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  The next year, Brantt made the Hawks’ lineup, but his fate was sealed. He was a tough guy, fighting almost every night. The year ended with him setting a record for the most penalty minutes ever by a seventeen-year-old—381 minutes in fifty-three games. He was rated by The Hockey News as the toughest junior player in North America.

  By nineteen, Brantt was playing for the Lethbridge Hurricanes and attending Tampa’s training camp. His first exhibition game was against the St. Louis Blues. At the faceoff, he found himself next to Tony Twist, who leaned in and said, “Hey, kid, wanna go?” Tony hit him so hard he couldn’t say hello for two weeks.

  Brantt got the tap from Tampa in midseason. He’d made the Show. He’d reconnected with his biological dad, so that was the first call he made. He asked him, “Hey, Dad, any advice for me before I play my first game tomorrow?” His dad replied, “Yes, son. Keep throwing.”

  The day of his first game in the NHL, Brantt woke up and couldn’t eat. His gut was churning. He didn’t want to fight anyone on the Hartford Whalers that night—he wanted to play. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen, so he made a decision. He looked over Hartford’s lineup and zeroed in on a tough guy about his size, Mark Janssens.

  Brantt pulled his number 27 jersey over his head, went into the bathroom and slathered his face with Vaseline. The game started and he was just bouncing on the bench, nervous as hell. Three minutes later, his coach, Terry Crisp, tapped his shoulder. “Myhres, you’re up next.” Brantt jumped onto the ice and into the play. He was in his own end, along the boards, when the puck came to him. Janssens checked him hard. Brantt looked at him and said, “Wanna go?”

  The gloves were off and they traded punches. Janssens landed one that made Brantt take a knee, but he got up fast and threw a hard left that caught Janssens on the chin. He watched Janssens’ eyes roll back as he fell to the ice like a tree that had just been felled by the last swing of an axe. Brantt skated to the penalty box filled with wonder. He’d just cold-cocked a guy who played in the NHL!

  Three years later, in 1997, Wayne Cashman, the former assistant coach in Tampa, was head coach in Philly. Tampa had traded Brantt to Edmonton for Vladimír Vůjtek, and a few months later Cashman traded big winger Jason Bowen to the Oilers for Brantt. Brantt’s new teammates were Eric Lindros, Paul Coffey, Ron Hextall, Rod Brind’Amour and Joel Otto, guys he really looked up to.

  As he was getting dressed for his first game, he was sick to his stomach. He’d checked Colorado’s roster and found six-foot, seven-inch, 240-pound François Leroux. Leroux was the biggest guy in the league and Edmonton’s first-round draft pick in 1988. But Brantt knew he needed to make an impression or he’d be gone.

  He skated out with the team to the deafening cheers of 20,000 Flyer fans. He’d never heard anything like it. Cashman sent him out and he went right over to Leroux and said, “Come on, you big bitch, wanna go?” Gloves were off and Brantt summoned all the dread and outrage from all those nights he heard Jack beating on his mother, all those nights hiding under the covers, all those nights dreaming he was going to kill his stepfather, and threw as hard and as fast as he could. Less than a minute later, Leroux was done. He covered his face and skated away, but Brantt wasn’t finished. He chased his opponent down and threw one more, falling on top, and the fight was over. Brantt got up, his whole body still surging with testosterone. The crowd went nuts as he skated to the penalty box.

  Fighting gave him quick relief, but drinking and cocaine gave him an entire night off, and so he started self-medicating—big time. Finally, in Tampa, Brantt and some of the boys went out for a few pops and ended up in Paul Coffey’s room. Eric Lindros was there as well. The Big E was good to Brantt. He’d even taken him along to the David Letterman show. But that night in Tampa, Brantt was totally out of it. Words were exchanged, and suddenly he had Eric by the throat. The anger didn’t last—they were hugging like brothers thirty seconds later—but the next day Brantt felt bad. He couldn’t trust himself. What if he had hurt his buddy?

  That summer, he was twenty-four years old when he entered the NHL’s substance abuse program for the first of five times. He joined the San Jose Sharks that fall. He’d been sober all summer and worked his butt off, losing twenty pounds and gaining a ton of muscle. He looked like a different guy and he showed up ready to play. During exhibition games, he was flying and did well in a couple of scraps. But two weeks in, he ordered an orange juice with two shots of vodka and proceeded to get obliterated, so it was back to rehab.

