No Heavy Lifting

by Rob Simpson

  “You bury family inside the home,” explained Francis.

  The women were absolutely perplexed by our still cameras and, of course, by Gamere’s completely alien TV camera. Mr. Cha-cha lived by hunting water buffalo, giraffe, and wildebeest, and by eating the fruits and vegetables that grew in the garden outside the compound walls. They’d eat the pet rabbits if necessary.

  Later at a Kuria village, the elders greeted us like royal dignitaries, and we danced fertility dances across from the women while listening to raw, frenzied drumbeats. Soon after, three warriors with spears and machetes, in full face and body paint and battle garb, appeared possessed as they staged dances of aggression that spilled into the crowd. I wasn’t really stoked to wait around to find out if I’d been dancing with one of these dudes’ girlfriends. I think all of us were relieved to jump back into the pickup for a change of scenery.

  We headed back to Mugumu for a massive afternoon event RTP called “The Day of the African Child.” Children of all ages literally walked miles to be there to meet these athletes from a faraway land, whom they had never heard of, and to partake in sports and games with them. The boys played soccer while the girls played a form of basketball. Afterwards, Andrew and Monty handed out awards and shook hands with all the children. The females curtsied shyly. Each winner received a rare toy: a tennis ball.

  We stayed at the Giraffe Garden Hotel in Mugumu and slept under mosquito nets. Mosquitoes transmit malaria, a disease that kills tens of thousands of Tanzanians each year, and hundreds of thousands more around the world. The five of us were fine either way: we were taking preventative malaria medication, a luxury sadly unavailable to the locals.

  These are the facts you’re constantly reminded of during your visit. You add each one to the mental pile and move right along.

  “As far as what it’s done for all of us on this trip,” Andrew said, “you know it’s going to change your perspective, but . . . it’s gonna be hard to see some kids back home complaining about stuff, even myself, complaining about certain things sometimes.”

  For us, there will never be another run like the one we did at six thirty a.m. with the kids from the Mapinduzi Primary School on our final morning in Mugumu. A run into the Serengeti sunrise.

  “Three packs of about ninety kids ran for a half-hour, singing songs and running in unison to a march almost, and it was very powerful because it’s something they do every school day,” recalled Monty. “Singing with ease, carrying their book bags, wearing shoes that didn’t seem to fit, and yet they’re just jumping with joy and singing along. Andrew and I were part of the group that led the way . . . it was awesome.”

  “The music is beautiful and the voices are beautiful,” added Andrew. “Running down the road into the horizon of the Serengeti.”

  Our athlete ambassadors then taught lessons on hockey, what it was and generally how it was played, and demonstrated with mini sticks. After some more music and dancing and a few more group games, we hopped into an SUV to leave.

  “One of the toughest things was hopping in the truck and leaving a site,” Andrew said. “Just met some kids a few hours earlier and we bonded so quickly.”

  With the official portion of the Serengeti visit completed, the Right To Play organizers hooked us up with an afternoon safari.

  “It was the Discovery Channel come to life,” explained Monty. “I didn’t know what to expect. I knew we were going on a game drive, but I didn’t know we’d have any chance of seeing anything. But when we saw migrating wildebeest — I heard 1.8 million of them travel seasonally, and we were right in the middle of it — that was pretty amazing.”

  Hyenas, zebras, elands, smaller antelopes, and a chance to take a leak right into the cradle of civilization. We all stood in a row and did just that behind the oversized Range Rover, urinating on the Serengeti, looking over our shoulders for lions.

  “It’s funny, though. You come to Africa and you see wild animals and thousands of wildebeests and it’s kind of almost a ho-hum experience,” Andrew told our documentary crew afterwards. “It’ll be the last thing I talk about when I go home. After all the things we’ve experienced and the kids that we’ve met, animals are kind of . . . meh.”

  That’s called staying on message, Andrew. All good and true in some ways, but honestly, the safari was wicked cool, probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience, with our own personal TV camera and expert videographer along for the ride.

