by Max Domi
If we play at seven o’clock in the evening, I get to the rink around four forty-five p.m. As soon as I get there, I check my blood sugar. I test it again after our team meeting, and then again before the pregame warm-up.
Around the ten-minute mark of the first period, I test my blood on the bench. The training staff have it down to a science. They have the test strip ready in the glucose meter for me and tap me on the shoulder. I take off my glove, prick my finger, reach up, and the trainers collect the blood on the test strip for me. In five seconds they have the results, show me the number, and then I return my focus to the game. The whole thing takes ten seconds, start to finish.
If I ever need something on the bench to get my blood sugar up, every NHL team has Gatorade products on hand, from the sports drink to energy gels to chews. The training staff supplements that with other products that they find can also be helpful in delivering the carbs I need and keeping up my blood sugar levels. The trainers have everything stored neatly on the bench so that I can grab a snack or a drink anytime.
The process doesn’t stop after the game ends, either. Before I speak with the media, I check my blood to make sure I’m not at risk of going too low or too high and getting irritable in an interview. Then I check my levels during the postgame workout, at the postgame meal, right after I get home, and one final time before I go to bed.
It only gets more challenging when we’re on the road. When I get to a hotel, I have to make sure I have a little food and some juice on the bedside table. Again, the team trainers and staff are the best—they always make sure there’s food waiting for me in my room in case I have to get my blood sugar numbers up. And the trainers always stay on the same floor as me, just in case something goes wrong in the night and they need to arrive quickly. If my insulin pump ever broke or I lost something that I needed, I could text the trainers and right away and they would be on it.
More than anything, though, I appreciated how honest the trainers and I could be with each other. Halfway through the season, one of the trainers, Jason Serbus, pulled me into his office.
“I want to tell you something,” Jason said me, a serious look in his eye. “Earlier this season, I was asked by management if we had anything to worry about in regards to your diabetes and playing in the NHL. I told them that we can’t have guys puking into their gloves in the middle of a game. Honestly, Max, I wasn’t sure if you could keep track of your diabetes enough to play in the NHL. I didn’t think you would make it.”
Then Jason added something that I’ll always remember. “Honestly, buddy, you’ve proved me wrong. I am so happy that we figured this all out. You’re going to be in this league for a long time, and I’m so proud of you.”
I was blown away. “Serbs,” I said, “you’ve been a big part of why I was able to make it this far. I probably wouldn’t be sitting here without you.”
Jason was outstanding when it came to helping me handle my diabetes. He talked with Doug, the trainer on the Knights, to learn exactly what I needed and how to manage it. And Jason sacrificed his free time to further educate himself on type 1 diabetes, something that he wouldn’t have had to do if I wasn’t there. At first, we butted heads a little bit, but I quickly came to appreciate how much he cared. It was like having a parent watching over me, and I knew he wanted me to get to the next level and be an NHL hockey player. And he knew what he was talking about—he’d won a Cup with the Tampa Bay Lightning in 2004.
And it wasn’t just Jason. There was also Mike Ermatinger and Mikey Griebel. All those trainers were a big part of helping me to get to where I am today. I’m thankful every minute of every day for what they did to help me get through the season. Those trainers stuck with me all the way—there’s no way I could have done it alone. All of that routine and preparation helped me endure the grind that comes with playing so much, and it set me up for success.
One of the best examples of that was in January 2016. The Oilers were in town to play us at home, and we beat them 4–3 in overtime, which was the best part of the night. The second best was that I scored my first NHL hat trick.
The stats sheet tells the story of the goals—all three on the power play. The first was a tap-in that Oliver Ekman-Larsson and Stone set up. For the second, I stickhandled around a defenseman and then was able to work the puck down low. I dished the puck to Ekman-Larsson and managed to knock home his rebound. My third came off a wrist shot, and the next thing I knew, the hats were flying.
Being a young player in the NHL is a lot different than it was back in the day. One of the biggest differences is that rookies can have a bigger role on the team than they used to. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still a rookie and have to pay your dues. One of those was buying the veterans a nice dinner!
We had our rookie dinner at a high-end restaurant in Vancouver. I started the meal the same way I did any other—by testing my blood. When I was first diagnosed, I used to feel embarrassed when I had to take the tester out and check my blood in public. By the time of our rookie dinner, though, I had no problem—I could have pulled out a needle and stuck it in my stomach in the middle of a restaurant without blinking.
Whenever I checked my blood, I always pricked the end of one of my fingers. I had to rotate them so that I wasn’t using the same one over and over. I did the same thing when it came to pump sites for my insulin. I’d use both butt cheeks and both sides of my stomach. If you inject yourself in the same place every day you can develop scar tissue, and then your body will have a problem absorbing the insulin properly. So you have to rotate the injections around your body.
The guys on the team were fine with whatever I needed to do—they were quickly getting used to it. The best part of that night was the bond that developed among our year’s group of rookies. Along with me, there was Anthony Duclair and Jordan Martinook. It was a blast, and it wasn’t scary at all. It ended up being a great dinner, and then we went out afterward and had a good time. Each rookie received a wine bottle signed by the whole team as a memento. I still have the bottle.