  Sharks coach Darryl Sutter cut him a lot of breaks. He’d pull Brantt in and talk to him, mostly about drinking. Brantt felt Big D cared about him as a human being, not just as a player. Brantt wanted to give Darryl his best on every shift. Big D was like a father, a really tough father.

  And the players were like brothers. London’s Joe Murphy, a crazy talented winger, was the rebellious son. Darryl and he had a history together. Darryl coached him four years in Chicago, from 1992 to 1996. Trouble was, if Joe didn’t feel like playing, he’d just go through the motions. Those occasions didn’t sit well with the team’s tough guy, Ronnie Stern. Brantt saw that Sternie was a warrior. He wore an A on his jersey. He was one of the leaders on the team.

  With about thirty seconds to go in the second period of a home game, Ron stood up on the bench and yelled down at Joe to get going. Murph yelled back, “Go eff yourself, Ronnie! Don’t you ever tell me what to do!” And then he popped up and they were both standing up on the bench, trading comments. With ten seconds left in the period, they headed for the dressing room so that they could finish the conversation in private.

  The team walked in about a minute later and saw Ron on top of Murph, throwing punches. A couple of the guys tried pulling him off, but Big D walked by and said, “Don’t break it up, boys. Let ’em go,” then walked into his office. He believed guys should settle their differences and move on. He didn’t like things to fester.

  Brantt stayed clean for Darryl until near the end of the season, and then he blew it and it was off the team and back into rehab. After that, he shuttled between the International, American and National Hockey Leagues, spending time with Nashville, Washington and Boston.

  But Brantt was Darryl Sutter’s kind of meat-and-potatoes player. He was coaching in Calgary, so he asked Brantt to join the Flames. At the end of that season, Brantt went back to Cold Lake to see his grandparents. He was at a house party when he saw a guy sitting in a chair, smoking crack. Brantt grabbed the pipe, put a lighter to it and pulled back a hit. As soon as he exhaled, he was on the floor, his heart trying to explode through his chest. An ambulance was called and he was rushed to the hospital.

  Brantt wrote his third letter to Gary Bettman asking for one last reinstatement. “Mr. Bettman, I know there is no stage five, this would be my last chance. I will not let the NHL or myself down. I will make everyone involved glad they stood by my side during this journey. Please consider reinstatement so I can play again.”

  Bettman relented. Brantt was in the 2004–05 Calgary lineup.

  At Cowboys, during the Calgary Stampede, Brantt met one of his new teammates—a big, good-looking kid named Steve Montador. Monty had had an amazing playoff run in 2004—the Flames had gone to the Stanley Cup finals and he had scored an overtime winner in one of the series. They got to talking, but Steve seemed a little bit reserved and quiet. A few minutes later, Steve told him he’d just come out of treatment, but Brantt had already figured that out. He knew what happened when guys were newly sober—they really didn’t know how to react in social situations, especially a bar. Brantt noticed he and Steve were probably the only two guys at the whole bar not drinking.

  Brant always gravitated towards the more physical players, so he and Monty would hang out. Brantt was two years sober, so they talked about the program and about playing as an enforcer when you were stone-cold sober versus playing with an edge. Brantt wasn’t really keen on playing exhibition games because that’s when teams dress their tough guys to test them
out. He was intimidated by that because he was a paid gunslinger, whereas Monty would take that role if he had to, but he was on a regular shift because he could play.

  Chris Simon and Darren McCarty were both on the Flames that year. Brantt called it a “Darryl Sutter lineup.” Brantt and Monty talked about a tough guy that Calgary had let go, Krzysztof Oliwa. Oliwa wasn’t a heavyweight, but he would fight whomever he had to for his team. Brantt thought Monty was a “gamer.” He had a ton of respect for Monty because, at around six feet and 210 pounds, he was fighting out of his weight class most of the time. This made hits to the head even more dangerous. But they never got into what could happen. Talking about it was bad luck.

  On September 23, 2005, before a preseason game against the Edmonton Oilers, Big D walked into the dressing room and sat down next to Brantt. He said, “Congrats, Myze, they cleared you to play. Real proud of you. I hope you’re ready, ’cause you are on the roster for tonight.”

