Companions in Courage Read online

My frustration heightened when I couldn’t sleep at night. I was trying to hide my struggle from my family and the team but I couldn’t even get the rest I needed. And I couldn’t sleep in the afternoon. I would lie there questioning what was wrong with me. My thoughts were all over the place, so I tried to stop thinking. But I couldn’t. During the late nights, my golden retriever, Fred, was my only companion. He had an amazing sense of things not being right. He would follow me everywhere, always by my side, as if he were looking out for me.

  I’ll never forget what happened after a game in Philadelphia. I tried to hold things together, but my personal struggles, the responsibility of being team captain, and the doctor telling me that I was okay all weighed upon me. I had lost weight and looked pale. During the game, things got really bad. I don’t remember a lot, but I felt like I was playing in slow motion. I had trouble taking passes and I felt light-headed during face-offs. I knew in my heart that I shouldn’t be out there. I had no drive or enthusiasm.

  We lost the game against the Flyers, and that night I stood in front of my teammates and confessed that I didn’t know what was wrong. I told them what they already knew— that I wasn’t playing well. The emotions boiled within me as I confessed how bad I felt. I acknowledged that I wasn’t holding up my end of the bargain and it was my responsibility as captain to play better and help the team. I felt very strange. Ironically, the first person I saw after leaving the locker room that evening was my close friend and agent, Don Meehan, who immediately saw the distress on my face and, likewise, I saw the concern on his. He could tell I was in trouble.

  Here I was, playing a game I loved, and yet I felt trapped, troubled, and confused. The next day I went to practice and sat down with my coach, Ted Nolan. I looked at him for a long time, trying to compose myself, then I told him something was wrong and that I didn’t have the enthusiasm and drive of a professional athlete and a captain. When I admitted how scared I felt, I broke down emotionally. I totally lost it. All the heartache of my struggle came pouring out. “Something’s wrong with me,” I said. He looked at me and told me that I needed help. What a sense of relief that simple observation gave me.

  Teddy told me that I was either burned out or in need of some other type of treatment. Then he went to bat for me, telling everybody that I needed to take time off. I was fortunate to have Teddy Nolan for a coach. He cared about me as a player but also as a person. I’ll never forget how he supported me.

  I’d love to tell you that everything improved after that meeting, but instead it got a little more confusing. I went to see a neurologist and I remember telling him I was very emotional and depressed, totally exhausted and wiped out. I told him that my head was always pounding, that I felt like I was in slow motion and I was scared. That I was not myself.

  I’ll never forget the doctor looking at me and saying, “Well, listen, you’re captain of the team, you’re a father of three, and you’ve just come off a World Cup championship. It’s an emotional letdown and a change. Your team isn’t doing well and you haven’t played as well as you’d like. I’m sure if you throw all of what you are experiencing in a soup bowl, mix it and stir it up, it’s no wonder you feel the way you do.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Then he told me, “You know, I’m sure if you go out and score a couple goals you’ll feel better and everything will be fine.”

  I remember looking at him and, very emotionally, saying, “Doc, I don’t care about scoring goals. I don’t care anymore. I’m scared. Something’s not right.” He responded by saying, “I’m sure everything’s going to be fine. Maybe you just need a few days to get some rest.”

  He didn’t understand. For me to say I wasn’t interested or concerned about scoring goals or contributing to helping the team win should have been a red flag. At that point, whatever enthusiasm and drive I had left was ripped right out of me. I remember walking around for a while and then going home and telling Marybeth of my concerns as the threads of my life kept pulling loose, unraveling.

  I remember trying to read a story to my two daughters. We were sitting in bed and I was trying to keep my focus and concentration on reading that story. I started to skip words. I went back and tried to say the words again. I was ahead of myself and didn’t comprehend the story. I was focusing on just trying to read the words right and getting very concerned when I couldn’t. Finally I put the book down and told the girls I was sorry but I didn’t feel like reading.

