by Max Domi
Almost the second after I hung up, the phone rang again. This time it was Montreal’s GM, Marc Bergevin.
“I wanted to call and personally welcome you to the Canadiens,” Marc said. We talked a little about how excited we were for the upcoming season, and just like that, I was a Canadien.
I shared the news with my dad and our friend, and they both gave me a huge hug. I couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of playing in a heritage market like Montreal, but still, the moment felt bittersweet. I really wanted to be a part of the team the Coyotes were building in the desert and to win with my first team in the NHL. I had built some strong friendships there—some of the younger guys on the team felt like family. But I knew that I’d have those friendships my entire life, no matter where I played, so I told myself to focus on the positives.
I had one other concern, though. I’d worn number 16 ever since I was a kid, but that wasn’t going to be an option anymore. Number 16 had been retired in Montreal in honour of Henri Richard. I had some other numbers in mind, but one of them stood out: 13. Mats Sundin’s number. Luckily, it hadn’t been retired, and when I saw that, I knew what I’d be wearing when I pulled on my Canadiens jersey in the fall.
* * *
With the trade finalized, there was only one thing for me to do: go out and show Montreal that they had made the right move. My goal over the summer was to tap into a whole new energy system. I had my blood sugar dialed in thanks to the changes I’d made the last season, but one thing I was still struggling with was my engine—I wanted to be able to play more, be more efficient, and not get as tired.
I needed to find a whole other gear, one where I could chase down the puck in the third period with two minutes to go and still have the energy to split the D and hold off a defenseman while going to the net. If I could find those new levels of energy, my brain wouldn’t be focused on fatigue. Instead, it would be free to perform the way I needed it to and recognize whether I needed to go to my backhand or my forehand in the situation.
I reached out to Mats Sundin and pestered him with questions about training and conditioning—I’d never forgotten the sight of him on the stationary bike after a game. We caught up early that summer, before I started my training, and he explained what sort of fitness he thought I needed to get my game to the next level. Mats shared with me the sorts of workouts he had done, and suggested I try some of them.
Not long after, I started working with former Canadian Olympian and track star Mark McKoy. I remember one of the first workouts from Mats that we did. I ran 500 meters, then rested for exactly one minute and thirty seconds. Then I ran 1,000 meters and rested for exactly two minutes. Then another 500 meters with a minute and a half of rest, followed by 1,000 meters and two minutes rest, and then a final 500 meters.
On paper, the workout didn’t look that bad. The first time I tried it, though, I was humbled. To do the workout properly, I had to stick to the exact rest times between runs. But, I couldn’t do it—halfway through, I could barely breathe.
I didn’t give up, though. I had always wanted to be like Mats, one of the all-time greats. We were different players with different body types, but I still held myself to his standard. I kept working away and pushing myself, and bit by bit, what seemed impossible on the track or on the ice became a little more possible.
By the end of August, I felt better on the ice than I had ever felt before the start of camp. A lot of that was thanks to the doctors and trainers I was working with. But I also felt more grounded than I had before. I had spent as much time over the summer working on my personal issues as I had on my body. I was still finding those quiet, meditative moments, either by myself or with Orion and my family, that helped me remain calm and balanced.
After I was traded, some people asked me if I was worried about playing in Montreal. “Isn’t there a lot of pressure?” they asked. Each time I heard the questions, I laughed and shook my head. Worried was the last thing I was feeling.
“Playing in a place like Montreal is why I play the game,” I’d respond.
There were some things I knew I’d have to work on. For one, I didn’t speak French. I’d learned some French as a kid, but I was never that great at it. When I moved to Montreal, I wished I remembered more of the language. I had a new chef, Emileigh, helping me with my nutrition, and I asked her what I should learn to say. “Je vais manger des spaghettis”—“I’m going to eat spaghetti,” she said with a grin.
But when it came to hockey, I always loved playing in front of big crowds—the bigger the better. I wanted the pressure and the sold-out stands. I wanted to walk down the street and meet people who knew the game and knew what was going on with the team. I loved the fact that, in Montreal, hockey was a religion. I didn’t see playing for the Canadiens as pressure—I saw it as a privilege and an opportunity to prove myself and represent something special.
The first time I walked into the Canadiens’ practice facility, I took a moment to check out the names of all the Hall-of-Famers on the wall around me—Maurice Richard, Guy Lafleur, Jean Béliveau. Legends, I thought. And I’m lucky enough to wear the same jersey as them. My new life as a member of the Montreal Canadiens sunk in, and I couldn’t wait to get started. All I needed to do was play hard every shift and enjoy myself. If I did that, I was confident I could live up to all those players who wore the sweater before me.
Despite what some people predicted about our team in the preseason, we knew as players what we were capable of and what we could accomplish. Our goal entering the season was to surprise as many teams as possible.
We started the season with a big test against the Toronto Maple Leafs. I had been looking forward to that first game for so long. In the summer, while I was training, I’d had the date circled in my calendar, thinking about how much fun it would be. The days leading up to that opening game were a big emotional roller coaster. There were moments where the nerves kicked in and I psyched myself out a little. But then I’d see my teammates on the ice, and I’d feel as though nothing could stop us.