  That meant he’d likely face Georges Laraque—six foot four, 270 pounds, with Thor’s hammer for a left hand. Brantt skipped his pregame meal and went back to his hotel room, falling into bed and rolling up in the covers. He was nine years old again and filled with dread. It was as if Jack was standing over him, yelling, making him feel powerless, inadequate. “Laraque is going to kill you tonight! You are such an embarrassment! But maybe the world will get lucky and you’ll hit your head on the ice and die!” Brantt started shaking so hard the bed was shimmying off the floor.

  His teeth were still chattering during warm-ups and on the bench. And then the game started and everything slowed down. “Myyyzzze, youuu’rrre uuuppp.” He jumped on the ice and Georges was right there. “Hey, Brantt, let’s go.”

  They squared off, Georges turned sideways, and the last picture Brantt took was of his opponent’s big fist—cocked. Then everything went black. When he came to, he was down on the ice and could hear the linesman saying, “It’s over, Georges. Let go.”

  Brantt’s left eye felt like it was hanging down his cheek. His ears were ringing and he had a terrible headache. He was helped into the dressing room. Jarome Iginla was right there with him. “Hey, Myze, are you going to be okay? Man, you’ve got some balls!” Jarome was the captain and a standup guy.

  The doctors stitched him up and arranged an X-ray for the next day. His orbital bone was crushed—in other words, there was no floor left in the eye socket for the eye to rest on—so Brantt was rushed to surgery to have a mesh plate inserted.

  As he left the hospital, he knew it was over. Seventeen years of looking over his shoulder, worrying about someone tapping him on the shin pads, wanting to fight. Seventeen years of channelling rage, making himself into a mean son of a bitch. Seventeen years of acting like someone he wasn’t. He took a big gulp of air and stepped into the sunlight.

  St. Catharines

  and

  Niagara-on-the-Lake

  ONTARIO

  POPULATION:

  131,400

  AND

  15,400

  Cheesy

  Pals of mine, Murray Scott and Todd Anderson, drive up from St. Catharines every Wednesday to play a 10 p.m. pickup game. It’s an hour each way, so they rarely drop in for a postgame pop. But recently Murray did, so we chatted about St. Catharines. Murray explained that beyond the hockey, the place is renowned for world-class rowing and lacrosse. He’s coached the St. Catharines rowing club and at the school level for years.

  This got me thinking about a St. Catharines connection—a guy that I know of, but haven’t met, Jason Dorland. Jason was an Olympian in 1988 in Seoul, Korea. His men’s eight rowing team had a disappointing sixth-place result, but it started Jason on a wonderful journey that he details in his book, Chariots and Horses.

  The former Ridley College student has gone on to a career in coaching and public speaking. After that sixth-place finish in Seoul, Jason’s crew was eviscerated in the media. He was devastated and it took years to overcome. One thing he knew was that it was not for a lack of effort.

  His team was well conditioned, driven and good to go. But there was a snag on the day of their final in Korea. Just as they lined up for the start, one of the other boats had a technical glitch, so the crew asked for the start of the race to be delayed fifteen minutes. The other competitors agreed. The Canadians, however, were profoundly rocked by that delay. Their boat became “unplugged”—it was flat. It happens.

  Naturally, the team that had requested the timeout won the gold. It was another reason to be furious. Jason used hate as a prime motivator. After losses, he despised the winner. Before races he would scan the other boats, look at the athletes sitting in his position, the three-seat, and conjure anger.

  But Jason soon realized that all the hate he had been using to psych himself was not easily mustered twice in one sitting. In the years since, he has learned that hate and revenge are terrible reasons to chase victory. He now teaches to stop reaching for wins and fearing losses, and to make fun the foundation of the experience.

  He says, “When we feel safe to fail, when we have that freedom, we fail less often.” The only guarantee of a great effort each and every time is when love is at the heart.

  St. Catharines is still the same as it was when he grew up in the 1940s, as far as Gerry Cheevers is concerned. In the winter, he played hockey. In the summer, lacrosse and baseball. Just like the kids do now. The first public rink he ever played on was the St. Catharines Arena. But his first ice was across the street from his house on Geneva Street. It was an open field that the fathers in the neighbourhood took turns flooding. There was shinny all the time because every other house on the block had a rink too.

