No Days Off

by Max Domi

  As a person with diabetes, though, I didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in those teenage feelings. I had to treat situations different than everyone else. Even if I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, deep down a part of me knew that by taking the extra measures my parents were constantly talking about, I could make my life so much easier.

  The tournament was a learning experience for me on the ice, too. I was entirely average that tournament. It had nothing to do with my diabetes. It was more the case that I was out of my comfort zone and was playing at the highest level of hockey I’d ever competed at. We ended up losing in the semifinals to a British Columbia team that had future NHL players such as Nick Petan, Curtis Lazar, Sam Reinhart, and Shea Theodore. As I packed my bag after our final game, I thought about what the tournament meant for my dreams of making the NHL.

  You have to pay your dues to make it to the big leagues. That means different things to different people. For me, that meant I was going to have to make more sacrifices.

  That was a daunting thought. Luckily, I had my friends to help me escape. I had a group of hockey buddies I’d hang around with, and we had our own way of communicating. Telling our parents we were “going to a movie” actually meant spending three or four hours walking around the mall, hanging out with girls.

  Sometimes, though, I couldn’t escape, or things were too intense and I needed a break. In those situations, I couldn’t always turn to my friends. I was the kind of kid who held a lot of stuff in, and I didn’t easily share with a lot of people. When that happened, I would turn to the two people I trusted most: my sisters.

  Avery was always a trooper. During the fall, Carlin took horseback riding lessons up in King City. My mom would drive Carlin up there after school, then take me to hockey practice in Toronto, and then do the whole round trip again to pick us both up. The whole time, Avery would be sitting in the back of my mom’s car, doing her homework or catching up on sleep. She never complained, though—sometimes she was so quiet you almost forgot she was sitting back there. And her unselfishness never went unnoticed in my mind.

  That was Avery, though. She was the biggest supporter of everyone in the family, always up for anything. She was really into fashion and had a creative mind. She was an unbelievable athlete in her own right, too, who played basketball and volleyball, and who ran track and field.

  Carlin was a hard worker. She was the oldest of the three of us, and she was like an extra parent at times. Sometimes Avery and I pushed back against that, but we knew Carlin had a big heart, so we usually followed her lead.

  All three of us had such different personalities, and we relied on each other growing up. Whenever I wanted to play hockey in the driveway, I’d try to get one of them to play goalie. When Carlin said no (as she often did), Avery would be the chump. She didn’t have much of a choice, and more than once, I accidentally sent a ball flying toward her face.

  Don’t get me wrong—we fought a lot, too. But when push came to shove, we always had each other’s back. That’s how we were raised. If one of us was struggling, we knew we could go talk to either one of our siblings and they’d help us get through it. We trust each other in every aspect of everything, and we’re always there for each other, no matter what.

  I was thankful for that, because on top of the diabetes and the hockey there was something else that demanded sacrifices from me: my dad.

  My dad was always hard-nosed. If he wanted something done his way, he was getting it done his way. If I went to a movie or hung out with friends and stayed up too late—even if it was a Saturday night and I didn’t have a game for the next three days—he would be all over me.

  “You can’t do that!” he said one night after I got home an hour later than I said I would. “That’s not how it works. That’s not how you’re going to get to the NHL, and that’s not how you’re going to behave here. These are the types of sacrifices you’re going to have to make, Max.”

  As a kid, it could be hard to keep up with my dad. He was like the cartoon Tasmanian devil, always moving a mile a minute. Sometimes his energy came off like anger, and after more than one of his infamous postgame critiques, I would almost be in tears. I could score three goals in a game, the team could win, and he would still be more concerned that I had turned over the puck in the first period or that I’d extended my shift too long. He didn’t want me to ever get complacent.

  I understood he wanted the best for me, and as I got older and grew a thicker skin, I learned how to deal with the criticism. I’m convinced that every little thing my dad said helped me out in the long run. I always wanted to be by his side, whether it was in the car, on the ice, or even just going to lunch with him and seeing how he interacted with his business partners.

  My dad was extremely intense even when he was eating lunch. As my dad talked, he’d scribble notes on a napkin for me to take home with me. I would just sit there quietly, too shy to make a fuss, trying to process what I was seeing and hearing. He never really coached me on the ice, so meals became one of his favorite coaching venues.

  “See this ketchup bottle, Max?” he asked one meal. “That’s you. The mustard is your winger. The salt and pepper are their D-men. Got it?”

  I nodded shyly.

  “When you see the mustard go to the net and pull the salt and pepper back, you’ve got a few options,” he said, grabbing a knife and fork to show how I could either hit one of my trailing defensemen with a pass or take a shot on net.

  “Dad, can you pass the defenseman, please?” Avery asked from across the table, pointing at the salt.

  As much as my dad liked to give us his own advice, he was also the one who taught us that a truly smart person knows when to ask for help.

  In the middle of my season with Don Mills, I was struggling. There was a guy on one of our rival teams named Dalton. No matter what, I could not beat Dalton on a face-off. One day, my dad took me to the Windsor Arms Hotel in Toronto.

  “Why are we going to a hotel, Dad?” I had asked him earlier.

