraid of making him any madder. I don’t think he could have got madder. Some fires are so big that throwing gasoline on them doesn’t make them any bigger. That was the fire that night. No, I was hiding my smile because I didn’t want to set him off just yet. I had to pick my spots. I didn’t want him to see me smile or he would have pulled over and we would have had it out right then and there on the side of the road. Not the time yet, not the place. Soon.

  When I was young, I would have run through walls for him or died trying. I believed every word he said. I thought he knew the way of the world and was one step ahead of everybody. That’s what he wanted me to believe, and I guess that’s what I wanted to believe too.

  I was sixteen now, though. As much as he tried to control every second of my life, I’d been out in the world just enough to see who he was. What he was. Yeah, I was physically frightened of him. He was 230 pounds, maybe even 240. He had gone his whole life looking for fights, whether he was sober in the ring or drunk in the street. He had been in hundreds of fights, never backed down. He was tough that way but weak in so many others. I was old enough now to see just how pathetic he was. Had failed at everything he eve
r tried. Couldn’t hold down a job, but it was always someone else’s fault. Feared by everyone, respected by no one. In control of nothing in his life, nothing except me.

  We reached the city. We were going to stop at the house for a couple of minutes and then get back out on the highway and drive five more hours to the border.

  He pulled up in the driveway. No lights were on inside. The only ones on were up the street, Christmas lights that hadn’t been taken down.

  “Stay in the fuckin’ car,” he said as he put the van in park and left it running.

  “No, this is it,” I said. I opened the door, got out of the van and stood on the lawn in front of the house he had grown up in. “I’m not going. I’m staying here.”

  “Get in the fuckin’ car.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. This is it. I’m done with it.”

  I could have run then. I could have outrun him, and I knew my way around the neighborhood. I could have run and hid or tried to get help. I had an out if I wanted it. I didn’t run, though. Not as a matter of pride, just survival. I had to take a stand, not for a night but for my life, and whatever the price, I’d have to pay. We were going to have it out on the snow-covered lawn on a quiet suburban street under the streetlights.

  He started throwing punches.

  “You little fuckin’ bastard. You piece of shit!”

  He put everything he had behind every punch. He had meant it when he’d said “It’s over.”

  I fought back, the first time in my life that I went all in. I punched back and flushed him a couple of times.

  “You wanna take a punch at me, you faggot?”

  It wasn’t enough to stop him. He had more than sixty pounds on me. After a minute or so, I was on my back and he was standing over me, loading up on every punch. He pinned me on the ground. He beat the hell out of me until he was too tired and breathing too hard to keep punching. Five minutes, maybe longer. I was lucky to come away with my teeth in place and my jaw in one piece. He had toughened me up over the years, but I’ve never thought of myself as a street fighter or anything like that. Maybe that’s the lesson I took from him—the uselessness and stupidity of being a fighter.

  Lights went on at the house next door.

  “Is that enough?” I said, practically asking for more, knowing he had nothing left.

  I crawled away. I got up to my knees and then to my feet. My eyes were blurry and I could feel them swelling up. While he was bent over at the waist, trying to catch his breath, I made a break for it and ran into the house. The door wasn’t locked. My sweatshirt was torn and wet and I left a trail of mud and blood behind me on the living-room floor.

  I picked up the phone and dialed a number. It picked up on one ring. Ten seconds later, my father stood in the doorway.

  “Fuck,” he shouted.

  And then he was gone.

  2

  A MEDAL AND A TROPHY

  Four months later I was standing on the blue line beside my teammates in an arena five thousand miles from home. We were singing along, or at least shouting along, to a recording of the anthem that came through a scratchy old PA system. We were watching the flag behind us be raised. We had gold medals draped around our necks. We had just beaten the Russians, who were lined up across the ice from us, shooting us dirty looks.

  For two weeks we had played the top young players in the world. I was the leading scorer on our team, and the youngest on the roster. Players on our team and the others were only a few months away from signing NHL contracts and playing in the league. I was going to have to wait a couple of years before that could happen, but still, professional hockey had never felt closer. When I had gone to Europe with the team, I felt like I had a pro career ahead of me. With the gold medal around my neck I thought that it was more than that. I thought I had a real shot to be a star.

  Those two weeks in Europe were the best time of my life to that point. The biggest thing I’d ever won. The best hockey I had ever played. The best teammates I had ever played beside. The best coach I had ever played for.

  I tried to drink it all in. I tried to get lost in the moment, and I did—halfway, anyway. But then reality kicked in, my reality. I looked up in the stands to see if my father was out there. That had been my habit since I was eight years old. Back then I was trying to find him. But since that night in January of that year, I had looked up in the stands hoping not to see him.

  I thought he might be up there.

  So did the coaches—they knew all about him.