  The flight back to Mwanza was interesting. Un­beknownst to us, or maybe he was kidding, Monty said he’d been taking flying lessons. He was at the controls during the initial descent and part of the final approach. We landed in Mwanza and returned to the Tilapia for lunch before catching an evening flight back to Dar.

  We experienced one more Right To Play activity before flying a puddle-jumper to the island of Zanzibar for rest and relaxation. We explored the marketplace in Stone Town and then hit the beach. It gave us the chance to swim in the Indian Ocean. That night, Patrick and I hopped an overnight flight to Zurich en route home to Boston. Exhausted, sad to leave, yet very satisfied with our efforts, we took time sitting at the airport to reminisce and reflect.

  Endless questions and angles: So many smiles — are the kids miserable when we’re not around? Are they unhappy to be poor? Do they know any better? Is less truly more? We’ll just have to return some day.

  “It’s as unique a situation as I’ve ever been in,” Monty had told us. “It’s hard to think that I’ll ever forget this, and that’s why I’ve been taking a lot of pictures and journaling, just so I can try to digest it all, because it’s been an overload of so many great situations, and certainly tough situations where you just feel so much compassion for these kids because they are so bright.”

  “It makes everything real,” Andrew said. “We’ve read it on paper what they’ve done and it’s on the website, but until you actually see hundreds of kids out at a big sporting event on a field where a junkyard used to exist, that’s all Right To Play’s work. Right from getting the field in shape to getting the kids mobilized and having an amazing time together. You can’t really read about it and fully understand just how happy the kids were to be out there and how amazing it was to watch it. If I go home and try to explain to somebody what it’s like . . . you have to really see it and experience it to realize the true power of just getting out and playing.”

  “It’s such a great avenue to reach children,” Monty added. “All kids, whether they realize it or not, love to play. So to be able to reach kids with an angle [where] they love to be, it’s sending a great message, because there are lots and lots of challenges kids face here, and seeing it first-hand you see tough and challenging situations, and you see great hope and potential for a lot of these kids, because they are so bright and they are so cool and they’re doing well in the program.”

  Based on the desire he expressed to get more involved with Right To Play and other humanitarian and charitable endeavours, one could assume Monty would spend the next few decades of his life piling on life experiences similar to the ones we had in Tanzania. Instead, on February 15, 2015, he was found dead at the age of thirty-five in his home in Mississauga, Ontario.

  Police ruled out foul play. While suicide was presumed, his family wouldn’t announce a cause of death. Accidental death remains the other possibility; Montador admittedly had experienced drinking problems, drug use, and bouts with depression. Monty’s ten-season NHL career essentially ended due to symptoms related to multiple concussions.

  Monty had arranged to donate his brain upon his death to the Canadian Sports Concussion Project, headed up by family friend Dr. Charles Tator. The autopsy confirmed the presence of the degenerative brain disease Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE), a diagnosis only possible after death and a condition closely associated with blows to the head.

  Approximately seventy ex-NHLers have sued the league because of physical damage s
uffered from playing the game, suggesting that the NHL ignored evidence of long-term effects from concussions. Montador’s family joined the lawsuit with the intent of donating any potential proceeds raised from a court decision or settlement toward related medical research.

  Their intent is honourable, but I disagree with the lawsuits. One of the enduring qualities of the sport of hockey is the firehouse mentality — the character, the commitment, and the physicality. Let’s face it: it’s cultural. It’s North American hockey. You’ve been playing the game your entire life; what part of the physicality and violence caught you completely off guard? Sign a waiver or find something else to do. Become a firefighter. They risk their lives and, in some cases, earn next to nothing. As I wrote in my book Black and Gold, former Bruin Derek Sanderson once said, “It’s a violent game played by violent people; if you don’t like it, watch tennis.”