  “I just got off the phone with Mark,” he said. “He’s in town, and he’s going to help you with your face-offs.”

  “Mark who?” I asked.

  “Mark Messier,” he said. “Go get two sticks and a puck.”

  My dad took me into the hotel restaurant, and sure enough, Mark Messier was sitting there at a table by himself. I was intimidated, to say the least. I tried to get my brain to tell my legs to move closer, but my brain had shut down. Mark was a legend, and one of the most respected leaders in the history of the league. My dad had always told me, “You want to be like Mark Messier. He’s a winner.”

  My dad and Messier had been teammates on the New York Rangers, and they’d been friends ever since. They caught up for a bit, and I just sat beside them, staring in disbelief at Messier. Finally, my dad got to the point.

  “Mark, Max needs some help winning face-offs. Got any pointers?”

  Messier turned toward me and broke it down simply. “You’ve got two options on a face-off: You can go with speed or power. You can’t do both. You’re a strong kid, right?”

  “I think so,” I said quietly.

  “All right, then. Hold your bottom hand on the stick really tight. When the puck drops, don’t try to beat the other guy to it. Instead, keep your hand low and come underneath the other guy’s stick. If you can stay strong on your stick, you’ll beat him clean every time.”

  The next time I faced Dalton was during a playoff series that year. We lined up across from each other for the opening draw, and as I approached the circle, I slid my bottom hand toward the blade of my stick. The puck dropped, and as soon as Dalton’s stick hit the ice, I came underneath as heavy as I could and snapped the puck back.

  The next face-off, I did the same thing. And then the one after that. After a while, Dalton knew what I was going to do on each face-off, and I still beat him. My new, not-so-secret move seemed to be working pretty well. Probably had something to do with getting Hall of Fame advic
e from one of the best players ever.

  Making those sorts of minor improvements in my game was becoming more and more important as my minor midget season was wrapping up. I still wanted to be drafted into the OHL, but I was also seriously looking at playing in the NCAA, so my family and I visited a number of different schools and cities. My mom was particularly keen on me playing in the NCAA—she wanted me to get a good college education—and my dad agreed I should consider all of my options.

  My mom and I took a couple of trips down to the University of Michigan. The first time we visited, we went down with my teammate and schoolmate Paul Rekai and his mom. We took a tour of the campus with one of the associate coaches of the hockey team, and then we got to watch the outdoor hockey game between the University of Michigan and Michigan State. It was called the Big Chill at the Big House. The whole campus was electric. People were tailgating and celebrating before the game even started, and I could feel the rumble of their chants in my chest as we entered the arena. I turned to my mom and said, “This is so cool.” The game set a record for attendance at a hockey game, and I loved the atmosphere.

  Not long after, I took a second trip down, this time with my dad. It was a more serious visit, but we still managed to catch another game between the two Michigan teams, each of which was captained by a future NHLer. Tory Krug led Michigan State, and Carl Hagelin was the captain of the University of Michigan. This time, the game was held inside at the Yost Ice Arena. After the game, my dad and I sat down with Red Berenson to talk about the University of Michigan program.

  I still had to keep my options open, though, so we also went to visit the OHL teams in Windsor and London, Ontario. Each place looked better than the last, and as the list of places we visited grew longer, I kept asking myself, Where can I play in front of the most fans possible?

  A lot was going to boil down to what happened during the OHL draft. The draft is done online, so on May 7, 2011, I was sitting at the kitchen table in my mom’s house, streaming the draft live on my computer. I watched as my friends’ names appeared—Darnell Nurse, then Jordan Subban. I was still watching when my phone rang.

  “Is this Max?” the voice asked.

  “Yes,” I said distractedly, still staring at my computer screen.

  “Congratulations,” the person said. “I’m calling on behalf of the Kingston Frontenacs. We’ve just selected you as our first overall pick. We can’t wait to have you join the team.”

  Sure enough, as the stream caught up, I saw it in writing: the Frontenacs had drafted me eighth overall.

  My first reaction was a mixture of surprise and disappointment. I hadn’t visited Kingston, so I couldn’t create the same picture in my mind of me and my teammates in front of a roaring crowd as I had in the other places I’d been to. Before the draft, many teams had spoken to my parents and asked questions about my health. The organizations that had taken the time to call wanted to make sure they understood the challenges I faced and that they were comfortable with everything. The Kingston organization hadn’t done that, though, so I worried that they didn’t realize just what kinds of issues I dealt with daily. Were they going to be able to support me so that I could continue to succeed and make it to the NHL?

  I called my dad, who helped calm me down. “Don’t worry, Max,” he said. “Everything is going to work out.”

  It was what I needed to hear, and I trusted my dad that everything would be fine. In the meantime, I looked into my other option of playing in the NCAA more seriously. I even went down to visit a USHL team, which would have been my segue from minor hockey to the NCAA.

  Things did end up working out. At the end of August, I got another call, this time from the London Knights. I’d been traded!

  When I heard the news, my heart skipped a beat. The Knights had been one of my top picks of places to play, and they had an amazing history. More important, I knew they had experience dealing with type 1 diabetes—they already had a player with diabetes on the team.

