The Crazy Game

The puck drops and you're transfixed. You don't hear the crowd, just a buzz that rises and falls. You hunt for a black disc. The black disc cannot pass. It shall not pass. It moves like a laser. Here ... there. Up ... where? Down ... there ... there! Where? Shit! Where? Shit — there! This is the point of the game. The game is the point of life. Now the puck is on the point — or was on the point — and if you don't find it fast, find it now, it will cross a line from which you cannot bring things back. And your ass is on that thin red line, backed deep in the crease behind a wall of players who can't clear a path to the puck.

Then you hear the snap. Airborne. Incoming. Your synapses fire. Einstein couldn't calculate the shit flashing through your brain right now. Screw physics — you're giving sight to the blind. You reach out with faith in me-almighty and feel the weight of the world in your hand.

Whistle.

The buzz becomes a cheer. The referee lifts the puck from your glove. Your teammates tap your pads. You nod. You twitch. Check your straps. Clank the posts with your stick — centre yourself — and push out towards the circle. You crouch. You blink. The puck drops and you're transfixed.

Crazy — that's the word they always use to describe us. "You have to be crazy to be a goalie." Of course it's true. Standing in front of a hundred-mile-an-hour slapshot? Crazy. Having the outcome of every game rest on your shoulders? Crazy. Defending the net against Wayne Gretzky or Mario Lemieux or Sidney Crosby or Alex Ovechkin? Crazy.

Yes, you have to be crazy to be a goalie. It's the first rule. Watch closely during a game. Each has their own idiosyncrasies. No two are the same. Consider every perfectly adjusted strap, every twitch, every tantrum — they are all trying to cope. Goaltending is the most complicated, pressure-packed position in sport. A quarterback or a pitcher may be the closest to understanding the stress a goalie is under, but even they can't grasp the madness of the position. Why are goalies such unique personalities? It's the pressure. The physical, mental and emotional stress goalies face is incomparable. Does a person become unique under the pressure, or is a unique person drawn to the pressure? It has to be a little of both.

Look at modern keepers like Ilya Bryzgalov and his musings about the universe, or a legend like Patrick Roy, who used to talk to his posts. Or go back further to the infamously surly Terry Sawchuk, or Glenn Hall, who tossed his cookies before each game. They even played without masks until Jacques Plante's face exploded and he had the sense to protect it.

When I was a kid, Plante's book On Goaltending was my bible. I practically memorized every word. It was filled with exercises and drills that I did religiously. I trained like a madman. I remember running up and down the basement stairs — up and down, up and down, up and down, endlessly.

For me, from the start, it was an obsession. I had to be the best, and being the best meant perfection. I had to train, train, train or someone else would live my dream. I think every goalie understands obsession to a certain degree. But Plante didn't mention that in his book. I guess I learned about it on my own.

Crazy — I hate the word. It's haunted me since I was a kid. The truth is that I've been so many different kinds of crazy that its limitations insult me. Crazy is too simple a word to describe me. Throughout my career, I teetered on the edge of normal, even though my teammates would say I was the most ordinary goalie in the world. In public, things were fine. I was a clown in the locker room, always the centre of attention. But I was kidding myself the whole time. People like me are natural actors. And all shows end eventually.

Mental illness isn't something people like to discuss. Especially not in professional sports, where the only wounds that matter are physical. The rest is just weakness. But I've suffered from mental illness my entire life. I've battled debilitating bouts with anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder and depression. It was like I had jugs of gasoline poured all over me, waiting for the spark to ignite. I did my best to hide it, until it all came blazing out.

My kind of crazy let me live a dream — then took it away and put a bullet in my head. For most of you, my story begins on the evening of March 22, 1989, a regular-season hockey game between the St. Louis Blues and Buffalo Sabres. It was a routine play, just a minor collision. Then I grabbed my throat and felt the red warmth spray through my fingers.

Millions watched me bleed out that night. This is about the rest of me.

Slaughterhouse

The rifle fired — a violent crack, and then ringing. I didn't expect the sudden deafness. It was dark and I could see only a silhouette outlined by the afternoon sun outside the silo doorway. The bear grunted and slumped.

I was a good four miles from help. There was nothing around, just green fields and pine trees and emptiness. If I could get to the pickup truck, I'd be fine. But the bear's big black body slouched in the small frame, blocking the door. I was only fourteen, but I'd worked at the ranch long enough to know that a motionless bear doesn't necessarily mean a dead one.

I lowered the .30-30 rifle to reload. Thank God I have this gun. But the bullet jammed when I cranked the lever, and I fumbled around until it fell into place. I'd handled a gun before, but this was the first time a bear had me cornered in a silo.

Crack. I shot him again.

Crack. Reloaded. I shot him four or five more times. Filled him full of holes; filled him good and dead. I shuffled forward and jabbed him with the gun. He didn't move. Blood pooled around his head. I climbed over his hot, bloody bulk to get outside. I got in the truck and drove like hell.

* * *

I've always thought of Grande Prairie, Alberta, as home. My family lived in the small town, about six hours northwest of Edmonton, for the first six years of my life. And I spent every summer of my youth there after we left for Edmonton when Dad got a sales job in the city. All of my uncles and aunts lived there. I stayed with my grandmother, who was sweet and grey and spoiled me. It's where I learned to skate and play hockey. It's also where I first learned to...