  It became difficult for me to leave the house or even go from room to room. I felt inwardly terrified. I couldn’t watch hockey. I would just glimpse the score. Two or three weeks after my concussion, I watched my first hockey game and couldn’t keep up with the play. I sat there wondering how those guys could play. Everything seemed to be happening so fast around me while I was in a punch-drunk state.

  Finally, at the Mayo Clinic, two doctors—Dr. Petersen and Dr. Malec—were able to give me the help I needed. They told me that my symptoms were very common in anyone who has had head injuries, vascular damage, or multiple concussions. I remember one of them saying it was as if someone had ripped all your enthusiasm and zest out of you. The tears in my eyes at that moment came from the joy of knowing that someone finally, really, truly understood. The response of the medical personnel in Buffalo to my concussion showed an alarming ignorance of the consequences of multiple head injuries. The following year the club did institute a baseline testing program for every member of the team.

  Hopefully my experience has raised the consciousness of the medical profession and professional sports personnel to the seriousness of head injuries.

  After my visit to the Mayo Clinic, I found out that what I am describing was all pretty normal for somebody who goes through a head injury. The doctors there told me that the frontal lobe of the brain, where I hit my head on the ice with no helmet, is responsible for one’s personality and moods. I had hit the ice without anything breaking my fall. When the medical team at Mayo reviewed the medical history of my head injuries, they pointed out that I was feeling the cumulative effects of my fifth and sixth concussions. Because I had suffered three of them within a year or two, my reserve was so low that I wasn’t able to bounce back quickly. They explained that, in my circumstance, it takes much longer to recover because of post-concussion syndrome. For a good five months I battled emotional and depressive issues associated with post-concussion syndrome. It was during this time that I hooked up with Dr. Ernie Valutis, a psychologist, who helped me get through my dark days.

  Through my conversations with Dr. Valutis I was able to revisit a number of psychological issues—not just the immediate physical concerns with my concussions, but to work through a number of emotional concerns that were awakened by these injuries. It took a tremendous amount of physical and emotional strength to confront these issues. But I had no choice. I had to deal with them if I was going to get better.

  Looking back, I not only had to suffer and work through the physical part of my recovery, but I was surprised at just how much effort I had to put in to work through the emotional hurdles of the post-concussion syndrome.

  Healing eventually came. I had neither lost my mind nor my will to compete. I had an injury—an injury as real as a broken arm or a torn-up knee—but an injury no one could see or lay their hands on.

  I had to understand how hurt I was before I could ever get better.

  But my journey was not ending. It was just beginning.

  2

  Beneath the Ice

  I fulfilled my dream of playing in the NHL, but dreams and reality don’t always fit smoothly together. Having “been there and done that,” I understand more about the complexity of living. I am more aware of what truly matters and what we can do to keep ourselves on track regardless of the jarring shots life lays on us.

  Many times I have hit the ice. Many times I have fallen. And I question why bad things must happen. Despite the support I’ve had, life teaches in ways subtle and brutal, and none of us can escape the ex
perience of learning. This realization occurs later to some, earlier to others. It first came to me at a very young age.

  My family and I moved to Michigan when I was seven. It was a perfect setting. We lived on Williams Lake, about a mile from the Lakeland Arena. We had a choice—we could skate indoors or outdoors. My brother, sister, and I, along with our friends, found every excuse we could to skate and play hockey.

  Hockey was a family affair at our house and always had been. When we were living in Kirkwood, Missouri, my dad, brother, and I would get up at 5:00 A.M. every Saturday and Sunday and skate free until about 7:00 A.M., when the folks who had rented the ice would show up.

  The McCoy family would arrive about the same time on the weekends and Mr. McCoy and my dad would resurface the ice before we skated. Mr. McCoy had three sons, so our family would play theirs in shinny hockey—a fun hockey scrimmage. I played shinny hockey until I was about seven, and by then I was hooked. I loved the game and couldn’t get enough of it.

