by Max Domi
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To every kid dealing with type 1 diabetes, their friends and family, and anyone else who wants to follow their dreams
INTRODUCTION
The 2013 NHL Entry Draft was held on June 30. I’d been looking forward to that day ever since I’d first put on a pair of skates and told myself that one day I’d play in the NHL. I’d been working toward that dream for most of my life, and now the day had finally arrived when I would get to take the biggest step toward realizing it.
But the morning of the draft, all of my excitement from the previous weeks and months was gone. In its place was a bundle of nerves. Nervousness can definitely take its toll on your blood sugar levels—big swings in your emotional state in general can throw off your blood sugar, going low or high like that can then lead to more mood changes, and the spiral continues. It’s only worse when you don’t have enough to eat.
I knew that, but when I joined my dad at the breakfast table in our family friend’s apartment that morning, I had no appetite. My dad watched me pick at my food for a while before he handed me a rice cake with peanut butter on it. “It doesn’t matter how nervous you are, it’s going to be a long day,” he said. “You have to eat.” My health came first.
We left the apartment and met up with my mom and sisters at their hotel. Just as we were about to leave for the arena, I felt a wave of exhaustion hit me. Then my vision started to get a little blurry. Not now, I thought.
“I’m going low,” I said to my parents. My blood sugar had plummeted, and I needed to get it back up or else things would get worse.
My dad immediately went to buy some juice for me. I felt a little uneasy, so I sat down on the couch, where my mom kept watch over me. Luckily, with a bit of rest and some sugar back in my system, I managed to balance myself out, and we were able to make it onto the bus to the draft.
When we finally got to the arena, we settled into our seats in the fifth row, close to the stage. Nathan MacKinnon and Seth Jones were both sitting in front of us with their families. I leaned over to my parents and whispered, “Nate is going to go number one overall.” Sure enough, a few minutes later, Nate’s name was the first one announced, and the arena erupted in applause and cheers.
A few more picks went by, and I still didn’t hear my name called. Suddenly, I felt the familiar sensation of going low wash over me. I realized I’d made a mistake. I’d been so caught up in the draft that I hadn’t paid attention to the time that passed between each selection. It seemed to take forever for each team’s representatives to walk to the stage, and then the players had a long walk to cross the floor whenever their name was called. My blood sugar had already dropped low at the hotel, and here, two hours later, I was low again.
At my feet I had a blue Gatorade and a couple of juices to help get my blood sugar up. I tried to be discreet, leaning over every once in a while to take a sip. I desperately needed it—my lack of breakfast that morning was catching up to me.
Every time a general manager approached the podium, my dad turned to me and said, “This is the one!” The first couple of times, I felt my pulse quicken when he said it, hoping he was right. But each time my name wasn’t called, my excitement died down and my nervousness flared back up.
The lack of food and emotional swings were throwing my blood sugar completely off, and I was starting to get frustrated. Not at anyone or anything in particular, but just an irritability that I knew would go away if I got my blood sugar back where it needed to be. I tried to silence the negative voice in the back of my head and stay positive. This is your moment, I thought.
About half an hour into the event, Don Maloney, the Phoenix Coyotes’ general manager, approached the podium for the twelfth pick of the day.
“The Phoenix Coyotes,” Maloney said, “are proud to select, from the London Knights of the OHL, Max Domi.”
I jumped out of my seat from sheer excitement as the Coyotes howl played throughout the arena. I was so happy that I didn’t know which way to turn. My dad was still sitting down, and I couldn’t understand why—I’d leapt up so quickly he hadn’t had time to react. He got to his feet, and I gave him a hug, and then I turned to give my mom the same.
As I walked across the floor toward the stage, I felt like I was floating. I couldn’t believe that my dreams were finally coming true. The excitement coursing through me, along with the applause from the crowd and the stage lights, was making my head spin. I took a deep breath as I felt the Bambi legs starting to creep back. When I got to the stairs to the stage, the only thing I could think was, Don’t trip.
I couldn’t hear it, but as I walked across the stage, shaking each of the Coyotes officials’ hand and thanking them for drafting me, the TV broadcasters were talking about my diabetes. They even pointed out what they thought was my insulin pump on my belt. I did own an insulin pump, but I’d temporarily disconnected it, which I would do when my blood sugar got low and I needed to prevent any more insulin from entering my system. What the announcers thought was my insulin pump was actually just the microphone pack the event organizers had given me.
I might not have been wearing an insulin pump as I pulled on my very first NHL jersey, but I still carried my diabetes with me. It was baggage I was never able to put down; it was part of who I was.
Making the NHL had always been my dream, and being drafted that day was the greatest accomplishment of my life to that point. As my new reality sunk in, I reflected on what had brought me to that place and the journey that lay ahead. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I hadn’t made it that far despite my diabetes, but because of it.
My diabetes is my 24/7 constant companion. And like anyone who suffers from type 1 diabetes—or any other lifelong disease—I never get a day off. But as difficult as my diagnosis has made many things in my life, it’s never stopped me from chasing my dream. Every day brings with it a new test and a new opportunity. And lucky for me, I’ve always liked a challenge.
