This has been an offseason of unrelenting horror in the hockey world. From the riots in Vancouver following Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final to the news of the deaths Derek Boogaard, Rick Rypien and Wade Belak, it's been several months of sheer hell.
Although Boogaard, Rypien and Belak all played "tough guy" roles in the NHL, I think there is a real danger in trying to draw an automatic connection between that and their self-inflicted deaths. For one thing, I think it's disrespectful to the three men as human beings, all of whom had their own trials and travails that led to their deaths.
Boogaard's death, from all indications was an accident stemming from his ongoing battle to control alcohol and drug dependency. Rypien struggled for years with mental health issues and depression, which is very often a bumpy road with long periods of progress followed by setbacks. It is not yet clear why Belak reportedly hanged himself in his hotel room yesterday, but the fact that someone "seems" happy and well-adjusted does not mean that he or she is not simply internalizing some sort of deep pain.
Nevertheless, it has become obvious that the NHL and NHLPA need to take steps together to bolster education about and treatment for both mental health issues and substance abuse, which are sometimes interconnected problems or can exist separately. A growing body of research suggests that repeated concussions and head traumas that may be asymptomatic may also be tied to previously uncharacteristic suicidal or violent ideation.
I don't think the deaths of Boogaard, Rypien and Belak should be exploited as the jump off point for a debate on whether fighting should be "eliminated" from hockey. This is NOT just a hockey problem, and it's not as if non-fighters are magically immune.
This is a multi-faceted issue that goes much deeper than a debate over whether the enforcer role should be perpetuated. Similar issues have reared their ugly heads in a variety of heavy contact sports, professional fighting and other high-impact athletics.
As someone who grew up enjoying the spectacle of pro wrestling, I have seen that industry utterly torn apart by a wave of deaths of performers under the age of about 45 -- from a variety of causes, mind you. There has been a common media tendency to automatically blame it all on rampant use of anabolic steroids, but arguably larger co-existing problems have been rampant abuse of prescription pain medications and other substances and, potentially, the cumulative damaging effects on the human brain from absorbing years of concussive impact (pre-determined match outcomes notwithstanding).
As a sideline gig, I have been freelancing for Pro Wrestling Illustrated and its sister magazines (Inside Wrestling/The Wrestler) since 2005. For the last three-plus years, I have written PWI's monthly news section. There has not been a single month that there has not been at least one death to cover in the news. Much of the time, of course, it's the passing of an old-timer. But there have been too many months where I have had to report the death of someone who was well younger than what mainstream society considers "retirement age," and quite often the performer was under age 40.
What slowly but surely started to happen as I compiled the news was that I became a bit desensitized to it. Writing "sincere condolences go out to the family and friends of (fill in the blank)" has become a bit of an obligatory platitude, if I am to be one hundred percent honest about it. I rarely know -- or had ever even met -- any of the people involved. In the cases of lesser-known independent wrestlers, I may never had even heard of them before learning of their untimely deaths. Of course I feel bad for their families, but I am not personally mournful.
I never want to get desensitized to the news an untimely death in the hockey world. Although I never met or interviewed any of three young men who died this summer, their deaths have shaken me in a way that I have not felt in awhile. There are very few wrestlers that I have ever gotten to know, but I've gotten to know many hockey people in a professional and/or personal context. I see and hear their pain in mourning the loss of one of their own, and it's painful to me.
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Yesterday, Tim Panaccio wrote an excellent column at CSN Philly on former Flyers enforcer Todd Fedoruk's
battles to conquer his personal demons and to earn his way back into the NHL on a training camp tryout with the Vancouver Canucks later this month.
Fridge is someone I've gotten to know a little bit in a professional context. I interviewed him several times when he was with both the Phantoms and the Flyers. He may not connect my name with my face but he recognizes me enough to say hello when I've seen him in the hallway after games where's come to Wells Fargo Center as a member of the visiting team. Unfailingly, Fedoruk has been friendly, funny, unpretentious and honest whenever I've spoken to him. I've also seen him interact with fans, and he's always extremely gracious, especially around little kids.
Those who know him better than I do say that my impression of Fridge matches exactly to the person they know: just a good guy who is easy to like and appreciative of everything he has (literally) fought to attain. But Fedoruk is also a human being, with human frailties.
His substance abuse issues nearly derailed his professional career before it even really got started. It would have been very easy for the Flyers to jettison him when he was an obscure prospect in the farm system, except that Paul Holmgren believed in him.
This is not something that the Flyers' GM readily talks about, but he has assisted Fedoruk and many other players with personal issues who have shown a genuine desire to get help. Holmgren has given them a clean slate and a second chance to earn their way onto the NHL roster. Holmgren himself is a recovering alcoholic who has made the most of a second chance at redemption.
For many years, Fedoruk's journey was one of those feel-good stories in sports. He got his demons under control and made an NHL career for himself in the toughest way possible. But substance abuse recovery is a never-ending fight, and at some point along the way, Fridge came out on the losing side again. From all indications, he has regained the upper hand. May he never lose it again.
