“You’re a tough guy — you play hockey. In reality, you’re on edge. Feeling weak, vulnerable and isolated.”
CLINT MALARCHUK, A former NHL goaltender, made those comments in 2012 after the world of North American ice-hockey had suffered through a mental-health crisis. Between January and September 2011, four players died. Tom Cavanagh, Rick Rypien and Wade Belak took their own lives.
Derek Boogaard took a lethal cocktail of alcohol and prescription medication. The latter three were ‘enforcers’, ‘goons’ — the cliched, fearless, fighter and protector on the ice. Mental health suddenly, but discreetly, became a topic of conversation for hockey fans. But not for the National Hockey League. They kept their distance from the debate and have remained distant ever since.
In February 2013, all seven Canadian NHL teams took part in a month-long programme called ‘Hockey Talks’, an initiative designed to raise mental-health awareness. Players spoke openly about how they’d been affected by mental-health issues through the struggles of team-mates or family members. The campaign’s logo was etched on their helmets during games. It was a huge success. But the other 23 NHL franchises weren’t involved. An embarrassment for the league? Not according to Roy MacGregor, a hockey columnist with Canada’s Globe and Mail newspaper.
“The NHL is in denial. Hockey people point to (Derek) Boogaard’s drug problems as the root cause. They say (Rick) Rypien was long troubled. Deny, deny, deny. Hockey is not like American football or baseball. They don’t rock boats. They don’t march well. There is a culture in hockey that keeps people in line.”
Prior to their deaths, both Boogard and Rypien had spent time in the league’s substance abuse and behavioural health programme but despite the 24-hour help lines, the counsellors and the talking, there lay a bigger, insurmountable issue. The Players’ Association lamented that had Rypien felt comfortable enough to confide in teammates about his struggles and lean on them for support, things may have worked out differently. Perhaps, then, the attitude of the sport needs changing but for MacGregor, the tough-guy persona is embedded in the fabric of the game and is almost impossible to shake.
“The ethos of North American hockey is that you should ‘suck it up’ and get back in action. The most admired stories are Bobby Baun scoring a Stanley Cup final goal with a broken leg and, in 2012, Gregory Campbell of Boston Bruins blocking a shot that broke his leg. Yet, he stayed on and finished his shift.”
The instant comparisons between GAA and hockey are undeniable. Particularly in Canadian circles, youngsters from small, nondescript parishes grow up on ice. They long to emulate NHL-ers from similar, humble backgrounds. The heartbeat of these communities is the hockey team. Everything revolves around it. The local players become superstars.
But, there’s also the paradoxical similarity of tough, physical alpha-males struggling with deep, mental issues. And where the NHL has turned a blind eye to a dark, sensitive but prevalent social issue that’s wielded substantial influence on their sport in recent years, the GAA has been progressive. The candor with which GAA players have spoken openly about their mental-health struggles in recent months has been rightfully lauded. Young men. Together. And therein lies the most important factor.
GAA players have taken to personal blogs to detail their struggles. They’ve spoken at length on television and radio. They have taken their cues from each other and been inspired by each other. Behind them is an organisation that acknowledged the plight of some of their members and acted on it. Other sports organisations, most notably the NHL, should take note.
Rick Rypien struggled with depression for a decade. Twice, he took leaves of absence to seek treatment. He spoke to counselors. He did everything he was supposed to. But he was the exception. Ultimately, he belonged to a sport where inner torment isn’t tolerated. And relatively, he was alone. There was no other hockey player standing with him. Wade Belak kept his struggles to himself. Tom Cavanagh did likewise, concealing a tortured private life that featured psychotic episodes and subsequent schizophrenia.
Former Canadian hockey player Theo Fleury was sexually abused for two years by his youth coach. There followed an adulthood punctuated by drink, drugs, gambling and an unquenchable thirst for violent outbursts. In his autobiography, ‘Playing With Fire’, he reveals how he grappled with telling someone about what he was going through before eventually thinking otherwise.
“I wasn’t stupid. I could see how this would play. I would have been stigmatized forever as the kid who was molested by his coach”.
Going public was cathartic for Fleury, even after 27 years of silence. Late last year, he spoke about mental health and said: “At some point, someone will relate to your experiences and not feel so alone, and this will help them start out on their own path to healing”.
For now, hockey players suffering from mental health issues remain isolated. Following those four deaths in 2011, the NHL looked into its own substance abuse and behavioural health programme. The verdict? “It’s doing what it’s intended to do, it’s helping players and former players in times of need”, said deputy commissioner Bill Daly. That’s despite Rypien falling through the cracks. That’s despite Boogaard failing a dozen drug tests in his final NHL season with no ramifications.
For seasoned hockey commentators like MacGregor though, there’s a general acceptance that the sport is becoming less closed-off to dealing with once-taboo topics. But the orchestration, the planning, the vision needs to come from the top.
“In hockey, to tell someone you are mentally distressed is to invite ridicule. You do not express your inner emotions. You do not talk about pain, either physical or mental. That is changing, but oh so slowly. Should the NHL get involved? God damned right it should. And fast.”
The GAA are there already, should the NHL need directions.