The game was nonstop back-and-forth. We struck first halfway through the first period. I was standing right in front of the net when Artturi Lehkonen swung up from behind the goal line and fired the puck in the short side. I threw my arms up in the air and raced over to congratulate him. I could hear cheers and boos from the crowd, but I didn’t care. We were on the board and ready to keep things rolling.
The Leafs pulled ahead 2–1, but I earned my second assist of the night when we managed to tie it up on the power play in the second period.
We ended up losing the game in overtime, but I honestly felt as though we were the better team in the game, and the way we played that night gave us the confidence to start the year with the right mind-set.
A few weeks later, we were back in Montreal to face the St. Louis Blues. During warm-up, I was skating around with Jonathan Drouin, and everything seemed to be clicking. The puck was whipping off our sticks, and our passes were connecting perfectly. We looked at each other and I just said, “We’re feeling pretty good, eh?”
At the start of my first shift of the game, we were hemmed in our own zone for a little too long. We were grinding away, and I thought, Oh no, it is going to be one of those nights against St. Louis.
The next thing I knew, the puck went up the wall and was chipped out to me. I burst out of the zone and was off to the races. I was barreling down the right wing, skating as hard as I could, and I could feel Vladimir Tarasenko hot on my heels. I crossed the blue line on a two-on-one with Drouin on the left. I had next to no time to make a decision, so I threw a backhand on net. I tried to put it low on the far side so that Drouin could pick up the rebound. But my shot went along the ice, surprising Jake Allen and slipping into the back of the net.
The Bell Centre lit up and the crowd leapt to its feet with a roar as the horn sounded. I pumped my fist, and the biggest smile spread across my face as I skated through the celebration train at the bench. I hadn’t been that fired u
p since I scored in the gold medal game of the World Juniors. Just like that, my total love for the game of hockey was back with me in full force.
A few weeks later, Mats and my dad came to see one of my games. I met up with them in the hallway afterward, where they greeted me with big smiles.
“That was the best I’ve ever seen you play in the NHL,” Mats said.
“Thanks, Mats,” I said with a grin.
Then Mats got serious. “You were making a lot of good plays out there,” he said. “You just keep doing what you’re doing—don’t change a thing and don’t get comfortable. Keep working toward being great. Do the work no one else is doing.”
I took Mats’s words to heart. As a person with diabetes, I didn’t have a choice. There was always going to be work I had to do that no one else did. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I was determined to never miss a shift and to always be ready when Coach Claude Julien called my name. I owed it to my teammates, to the family and friends who had helped me get to where I was, and to myself.
Every time I see my sweater hanging in my stall with the Canadiens logo on it, I feel like I’m living a dream. But it’s one I never want to wake up from. It is the biggest honour I’ve ever had in my life.
AFTERWORD
In 2017, during a break from my training, I was invited to Washington, D.C., to be a part of a big event for JDRF. The event was called Children’s Congress, and it brought together volunteers and staff from across the country to advocate for those living with type 1 diabetes. JDRF is the leading global organization funding type 1 diabetes research. The organization was trying to secure funding for the next few years of their special diabetes program.
I sat on a panel of people, all of whom had diabetes. There were some actors with me, such as Paul Sparks from House of Cards, and I saw Charlie Kimball, the IndyCar driver. Nicole Johnson, Miss America 1999, was part of the group, as were the CNN reporter Cristina Alesci and an amazing scientist named Dr. Aaron Kowalski, who at that time was chief mission officer for JDRF. This is an impressive group, I thought as I sat down at the table and took in everyone’s faces. Better bring my A-game.
We talked to members of both the House of Representatives and the Senate to try and convince them to approve the necessary funding—roughly $150 million every two years. It was a long day, but a rewarding one. A series of experts made presentations of behalf of JDRF to ensure there wouldn’t be a reduction or stoppage in the government funding. To highlight how important it was for the funding to continue, the experts revealed a startling fact: in the United States, more people die from complications of type 1 and type 2 diabetes every year than from AIDS and breast cancer combined. The funding we were there to support would help save lives.
After the political presentation was out of the way, we had a chance to get to connect with people more personally. We left the government offices and went to a meeting room where 160 kids and their parents were waiting for us. The kids took turns asking questions, and we went around the group and added our two cents.
At one point, a kid addressed a question to me directly.
“Max, does Orion keep watch over you while you sleep?” she asked.
“Kind of,” I said. “He sleeps at night, just like any other dog, but he’s always sensitive to my blood sugar levels. If I go low in the middle of the night, he’ll pick up the scent of my low blood sugar, and he’ll wake me up so that I can fix it. It’s especially helpful the nights after games.”
I could see in the kid’s face that she knew exactly what I was talking about, and I caught other people around the room nodding in agreement—we’d all been through a similar experience.