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Let's close out today's blog on a much happier note. O&B contributor Drakula (his real name is Alexander) gave me permission to publish his translation of an interesting Russian language
article by former NHL defenseman Alexander Khavanov.
The article recounts Khavanov's experiences breaking into the NHL with the St. Louis Blues. Specifically, it details how much of a help that Chris Pronger was to Khavanov. The piece is very revealing in describing the senior/junior partner dynamic that exists in some successful pairings of established defensemen and rookies. It also brings to light Pronger's personal style of exerting leadership:
I made my debut in the NHL on October 6th, 2000 in San Jose. I found out about it in the morning skate. Joel (Quenneville) had me prepare for the game like it was nothing out of the ordinary.
He asked me to play simple, tough and confident. Easy for him to say!
I was extremely nervous before the game, and couldn't find a comfortable place for myself in the locker room. Every player has his special pre-game routine, which makes it possible to be focused on the opposing team and to calm down at the same time. But, as a rookie, I didn’t have such routine, so I hardly could calm down. Probably, that was 2 longest hours in my pro career.
For anyone who considers pre-game nervous trembling to be something helpful, I would say, “Go to hell!”.
Only during pre-game warm ups did I manage to find myself. There is where you clearly understand all the requirements, and it become pretty easy (mentally).
I was paired with Chris Pronger on the ice. I still don’t know whether he was asked by Joel or it was his own initiative, but after the warm-up Chris made my task easier. He just sat down with me in the locker and delegated our respective roles on the ice.
"No matter which defenseman is going off to change, I’m always the one who steps on the ice first, OK?" he said.
"OK," I replied.
"No matter which corner of our zone the puck goes in, you are the running to the corners, and I stay in the crease, OK?" he continued.
"OK," I said.
"No matter how you’ve gotten the puck," Pronger said, "first you look forward, then at me, OK?"
"OK."
"If you are under pressure, the puck always goes forward," he continued in simple English sentences, looking in my eyes to make sure that I understand what he said. "And no half-ass, nervous passes. (You must) strongly (send the puck) forward, OK?"
"OK."
He continued, "If you see me going to the bench, find a moment to change too, OK?"
"OK."
"Pay attention on the ice, especially on the faceoffs, and I will prompt you, OK?"
"OK."
"Now don't [wet] your pants, Russian. I’ll be with you," he concluded.
"OK," I answered, not being completely sure if it was it all good or bad.
Just before the game started, I was still very nervous. It was very helpful for me that San Jose took 3 penalties on the first 7 minutes of the game. Being on the penalty kill, any NHL team is not too much aggressive in the attacking zone, so I managed to get on the track, get control of the puck and keep track of the other players, and worked up a proper sweat eventually in the first 10 minutes, almost 5 of which we were on powerplay. And 33 seconds before the end of the first period, we scored a goal for which I was on the ice when it happened. It made me more self-confident, and that was very important for my first game.
On the second shift of the second period, Lubos Bartecko scored our second goal, and it became easier to play further from there. After that, I took my NHL first penalty, and it was no surprise after experiencing the officiating in the Russian league and also because of my own ice habits.
In the middle of the second period, I was credited for my first NHL point. The puck came to me when I was on the opposition blue line. All our bench shouted: “Shoot!”, and I clearly remember it because at the moment I placed just close to our bench. I managed to shoot as good as I could, after that I was took a big check from Todd Harvey. For the next five seconds I was learning the details of the San Jose Arena ceiling. But it was much more important for us that Jochen Hecht and Marty Reasoner found the puck in the crease and sent it into the Steve Shields’ net. It was my first and last shot in my first game.
In the third period, we scored one more goal and let one in, and despite of some nerves and a lot of penalties finished the game with 3-goal winning margin. Considering good score and many penalties, I managed to get some ice-time on the power play and penalty kill, which always interesting to a player and useful to the team.
In general, that game went much better for me and our team than the season opener against Phoenix (a 4-1 defeat). More than that, it was the game against our eventual rival: in the previous season, San Jose knocked St. Louis out of the playoffs in the first round. I remember that my ice-time in the first game was about 19 minutes; remember that my plus-minus was +2.
I also remember how Pronger was holding my jersey when I hurried into the scramble in the San Jose crease. I remember him saying to opponent players: “You have to get past me if you want to touch him." I remember the feeling of being a part of the winning team after the game.
…I was very fortunate in the very beginning, with a team and with a fact that Chris Pronger was my first partner in the NHL. Without him I would likely be pummeled in my first 2-3 months in the NHL, but the perspective to “get past him” cooled a lot of the “hot heads”, adding some work for my first partner though. It took some time for me to learn how to place elbows, where troubles can come from and who can be a trouble-maker. But right from the very start, the presence of Pronger helped me a lot. 
Philadelphia Flyers Blogger •NHL.com • 
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