1 FAMILY FIRST
I was just five weeks old when I experienced my first NHL trade.
Technically, it wasn’t my first NHL trade—my dad, Tie Domi, was traded from the Winnipeg Jets to the Toronto Maple Leafs. When one of your parents is an NHL player, it feels normal for hockey to be a big part of your everyday life. Before I could even walk, I was soaking in the life of a professional hockey player.
My time in Winnipeg was brief, and the few childhood memories I have of the city are taken mostly from photos, like the one of Hall of Famer Teemu Selanne holding me right after I came home from the hospital. Today, on the NHL website, my hometown is listed as Winnipeg. That might technically be true, but after my dad’s trade, I spent most of my childhood growing up in Toronto and Mississauga.
It was almost like I was made for the rink. When I was just two years old, my mom brought me along to my older sister Carlin’s skating lessons. Carlin and I were fourteen months apart, so even at that young age, I wanted to do everything that she did, including learning to skate. During her lesson, I would stand at the boards with my face pressed up to the glass, occasionally waving or banging on the boards to get Carlin’s attention.
The teacher noticed my excitement, and eventually she suggested to my mom that I join the class.
“Mrs. Domi” the instructor said, “it looks like Max can’t wait to learn how to skate. We have room in the class if you’d like to bring him next week.
”
“Thanks for the offer,” my mom said. “But Max is only two and a half. I thought kids had to be three to sign up.”
The instructor looked carefully at my mom. “Sorry,” she said. “How old did you say Max is?”
My mom wasn’t usually one to break the rules, but lucky for me, she didn’t have time to take back the words before they slipped out.
“Three,” my mom said quickly. “Max is three.”
The following week, I stepped onto the ice for my first lesson. There were groups of kids all across the rink, and each one had their own teacher and a small designated area of the ice. The instructor went from one kid to another, showing us how to stand up and balance on our skates. While I waited for my turn, I kept myself busy making snow angels on my back or wriggling on my belly, pretending to be a fish. I waved to my mom watching from the stands, a giant smile plastered on my face.
It didn’t take very long before I was up and moving. Once I was, the poor teacher couldn’t keep me still. I wasn’t satisfied with staying in my little area. I wanted to skate all the way around the entire rink, just like I’d seen my dad do. To say I was happy is an understatement. I had found the place I was meant to be, and I loved it.
Learning to skate was the first step, but it didn’t take long until I was begging to play hockey. I wanted to wear equipment like my dad did and be a real hockey player. There weren’t any hockey leagues for three-year-olds, though, so my parents put me in a program called Hockey 101. It was really just a skating lesson, but we all wore equipment and there were nets on the ice. That was good enough for me.
Just before the end of each lesson, the instructors would set up a game. Or, at least, what three- and four-year-olds thought was a game. One of the kids in my class that year was Scott Laughton, who went on to play for the Philadelphia Flyers. Scott was a year older than me, and he’d figured out a few things that I was still working on. Like which net to score on. I must have only understood the part about putting the puck into the net, because after shooting on one net, I’d grab the puck and skate back to the other end to try and score on that goal, too. It was a bit of a learning curve, to say the least.
While I loved playing hockey when I was a kid, I didn’t have the patience to actually watch the game. Whenever I arrived at Maple Leaf Gardens with my mom and sisters, I couldn’t care less about the game on the ice—I’d run to the back of the room where I could play mini-sticks with the other kids. My dad would come out of the dressing room after the game all cleaned up and showered, while I would be covered in sweat from running around for three hours.
I still remember details about the hallways and equipment rooms in Maple Leaf Gardens. While I waited for my dad on practice days, I would spend most of my time hanging out with the equipment staff. I often hopped in the laundry cart sitting in the hallway, and the Leafs’ equipment manager, Scotty McKay—who was like an uncle to me—would give me a push down the sloping, ramped hallway.
“Faster!” I’d yell as the cart picked up speed. I would be laughing like crazy as I went buzzing down the ramp. It was better than going to an amusement park!
Sometimes, I even got to go on the ice. I was still really young, so I spent most of the time lying in a snowsuit in the crease, throwing pucks into the empty net.
A few years later, the Leafs started playing at the Air Canada Centre. The family room at the ACC basically became our second living room. I preferred to watch from the rink, rather than at home, for one reason: they had the best cookies ever. Every game, there was a tray of sugar cookies, each in the shape of a maple leaf with a player’s name written on it in this wicked chocolate icing: Sundin, Domi, Tucker, the whole team. The cookies were soft but not squishy, and the icing was lightly covered with this powdered icing sugar. I am deadly serious: they were the perfect cookies. I would literally race to the room to grab my favorite “Sundin” ones—I thought they tasted better, and I would take as many as I could hold. The other one I liked was the “Alex Ponikarovsky.” He had one of the longest names on the team, and I knew that the more chocolate they put on the cookie, the more icing sugar would go with it. Plus, I liked Ponikarovsky as a player and he was a great guy, so it made the cookies taste better.