  Gerry’s dad, Joe Cheevers, was a competitive guy, an Ontario Hall of Famer in lacrosse. Joe was a Damon Runyonesque character, right out of Guys and Dolls. He was a scoundrel, slick and persuasive, and had real charm. Joe was one of the top car salesmen in the country, but he never sold a car from the lot. Instead, he’d make his deals at the Legion or the local gin mill. He brought a guy named Haggis MacIntosh home with him one night, and Haggis stayed for seven years. Gerry’s mom, Betty, who was initially tolerant, finally put her foot down and said, “Joe, it’s Haggis or me,” and so Haggis moved out.

  Gerry first played hockey for the St. Denis Shamrocks, a team linked with a new parish in the local Catholic Youth Organization. There were at least four or five teams in the league. The Shamrocks got beat 18–0 in their first game. And when their little goalie didn’t return for the next game, Joe put Gerry in. At least he’d be sure to have a goalie who showed up. Joe was pretty hard on Gerry when he didn’t perform. The only nickname Joe ever gave his son was “Red Light.” It was his way of grinding the kid, trying to get him going.

  He didn’t have to grind too hard. Gerry inherited his dad’s eye of the tiger and his nickname, Cheesy. Joe and his buddy, Hall Judd, founded a St. Catharines league—the Little NHL—and signed Gerry up. Gerry remembers putting on the big, thick chest protector and the old mask. Each year, he’d play for a different team—the Blackhawks, the Canadiens or the Bruins.

  When Gerry was twelve years old, he wanted to leave the Little NHL and move to a city team, but Joe didn’t want to lose his best goalie. They went back and forth on it, but Gerry eventually won out and joined the St. Catharines Bantams. It was a team full of future NHLers—Stan Mikita, Ray Cullen, Dougie Robinson, Ed Hoekstra and Jack Martin. The Bantams were coached unofficially by a volunteer named Vic “Skeeter” Teal, who played one game in the NHL for the 1973 Islanders. Gerry says if you look up Vic Teal, you’ll find he was one of the most successful minor coaches in the history of Canada. Sadly, Stan Mikita, who now suffers from Lewy body dementia, is not doing very well, but he always said that any guy from St. Catharines who made it in the hockey world should thank Vic. Simple as that. Vic put the St. Catharines Bantams through their drills three mornings a week at 6 a.m.

  In the days before butterfly goalies, Vic never wanted Gerry to go down in a game. Wh
en he did, it meant a lot of skating drills next practice. Vic was always shouting at him, “Stand up! Stand up and out!” Vic also wanted his goalies skating as much as the forwards and defencemen. He’d tell Gerry, “You better skate as good as these guys if you want to even think of playing hockey.” He made Gerry stay late, practice after practice.

  Gerry didn’t know a lot about equipment, but he says that back then the most important thing was a catching mitt. It was part of his identity. Today it’s the mask. Gerry wore a Rawlings first-baseman’s glove with a blue felt cuff on it that covered the back of his hand—handmade. He’d go on to play goal for more than fifty years, but rarely changed up his glove. He used only three different catchers his entire pro career. Vic taught him the main function of his glove wasn’t to catch the puck, it was to stickhandle.

  The team won the All-Ontario bantam title two years in a row, beating the Toronto Marlies both years in the final. When you beat the Marlies, you’ve accomplished something. Toronto drew its players from a population of one and a half million, while the St. Catharines teams came from a pool of 25,000.

  In the final game against the Marlies, the St. Catharines Arena was packed—3,200 screaming fans. Gerry led the way onto the ice. He shot their only warm-up puck into his own net, just missing the head of his team’s best player, Jack Martin, by inches. To this day, Gerry still puts the puck in the net when he skates on.

  After the Bantams’ second championship, Joe became a scout for the Maple Leafs. He recruited Gerry in 1959 to play on a scholarship at St. Michael’s College School. The school had a Leaf-sponsored Junior A team, the St. Michael’s Majors of the OHA. In the Leaf system, the Catholic boys played for St. Mike’s, while the Protestants played for the Marlies. But it turned out that Gerry was Joe’s only recruit, so the Leafs let Joe go.