  So did the U.S. marshal over by our bench.

  All American teams traveling to international competitions were accompanied by federal security after 9/11. The marshal who traveled with us had an added surveillance assignment: he had to keep an eye out for a stalker who was considered dangerous.

  People told me that there was no way my father would make it to Europe. I wouldn’t put anything past him. He wasn’t in his right mind. He thought we could patch things up. He’d told people that we were working things out, or that we had a good father–son relationship even though I hadn’t said a word to him since that night I had fought for my life and a life of my own on the lawn.

  * * *

  Just a couple of weeks after coming home from Europe with my gold medal, I was standing in an arena again, this time by the bench and in a suit. I heard my name called and I walked across a carpet that was laid across the ice. I didn’t look up in the crowd and didn’t wave. I just shook the hand of the league official, who then handed me the trophy that goes to the top first-year player in Canadian major junior hockey. I posed for pictures and smiled, but then I looked up into the stands to see if my father was there, to see if he was going to try to crash my party. He had a peace bond against him and then a restraining order but still he had made it out to my games in Ontario and in Michigan, even though security at the entrances had photocopies of his mug shot.

  That wasn’t all. He had sent me letters that I didn’t open. He had made phone calls that I never picked up and had left messages that I deleted without listening to them.

  Reporters were waiting for the players who had been part of the trophy presentation. They asked me questions, the usual, about my background. I dodged any personal stuff. I hoped they would think I was shy rather than evasive. Then they asked me about my season. I told them I wanted to focus on what was ahead. “Next season should be our best year ever so it should be fun,” I told them.

  On the other side of the room, reporters lined up in front of a kid named Ray Emery. He had won the award as the best goaltender in the major junior ranks. Someone asked him about me—if he was surprised that I had won the best-rookie trophy. Emery said he expected it. He told the reporters how I had scored on the first shot I took on him.

  “He snapped it past my shoulder,” Emery told them. “I said, who’s this guy?” Who is this guy? A question a lot of people asked.

  3

  NO MORE SECRETS

  I don’t talk a lot about that night. I don’t talk a lot about the years leading up to it. I’m not a public person. I have a small circle of close friends. They know my story, so there’s no point in retelling it. There’s certainly no point in going into gritty detail about it with them. Take it from me: nothing kills a conversation like describing those times when you were abused, when you suffered, when you feared for your life.

  My wife, Sophie, knows more about my story that anyone else, but I wasn’t able to tell her about it in one sitting. It would have made her too uncomfortable. No, it took years to tell her the stories, as much of them as I could recall. Even before I started filling in the picture, she knew the effects of the years of abuse had on me before I ever gave her the blow-by-blow. She knew how difficult it was for me to understand people’s feelings. She knew, unfortunately, how quickly I could get angry and frustrated and anxious—just the smallest thing could set me off. She tolerated an awful lot, more than almost anyone would, and she could almost always talk me past it. I owed it to her to ope
n up. It wasn’t that I was keeping secrets from her or hiding my past. It was just too hard to talk about, just too hard to go back there. And of course I was worried how she would take the unpacking of all my baggage: I wasn’t trying to win her sympathy and I’ve never thought anything is owed me because something bad happened to me. I owed her truth even if it made her push me away. And it could have been enough to push her away because this wasn’t just my past but my present and future, because it’s always going to be there.

  I had to tell her one story at a time, each one leaving her in a puddle of tears and me with my gut twisted into a knot. It had to be done—she had to know. There couldn’t be any secrets between us. Still, I hated doing it. Hated it. Not just that it reopened my old wounds. No, it was like I was making my wounds hers. Like I was putting her though the same pain that I suffered.

  That’s the legacy of abuse, I guess—the gift that keeps on giving.

  It would be easy to not tell my story, to just get on with the rest of my life. But I feel like I have to open up this one time. There were hundreds of nights when I felt like the loneliest kid in the world. I was alone, but I know now that I wasn’t the only one going through what I did. By telling my story, I’m telling others’ as well.

  I’m thirty now. Sophie and I have two sons. I know it’s time to get past the anger. For much of my childhood I lived with fear of my abuser and with anger at the unfairness of it all. Once I broke free of my abuser, only the anger remained. After everything that I had to go through, I believed that I deserved my just reward. I can see now how my life could have been better, how my professional career could have been better, how I might even still be playing, if the anger had been behind me, or if I could have stopped, taken a breath and put the anger behind me. I wouldn’t have walked away from the game at twenty-eight, what should have been my prime. I had loved the game but in the end I couldn’t love it enough to change.

  It’s too late now. I know I’m done for playing the game. I’ve made mistakes; they’re on me; they’re not on my past. It’s just how I dealt with it. I hope people who are haunted by cruelty and abuse will take something away from my story and make better choices than some I’ve made.