I was disappointed when my dad’s hockey season ended each year. Not because we had to stop going to the rink, but because it also meant the end of my hockey season. But I would quickly be distracted by everything else happening during the summer. My second-favorite game was lacrosse. I loved the intensity and speed. I would have played only lacrosse all summer, but my dad was big on soccer. He thought it was a great way to stay in shape, so I also played on a team in Woodbridge.
Growing up the son of an NHL player was a little different. Most places I went, I was called by my last name. I absolutely hated it. My dad was an icon in Toronto, and I admired him. I wanted to be a pro hockey player, but I didn’t necessarily want to be a player just like him. Even as a young boy, I didn’t want to be just a Domi or “Tie’s son”—I wanted to be Max. I wanted people to know me as my own person.
Don’t get me wrong—I loved spending time with my family. And most of my day-to-day was the same as anyone else’s. My parents would drive me and my sisters to school, take us to our after-school activities, and hang out with us on the weekends. Because my dad traveled so much during the season, though, it was often my mom I spent the most time with.
At my hockey games, most of the other kids had their dad in the dressing room helping them to tie their skates, while my mom helped me with mine.
Having my mom with me at the games was a big help. With my dad, it was hockey, hockey, and more hockey, before, during, and after every game. My mom was a completely different story. She always had a peaceful attitude, and she knew how to keep me relaxed if I got too worked up. “Have fun out there,” she said to me before each game. Afterward, if I had a bad game, she’d just smile at me and say, “Don’t worry about it, Max. You made some great passes today.” She could always find a silver lining.
My mom was always there for me and my sisters. Every day she was the perfect example for us, showing us how to appreciate everything we had, and how to treat others with respect and compassion. These were important lessons for me, because the hockey world wasn’t always the kindest.
When I was eight years old, I started playing AAA hockey with the Toronto Jr. Canadiens in the Greater Toronto Hockey League (GTHL). I was so proud to be on that team. We got jackets with our team logo on the arm, and I wore that thing to school every single day. It was easy to tell which cubby was mine outside the classroom—it was the one holding a Canadiens jacket with the right arm turned inside out.
The Canadiens were a minor atom team, and I was a year younger than everyone else on the team. At first I was a little afraid about having to play against the older, bigger kids. But I wanted to prove to them that I could earn my spot on the team, and it felt even cooler that I was playing against kids who were older than me. I still felt I had something to prove. People were constantly telling me that I was getting special treatment because of my father. Everywhere my sisters and I went, we had to deal with that.
It followed me on and off the ice. The next season, when I was nine, I stayed at my own age group and switched organizations to play with the Toronto Marlboros. I specifically remember one game when the score was lopsided. The game got out of hand, and a bunch of us were sent to the penalty box. As I was sitting in the crowded box with my teammates, a dad of a kid on the other team approached the outside of the box. He started yelling at me and banging on the glass to get my attention. I tried to block out the things he was saying and focus on the game, but he wouldn’t stop. Finally, the game ended and I was able to skate away to the far side of the rink with my teammates’ stares following me the whole way. My teammates were shocked at the way the man had singled me out. I just wanted to pretend it didn’t happen, but one of my teammates, Jordan Subban, decided to tell my mom what had happened.
“Mrs. Domi,” Jordan said after the game, “that man made Max cry. He was swearing at us in the penalty box. He said the only reason that Max was on the team was because of who his dad was.”
When I reached my mom, she could tell I was upset. I tried to act as though I was fine, but my mom could see the confusion on my face. The truth was that I didn’t understand why that man had been so angry at me. I was used to other kids saying things like that, but I had never heard a parent make comments like that.
My mom pulled me aside and crouched down in front of me. “Max,” she said, “there is no reason for an adult to ever act that way or say those things. What that man said is untrue and inappropriate. My only explanation is that sometimes, bad kids just grow up to be bad adults.
“Unfortunately, there will always be people like that. But you need to understand that you can’t change what other people do or say. All you can do is control how you deal with it. You have to rise above it.”
It always stung when people accused me of getting a free pass just because my dad was a hockey player. My whole life had revolved around making it to the NHL; to me, there was nothing else that mattered. I felt that if I made it to the NHL, I would have succeeded in life. But I wanted to get there my way, on my own merits.
* * *
I was still a long ways off from a hockey career, though. If I’d had my choice, I would have quit school right there and then and just played hockey all day, every day. But my parents constantly drilled into me that I had to train my brain the same way I trained my body. I was an okay student. I could pick up things quickly, which helped. But if I was disinterested in something, I had no motivation to learn it. My number one concern at that time was just playing hockey, so if there wasn’t a puck, stick, or net involved, I probably wasn’t interested.
From grade three to grade seven, I went to Upper Canada College. I loved the school, but I spent most of my classes wondering, When’s recess? When’s lunch? And when I am getting out of here to go to practice?