  Arguably, the NHL was the last major professional league to go from being a sport that was a business to being a business that is a sport. Not to suggest previous owners weren’t in it for the profits, but the sometimes mom and pop simplicity of it all has disappeared. It happened during the reign of Commissioner Gary Bettman (which began in 1993 and continues) in which league revenues have grown exponentially. Along the way, there have been lockouts, expansion fees, and a salary cap. He works for the owners, period. Whether or not some of those executives understand or appreciate hockey’s firehouse mentality is irrelevant, it is the familiarity of that concept for the players that makes their lawsuit ironic. It seems to be an after-the-fact money grab in many cases: the NFL players did it in 2013 — why shouldn’t we?

  I’ve shared my differences of opinion with the NHL, even when I worked there, but in this case, regardless of whether one likes or dislikes its general disposition over the years, the league shouldn’t be held responsible. Steve Montador and the others knew exactly what they were doing and they absolutely loved doing it. There are sometimes tragic results in any risky walk of life. In Monty’s case, to couple all of his health issues and lifestyle choices with hockey head-trauma is overly simplistic and not necessarily chronological.

  The NHL created a committee in 1997 to begin studying head injuries, a natural step in the progression. Banning fights or open-ice hits altogether would require an organic effort, a culture change, starting with kids, high school, and college players in the U.S., and junior players in both countries. Rule changes have been introduced and there seems to be a new mentality among players regarding mutual respect and safety. On this track, after a generation or two, it may be a completely new game. I might not watch it, but you’d have a different sport with fewer legalities involved. That’s always a bonus.

  Here’s another idea. Get the NHL Players’ Association and the league on the same page as it relates to enforcing dangerous plays and illegal hits to the head, and then actually enforce them consistently. Impose severe fines and penalties instead of just saying you’re going to impose them. As of early 2018, this also seems to be happening.

  Better yet, get the NHLPA to actively track and assist players as they transition from playing into retirement, especially guys who have suffered severe or chronic injuries. Montador’s best friend in the game, Daniel Carcillo, retired in 2015 and decided to take matters into his own hands by forming the Chapter 5 Foundation, the number 5 in honor of Monty’s jersey number in Chicago. From the website:

  The mission of Chapter 5 is to help athletes discover their new purpose and transition into life after the game. Carcillo was shocked to learn that a single post-retirement phone call from the union, for the most part, made up the extent of transition monitoring. Bye-bye, be tough, move on, just another example of the macho mindset that makes up hockey’s code and aforementioned culture.

  I was as shocked and as sad as any of his acquaintances upon hearing of Monty’s passing. We were involved in a journey that was as unique, consciousness altering, and inspirational as any in our lives. We chatted by phone about once a year the first few years after our trip with Right To Play, and I last saw him at the Leafs practice rink in Toronto, at one of those preseason gatherings organized by Brendan Shanahan to experiment with potential new NHL rules. (Incidentally, banning fighting and violent body checks or cutting the schedule to seventy games so players can actually recover from regular fatigue and pain, weren’t on the list. I’m all for the last one.)

  Don’t blame the game. And the truth is, it’s not about why Monty’s gone, it’s about missing a great guy who had his heart in the right place.

  Or, as Monty’s dear friend and former teammate Martin Gelinas put it to writer Eric Francis of the Calgary Sun in an article four days after Monty’s death: “Is it the concussion? I don’t know. I don’t know what happened and I don’t really care. Let’s just honour him for who he was and what he did.”

  ~

  Andrew Ference played his last NHL game early in the 2015–16 season for Edmonton. His contract ran through the 2016–17 campaign. He remains active in charitable and humanitarian endeavors, particularly in the area of environmentalism. In 2017, he was named chairman of Alberta Sport Connection, a provincial agency that promotes sports development.

  Mark Brender is now the national director for the Canadian office of Partners In Health, an organization that delivers high-quality health care and strengthens health systems for poor and disadvantaged people around the world. See the movie Bending the Arc.