  My dad had started coaching hockey in St. Louis, and my brother, John, played on his team. I begged to play but I was still too young. Near the end of that school year my dad, who worked for the Chrysler Corporation, was transferred to Michigan. Fortunately for my brother, sister, and me, my parents bought a house on a lake with an ice arena just a mile away. They had hockey programs at the arena, and, at the beginning of the next school year, I started playing for Richardson’s Farm Dairy.

  I played for Richardson’s for two weeks and then I got the break I was hoping for. I was able to join my brother’s team. It was more competitive and it also made the travel easier on my parents. Playing at the Lakeland Arena and skating every chance I got out on Williams Lake consumed me. My brother and I, along with our friends, spent hours and hours on the lake.

  Preparing the surface of the lake in front of the family home was always a high priority for my dad, John LaFontaine. At night my brother and I and some of the neighborhood kids would help him clear away any snow that had fallen, smooth any rough spots, and spray a thin layer of water on it in preparation for the next day’s activity. Sometimes at night we would hear the lake cracking as the cold air and warm water underneath the ice met. I can remember that Mom would worry about us and not want us to be out there late on weekend nights. She would turn off the lights on the rink as a sign for us to come in. Sometimes we would wait for her to go to sleep, then we’d sneak back in and turn the lights back on and go at it some more. We knew that we would have to repair it in the morning or after school.

  Some mornings the surface would be perfect for skating. Other mornings there would be cracks of all sizes in the ice. My dad and I would carefully fill in the cracks with snow and spray water over them so the surface would be good for skating. Cracks made the next day’s “skate” a challenge.

  From November through March, Williams Lake hosted many contests between the LaFontaine kids, including my baby sister, Rene, and any kid who wanted to play hockey, race, or just skate for the fun of it. My dad taught my brother, me, and the other kids all he knew about skating and the game of hockey. Taking face-offs, learning the proper shooting techniques, skating forward, backward, and in every direction, keeping the head up, and learning to pass the puck were daily lessons taught and learned.

  That and, of course, so much more.

  About three years after we moved to this lakeside setting, my best buddy, Donny Smith, and I decided to see how far out we could go. We were fearless and the lake was frozen, so we took off.

  We got quite a ways out, about a hundred feet, when we heard the ice begin to break under our feet. Donny and I looked at each other nervously, but neither of us wanted to be a “chicken” so we laughed it off and kept walking. The cracking sound got louder. Donny stood there for a moment but I kept going. I got about twenty feet past Donny when the ice gave way and I fell into the frigid water. I struggled to keep my head above the surface and finally caught the edge of the ice with my arms and kept from going completely under. As the ice kept breaking around me, I started yelling to Donny, “Help! Help! Donny! Get my mom!”

  Donny, paralyzed by fear, didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, as the ice kept breaking around me, I could continue to adjust my grip and keep my head from slipping under, even as the rest of my body flailed away under the ice. My arms were getting numb, but finally I found a strong enough piece of ice. I was exhausted but, calling on all my strength, I pulled myself onto the surface. I lay there for a minute, afraid to move. Finally we crawled off the lake and made our way back to my house. We were both terrified and cold, but when we started to talk about what happened, the fear subsided and we were ready to take on our next adventure.

  What amazes me about this story is its simplicity. It is as though I were saying, “I fell through the ice. I got out. My friend was there to help and everything was all right. Life is simple. There’s no sweat.” I had learned to ignore the dark side.

  . . .

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t always avoid the dark side of life.

  Why someone close to me had to die at such a young age confused and angered me.

  John Brown and I worked together in shop class at Mason Junior High School. I really liked John—he was the tailback on our football team, a regular, quiet-type guy who was everyone’s friend. We built birdhouses, shelves, and the kinds of things boys put together in shop.