Martin Hanzal ordered the most food that night. My first impression of Hanzal was that he was a very intimidating, scary, big, grumpy guy. Once you get to know Hanzal, though, you realize that he is a great guy and that he’s absolutely hilarious. He’s the kind of guy who can make you laugh without even trying.
Usually during mealtime I have to count my carbs to make sure I give myself the right amount of insulin. But during our Coyotes rookie dinner I was less concerned with the food and more worried about the booze. I was just waiting for someone to pass me a shot and encourage me to drink it. I made sure I was testing my blood more frequently than usual during that night in case anything came up.
Luckily, Shane Doan was keeping an eye on me. After he noticed that I was checking my blood over and over, he quietly said to me, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to drink anything that is put in front of you. And if anyone has a problem with that, you come right to me.” I immediately relaxed and knew that I was going to be fine.
That kind of team-bonding wasn’t just fun—it was necessary. My biggest adjustment to the NHL wasn’t to the strength and speed of the players. It was much more on the mental side of things.
When I lined up next to Sidney Crosby during my first home game in the NHL, I could hardly believe my luck. I had spent countless hours watching YouTube videos of the guy, and now I was playing against him. Moments like that stayed with me for days—far longer than memories of the first time being hit by a big defenseman, for example.
There were definitely some learning experiences that first year. In December 2015, we were playing in Minnesota to face the Wild. I picked up the puck in the neutral zone and was absolutely flying down the wing when I toe picked and went down. I wish I could blame the soft ice, but this one was on me. I fell and landed face-first on a defender’s stick. My nose and my eye took the brunt of the fall. I came back to the bench, and I knew it wasn’t good—I thought I had broken my nose, but my eyes were more mes
sed up. I managed to get fixed up and told the coaches that I wanted to stay in the game. There’s no way I’ll get hit like that again this game, I thought, confident in my odds.
The next period, I was standing in front of the net, which was a rare occurrence for me. Connor Murphy ripped a shot along the ice, and all of a sudden Jordan Martinook stuck his stick out to tip the puck. He did tip it—straight up into my face. My whole face went numb, I couldn’t feel my nose, and my eye swelled shut.
I went down right away after the puck hit me. When I was a kid, my dad would often say, “If you’re hurt, get back up. If you’re injured and you can’t physically get up, that’s a different story.”
I pushed myself to my feet and skated to the bench. Once I sat down, though, I realized I was in rough shape. I wiped my face with a towel, and when I took it away, it was covered in blood. Anthony Duclair was sitting beside me, and as I looked up, I caught the shocked expression on his face, and we both started laughing. I eventually went to the dressing room to get fixed up. I looked in the mirror and saw an absolute mess—this time, my nose was actually broken. But I got everything straightened out and cleaned up, and I made it back out to the bench to finish the game. When I returned, my teammates took one look at my face and turned away. “You’re a mess,” one of them said with a laugh.
My dad’s voice was often in my head that first year. Even though my dad and I butted heads a lot, I still called him all the time and asked him questions—I valued his opinion. And, whether I liked it or not, my dad would still send me a note before every single game. He still does it to this day. Some days he texts me a reminder to check my blood sugar levels. Other times he tells me to keep my shifts short, or to make sure I compete hard every shift (his go-to line), or to go to the blue paint, because, “Max, that’s where the goals are scored.”
It’s more or less the same note every game, so I usually skim through it and take some mental notes here and there. But every now and then, even if it takes ten or twelve texts, I realize that what he is saying is right. Those moments are a humbling reminder that I’m lucky to have a dad who played so many years in the NHL and that I should always listen to the people around me.
Although I sometimes shrugged off my dad’s texts, I knew that if I ever needed him, all I had to do was call. He was often the first person I’d reach out to when I needed reassurance. I have to say, my dad sees the game like no one else I have ever talked to. I would make a simple play during a game—something as easy as chipping the puck into the other team’s zone, or skating hard toward the play off the bench—and he would notice it.
Ever since I was a kid, my dad had instilled in me the lesson that it was never acceptable to take a shift off. I might have been able to fool some people when I didn’t play that well, but I could never fool my dad. Like me, he always knew when I didn’t have a good game, and he wasn’t afraid to let me know it. He was still holding me to the same standard he had since I was a kid—I could trust my dad to always tell me things the way they were, good or bad.
Those little details are what separate NHL players from everyone else, and you have to be aware of them at all times. For example, until you’re on the ice, you can’t appreciate how much chirping goes on back and forth between players. I chirp as much as the next guy. But there’s an unwritten code in the NHL you have to respect—as a young player, you’re not supposed to heckle older players. You have to learn when it’s acceptable to chirp and when to be silent and show respect.
One night, we were playing the Senators, and as we warmed up, I remembered seeing on Twitter that it was a big milestone game for Chris Neil. As we were waiting for the first face-off, I leaned over to Neil.
“Congratulations, Chris,” I said.
“Thanks a lot, buddy,” he said. “How’s your dad doing?”