Sometimes, after doing a hockey interview or talking with media, I find myself drained. It can take a lot of focus to make sure I’m answering the questions properly. But when I left the diabetes event that day, I felt exactly the opposite—I was fired up.
On my worst days, I can feel like I’m the only person in the world struggling with diabetes. Events like the one JDRF held in Washington, D.C., remind me that I’m not alone. As soon as you have the opportunity to speak with another person with diabetes, whether they’re eight years old or eighty, you form a special connection that no one else has.
I find that when I talk to a kid about the disease, I learn just as much from them as they might learn from me. I love hearing other people with type 1 diabetes talk about their experiences because then I can compare them to what I deal with all the time. That’s how you learn—by talking to other people and listening. I compare it to hockey. For me, getting an assist and seeing someone else succeed is the best. I get more out of that than I do from scoring a goal myself. And just like I get a thrill out of setting up a teammate for a goal, I love talking to a young person with diabetes and trying to encourage and inspire them. Since that event in Washington, I have spoken to thousands of people living with type 1 diabetes. I feel it’s an important job for me—to try and help kids and inspire them, just as Bobby Clarke did for me.
A few months later, after the season started, I was getting changed after a practice when our team media representative came up to me.
“Max,” he said, “there’s a young kid and his dad here to meet you.”
I went out and introduced myself to the two of them. The boy had just been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.
I didn’t want to scare them, but I cautioned them they were about to go through a lot of ups and downs over the next few years.
“If you dig deep enough, though, you can get through it all,” I said to the boy. “If you want to play in the NHL, you can play in the NHL.”
The dad’s eyes lit up. “That’s exactly what he wants to do!” he said.
“If that’s your dream, then go for it,” I said to the boy as he smiled. “And if you or your dad have any questions for me, reach out to me anytime and I’m more than happy to help.”
Shortly after I first made the NHL, when I was just starting to talk to other kids with diabetes, my mom said something that has stuck with me every single day.
“Your diabetes may feel like a burden, Max,” she said. “But it is also a gift. You have an opportunity to truly make a difference in people’s lives, and that’s something that many people don’t have the power to do. It’s up to you to make the most of it.”
Before every game, as the anthems play, I close my eyes and think on my mom’s words and what they mean. For those few seconds, the rush and the pressure of the game all disappear, and I flash back to being a kid again. I see my mom waking up at six in the morning on a cold, dark Saturday to take me to practice. I see and smell the narrow hallway at Port Credit Arena in Mississauga. I see me and my sisters in the back of my dad’s car as he drops us off for one of my Friday night games, my two yellow TPS sticks under my arm and my sisters’ chatter around my head. Images of junior and international play rush past me as I reflect on all of the sacrifices my family and those close to me have made to allow me to achieve my dream of playing in the NHL.
Finally, when the anthems end, I give my head a shake and think about all of the kids who are trying to follow their dreams and how watching the game that night might inspire them. And then it’s game on.
I play hockey because I love it. There’s nothing I would rather do, and I look forward to each and every time I get to step on the ice. It’s the greatest game in the world.
As a person with diabetes, I push the boundaries of the disease to the limits. I don’t have the luxury of doing the same thing every single day, and my schedule and job add to what is already a tough everyday battle with the disease. Nothing is the same day to day, or even minute to minute. As a person with diabetes, you can plan, and calculate, and strategize, but even then, things can change and you have to adapt instantly. There’s no such thing as being over-prepared. But my goal has been the same since the first skating lesson I took at two years old—I want to play in the NHL and I want to be the best player I can be. I want to help my team w
in championships and to play hockey at the highest level possible as long as I can.
Type 1 diabetes didn’t stop me from fulfilling my lifelong dream of making the NHL—it doesn’t have to stop anyone from following their dream. I will continue living with this disease twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for the rest of my life. There are risks that come with that, but there’s no need to be scared of the disease. And even though I never get a day off because of my diabetes, I am still so excited about the journey ahead. Living with this disease has made me a stronger person and turned me into who I am. This is just the start, and diabetes hasn’t stopped me yet. And for anyone else living with the disease, it won’t stop you, either.
Teemu Selanne holding me in my earliest days.
You’re never too young to learn. From the moment I could hold a hockey stick in my hands, I dreamed of playing hockey.
Some of my favorite childhood memories are from the moments I spent hanging out in Maple Leaf Gardens and the Air Canada Centre, learning from the amazing guys my dad played with. Mats Sundin, in particular, was one of my biggest heroes.
Me with my family in younger, more carefree days before my type 1 diabetes diagnosis. I have always been close with my mom, Leanne; my dad, Tie; my older sister, Carlin; and my younger sister, Avery.
As a kid, all I wanted to do was play hockey. If I wasn’t on the ice, I was strapping on my Rollerblades and practicing my shot in the garage or on the driveway.
This was the last full season I played before I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes (front row, second from left). It was a difficult learning process—I wanted to keep competing and be treated just like any other kid, but my diabetes meant that I always had to be thinking and preparing differently. Luckily, I had amazing teammates, coaches, and friends to help me along the way. Upper Canada College