  On a Monday in October I went to class as usual looking forward to seeing and working with John, but he never showed. Afterward I asked what had happened and was told by the teacher that John had broken his tailbone. The whole school was shook up because John, along with Joe Cook, was the reason our football team was so good. We figured our season was down the dumper but next year we’d be on top again because John would be back.

  John never came back. John never played football again. He had cancer in the marrow of his bones and that’s why his tailbone gave way. Six weeks later, John was dead. I cried myself to sleep for two weeks. I never got to say good-bye to him.

  I was shattered. How could such a tragic death happen to my friend? Why did death come? What is death? What does it mean to die? As these questions whirled around inside my head, my mind tried to fit death into my picture of what life was all about. I knew old people died, but why a young person who has had no chance to live? All of us who knew him cried and tried our best to make sense out of his loss.

  The rest of that school year was tough, and shop was never the same. One of the things that did help me was just skating on the lake in front of our house. I would talk to John while gliding along on the ice. I don’t know if he heard me, but I prayed that he did.

  I now realize the confusion young kids feel at difficult times. I know how attitudes are formed based on how we experience life and death. Also, I have come to realize that our youthful perceptions are not always the ones that serve us later in life. Keeping busy, running, not taking the time to deal with the reality of life just doesn’t work. Little did I know that falling through the ice, overcoming asthma, and losing a friend to cancer were childhood experiences that would lay a foundation to help me understand life’s darker places.

  It isn’t always trauma that banishes us to those black realms. Sometimes it’s success. So much of my life had been governed by the expectations of others. Deep within myself, I knew I could not speak and act on what I really felt in my heart because that would throw the established system out of order. Blessed with athletic talent, I had accomplishments and glory and that overrode my emotional isolation. This entrenched system confronted me squarely when I began to move beneath the surface of my life.

  Why look beyond or beneath that surface? I guess we really need to if we’re to move forward. Understanding comes hard. But beneath the surface lie the depths.

  For me, ice has a certain symbolism. Ice is nothing but water, right? Just frozen water. As a kid skating with his friends, as a hockey player, I put my faith in the ice—that it wouldn’t give way underneath me or catch my sk
ate. But the ice can crack and the frigid water that waits below is deadly.

  Hockey moves at an accelerated pace, thanks to the ice. With smooth, powerful, gliding strokes, we hurtle toward the goal, seemingly in control. It’s an illusion. Control is a momentary blip in a general scheme of chaos. We’re handling the puck, trying to evade defensemen poking at it or checking us into the boards. It’s like life, only faster. We try to understand it as best as we can as the action whizzes on around us. And, on occasion, we get dumped hard and hit the ice. Ice lacks a forgiving texture. You land and you hurt.

  What’s next is up to you. You can get up and skate your shift, or you can lie where you’ve fallen, the chill creeping into your bones. The problem with not getting up is that it gets easier and easier, becomes another way to avoid the challenges and keeps you from accomplishing anything. So you get up. Even when everything aches. You get up and you skate and you finish your shift.

  That’s simple. That’s life. But life, of course, is never that simple.

  3

  The Evolution of Companions in Courage

  Just a few weeks into the 1993 season, when I was playing with Buffalo, I had reconstructive knee surgery and began a long, grueling recovery. Prior to my knee injury I had missed a week here and a month there for minor problems, but never had I sat out a whole season. I was discouraged and angry. I had just ended an MVP-type season, scoring 148 points, and didn’t understand the reason for this setback.

  It was never my style to sit around and indulge in self-pity, so I tried to keep my attitude up. My message to myself was, “Don’t sit there so long feeling sorry for yourself that you don’t start learning from what is happening to you.”

  I thought of the many people who had supported and cared for me in my recoveries. I wanted to give some of that care back to people who were struggling. One day my brother, John, was telling me about some of the kids at his hockey school and he mentioned one of them had a brother undergoing treatment at the Roswell Park Cancer Institute. My mind drifted back to when I played for the New York Islanders and I got to know a young boy named Clinton Brown.