“Oh, he’s good.”
“Good stuff. Say hi to him for me.”
Moments like that were a reminder that, although I was excited to be in the Show, there was a history that came before me and I had to earn my place in it. Most of the time, though, I was happy to be known as a young keener. I was so excited the first time the Chicago Blackhawks came into town. Along with Crosby, Patrick Kane was my favorite player growing up. I asked my equipment manager if he would go to his counterpart on the Blackhawks and see if he could get Kane to sign a stick for me—I was too scared to ask him myself, and I figured it was a long shot. I was going to be playing against him the next day, but in that moment I was just an excited fan. I couldn’t believe it when my equipment manager brought back a stick with the words “To Max. All the best, Patrick Kane” on it.
By far my favorite encounter with an older player took place one night in St. Louis when we were playing the Blues. Alex Steen of the Blues had played with my dad in Toronto. That was toward the end of my dad’s career, when I was a little older and was getting to know the guys my dad played with. Steener had always been such a great guy to me—he always talked to me like I was an adult, not just one of his teammates’ kids, and I’d always appreciated that.
Steen was lined up to take the face-off, and I was on the wing. The first time we were on the ice at the same time, my centerman got kicked out of the circle and I had to step in to take the draw against Steen. As I skated in, Steen looked up and said, “What’s up, Maxy? I’ll see you after the game.”
“Sure thing,” I replied as I squatted down for the face-off.
“What’s wrong with your skate?” Steen said, pointing to my laces. I was about to look down when I realized the linesman was about to drop the puck. Steen had been trying to fool me with the old “skate laces” gag. Luckily, I recovered in time to win the draw, but Steen was laughing the whole time.
My life was full of new experiences off the ice, too. Toward the end of the season, Rich Nairn, our media director, called me with a request.
“Max, there’s a race car driver who’s asked to meet you. He has diabetes, too, and he’s in town for a race at the IndyCar racetrack outside of Phoenix. Do you have some time to go out there?”
I wasn’t a big racing fan, but it sounded like fun.
“Sure, why not?” I said.
Connor Murphy, one of the other young guys on the team, went with me, and later that day we were dressed in official race suits at the side of the track, watching the Indy cars whip by during their time trials. Finally, a guy wearing a neon-green-trimmed race suit came over.
“Max, I’m Charlie Kimball,” the guy said, shaking my hand.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “These cars can fly.”
“Wait until you get out there and feel it for yourself,” he said.
We spent the next while talking about what it was like to compete at the highest levels of our sports while managing our diabetes. There’s nothing quite like the bond you have with another person who has type 1 diabetes. I mentioned how good the Coyotes trainers and doctors were, and Charlie suggested I reach out to his doctor, Dr. Anne Peters, if I had any other questions.
“She’s a world-class diabetes specialist,” he said. A few minutes later, someone from Charlie’s team hurried up, as he was needed elsewhere. “Sorry, Max, I want to keep talking, but I need to get ready. Great to meet you. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out to me.” With that, he hustled off to his car.
A track official then appeared beside me. “Head over there and grab a helmet,” he said, pointing to a table at the side of the track. “The car will be here in a second”
The car pulled up, and I hopped inside.
“Just hang on to these bars,” a crew member said, pointing to a couple of handles beside me. “And make sure you tuck your head a bit.” He patted the driver on the shoulder and grinned. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”
We sped out onto the track and started ripping around at speeds I’d never felt before. I was relieved to see the first bend approaching, figuring we’d slow down and I could catch my breath. But Indy car drivers speed up
when they go around a corner, and as we whipped around it at full speed, I was terrified that the car was going to roll right over. It was too loud for the driver to hear anything I said, so I just held on to the grips beside me for dear life.
When we finally pulled back into the pit, the driver jumped out of the car. I was shocked when I saw his gray hair and wrinkles. That’s the guy who was driving me? I thought. Shortly after, I learned that the guy was a legend: Mario Andretti, one of the most successful racing drivers of all time. When I figured that out, I was quick to hurry over and ask for a picture.
Days like that were a nice break from the usual routine, and they gave me something fun to talk to my family about.
My mom was able to visit Arizona regularly, but I would usually catch up with my dad and sisters throughout the season at road games that they came to watch. Once, when we played the New York Islanders in Brooklyn, I found out after the game that Justin Bieber had joined my family in a box that night. Justin was a big hockey fan and had met my dad previously, so when my dad and Avery happened to run into him that day in the city, my dad invited him to the game. To my mom and sister’s surprise, he actually showed up!
I checked my phone after the game and saw the photos that Avery had sent me of her and the rest of my family with Bieber. At first I thought they were fake, until they filled me in on the whole story. The visit, like most of the ones I got with my family on the road, didn’t last long. We usually only had about ten minutes together after the game before I had to leave for the plane. Still, those few minutes meant the world to me. They made the grind of life on the road seem not so bad.
We didn’t make the playoffs that year, so my season came to an end in April. The one silver lining was that, because I wasn’t in the NHL playoffs, I was eligible to play for Team Canada at the World Hockey Championships in Russia.