  While I was excited to be going to the OHL to play for the London Knights, the fact remained that it wouldn’t be an easy road ahead. I was confident in my abilities to play hockey at that level. But I had no idea whether or not I could control my diabetes and still play at the high level that I was used to.

  Before I figured that out, though, I had a more pressing issue: I was about to move away from home. I knew how much I relied on my family, and to move away from them was to move away from the only support network I’d ever known. It wasn’t going to be easy.

  5 TRUST YOUR TEAM

  My parents were a little stressed about the idea of me moving away from home. It wasn’t that they thought I couldn’t handle playing in the OHL. They were worried for my health. I understood where they were coming from. This would be the first time I didn’t have the usual team who’d always kept me healthy—my parents, my sisters, our neighbors, the doctors at SickKids—immediately at hand.

  As I packed up the car for the move, I could tell my parents were nervous. My dad looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and he couldn’t sit still. My mom was calmer on the surface, but I could tell she was thinking about the move.

  “Are you worried?” I asked her on the drive to London.

  “Of course I am,” she said with a smile. She was always open about things with me. “But I know you’ll make the right decisions. And you’ve worked hard to get here, and I’m excited to see what this next chapter brings for you.”

  Fortunately, all of our fears ended the moment that we met my amazing billet family in London. Gail and Scott Tooke were standing outside their house the moment we got there, and Gail greeted us with the warmest smile the moment we arrived.

  “Max, it’s so nice to meet you,” Gail exclaimed, gathering me into a hug as I stepped out of the car. She turned to my parents. “Don’t worry; we’re going to take good care of him. We know exactly what’s needed.”

  She meant that literally: Gail and Scott’s son Noah—my billet brother—also had type 1 diabetes. Not only that, but they already had another billet who also played on the team, Jared Knight, living with them, and he had diabetes, too. When my parents learned that, I could see the weight lift off their shoulders. Suddenly living away from home didn’t seem so intimidating. My parents were confident that Gail and Scott would know what to do if something ever happened to me.

  When I moved in with the Tookes, it was the first time I’d really been around other people with diabetes around the clock. But although we all shared the same disease, we each had wildly different needs. I was dealing with my celiac diagnosis on top of my diabetes. Noah had a thyroid condition he had to manage. And Jared had only recently discovered his diabetes diagnosis.

  Noah had been diagnosed at five years old, so he’d lived with his diabetes most of his life. Jared, though, was only diagnosed when he was eighteen. I fell between the two of them, which meant that each of us was at a different emotional stage in our diabetes management.

  Although Noah was the youngest of the three of us, he was the one who taught us the most about the disease in our first few months together. I was still eating everything in sight and carrying juice boxes around with me everywhere—the empty juice boxes all over the house used to drive Gail crazy. Jared was new to managing his disease, so he was still trying to figure out what exactly his body needed.

  Late one night, all three of us were starting to go low. We were hanging out in the kitchen, drinking one juice box after another, looking for something to eat.

  “How about peanut butter?” Jared asked.

  Noah and I looked at each other. “Jared,” Noah said, “peanut butter’s not a carb.”

  “What do you mean?” Jared asked, a spoonful of peanut butter already in his mouth. Noah and I understood—when you’re low, you’re not thinking clearly.

  “I mean, eating a bunch of peanut butter isn’t going to help bring up your blood sugar levels,” Noah said, starting to laugh. His laughter was infectious, and whether it was the
sight of Jared shoveling back spoonful after spoonful of peanut butter or just the fact that we all had low blood sugar levels, the three of us started laughing uncontrollably.

  I had a ton of fun staying with the Tookes. They were a hilarious family, constantly playing pranks on one another, and it wasn’t long until I was caught up in them.

  Gail’s husband Scott would make a protein shake for everyone in the mornings. One time, I asked Scott if we could make a “special shake” for Jared Knight. I raided the fridge, grabbed everything you could think of—mustard, ketchup, pickle juice—and poured a little of each into Jared’s shake. Scott served the drinks like usual, and I said to Jared, “Knighter—this is one of the best shakes out there.” He took the glass and, sure enough, he downed the whole thing.

  We started laughing our heads off after he finished it, but Jared just looked at us questioningly. “What’s so funny?” he asked. “That was pretty good.”

  The Tookes’ kitchen had one of those spray handles you use in your sink to rinse your dishes—the kind where, when you press a button on the handle, the water stops coming out of the tap and starts spraying out of the spray nozzle. One night, Jared and I taped down the spray mechanism with Scotch tape so that whoever turned on the tap to fill the sink would get sprayed.

  When dinner was done, Gail got up to start doing the dishes. Jared and I exchanged a look and tried to keep ourselves from laughing too early and spoiling the joke. Poor Gail—she turned on the tap and the nozzle sprayed water right in her face. After she got over her shock, Gail was howling with laughter like the rest of us.

  Life in London was a nice change of pace from Toronto. I was in my last year of high school, and my parents were adamant that I finish my education, so I stuck it out in school. But I got some flashes of that carefree living that I hadn’t had in a long time.