  A small portion of Monty in Africa can be seen on YouTube. Search: Monty NHL in Africa 2007

  LEAPS AND BOUNDS

  “The wave of people. The only thing comparable to it was, we started at Battery Park for the Stanley Cup parade . . . You look behind you and you’ve never seen so many people in your life.”

  Nick Kypreos, former New York Ranger on running the 2013 NYC Marathon

  “Never say never” and “never give up”: two clichés of inspiration, two we normally hear and go, “Yeah, okay, sounds good.” But when you actually apply them, they can light a fire. When the road dead-ends, take a different road.

  In 1991, a couple of buddies visiting me in Hawaii decided they were going to go skydiving on the North Shore of Oahu. For $140 or something, you could jump out of an airplane. At that juncture I probably said, “Not a chance, have fun, get the hell away from me.” I had no interest in paying to splatter myself on some rocks near the beach.

  Yet, three years later, I was jumping out of an airplane for the first time on the North Shore of Oahu.

  Here’s what changed and here’s what was going through my feeble mind. I was doing the jump for television as part of a transition from being a weatherman on TV in Honolulu to being the weekend sports anchor. I was going to jump through the atmosphere into a new job. Yes, cheesy and pathetic. Fortunately, that was the concept explanation that the assignment editor generously bought into.

  This would be a tandem jump, so instead of making the leap by myself, an experienced skydiver would essentially be riding on my back, making sure one of us remembered to pull the rip cord on the parachute.

  In terms of risking my life, I figured if we made it a three-camera shoot, made it real snazzy and gave the skydiving company plenty of publicity, there was no way our chute wouldn’t open. If the CBS affiliate guy goes splat, surely they’d be out of business. In other words, please pack the chute more better and then double check it a third time.

  Where nowadays every news story involves a live shot — live from here, live from there — it didn’t happen nearly as often in 1994 on Oahu. We had an ancient live truck and stoned dudes operating it (not that there’s anything wrong with that). So if I splattered, they’d be doing it the old-fashioned way: racing back to the station with the videotape as fast as possible.

  “This is gonna be cool,” I tried to say with great conviction to my buddy Roger Fredericks, my golf pro actually, who was stoked to be jumping right after me. He had always wanted to jump out of an ai
rplane but could never find anyone to go with him. Naturally.

  Believe it not, by the time the prejump indoctrination is completed, as in, after you’ve looked at the gear, the packed chute, and have run through the events, you’re feeling pretty confident. During the presentation itself, you’re awkwardly quiet.

  “Mmm hmm, yep, sounds good,” I monotoned to the dude who was explaining what he wanted me to do when we first fell out of the plane.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “You’re a lot bigger than me, dude, so if you don’t do this right we’re going for one crazy ride.”

  “Oh really,” I said. “Meaniiiiiiiing?”

  “Meaning you’re about a foot taller than me so if you start flailing around and moving your arms or legs, I won’t be able to steer us and we won’t fall right.” A mini nervous breakdown contorted my mind and took me elsewhere. I thought, He kind of looks like the lead guitarist for REO Speedwagon.

  You actually do think about backing out, but you know you can’t. Just when you seriously think about pulling the chute on pulling the chute, a couple of items pop into your head. In my case, don’t be a wussy, and remember, ego, you’re on TV.

  Of the three cameras utilized for our shoot, two of them were actually provided by the skydivers. One was on another skydiver’s head who’d be falling right in front of us, another would be on a third skydiver who’d be videotaping our plummet from a distance. The last camera was on the ground.

  “Alright, dude. I’m ready.”

  That changed the moment I walked outside and saw the piece-of-shit airplane.

  “Oh, this is gonna be good.” Nuts and bolts, maybe some duct tape, definitely some solder. One goes from thinking, If I don’t puss out, I could be jumping out of it to Holy shit, thank God we’ll be jumping out of it. The pilot was, like, a twenty-five-year-old dude who was just slightly less stoney.