The Crazy Game

by Clint Malarchuk

  Rip said, “I talked to your mom. She says she loves you.”

  Our team doctor climbed into the ambulance with the paramedics and pushed down on my neck the whole ride to Buffalo General. They wheeled me through the emergency room doors. I was still wearing my hockey pants and long johns—they cut the gear off me. They told me I was going to be okay, and I wanted to believe them. I tried to. They put a needle in my arm and I watched their frantic faces drift away.

  Back at the Aud, more than fifteen thousand fans, two teams and all the viewers at home still weren’t sure if I would survive. There were reports that two fans suffered heart attacks. At the very least, everyone had witnessed a scene they would never erase from their minds.

  The teams left the ice after the accident. The players were terrified. My teammate and close friend Grant Ledyard was freaking out—he sobbed with his head in his hands in the Sabres’ dressing room.

  No one wanted to play after that, but eventually the word came through that I’d live, so the game resumed. The players went back to the benches to finish the first period. My replacement, Jacques Cloutier, stood in the dark red crease and crouched as the puck dropped and the clock started ticking again—4:42 … 4:41 … He played in a pool of my blood and trembled through the rest of the game.

  Before returning to the Sabres’ bench, Jim Pizzutelli went to change out of his stained clothes. He pulled off his shoes and realized his socks were soaked with my blood. On the bench, he stared forward blankly as the periods went on and thought about how close I’d been to death. An hour after the game, he sat in the trainer’s office and locked the door. He stayed there alone and refused to talk to anyone.

  I woke up famous. Not just NHL-famous, but CNN news cycle–famous. The surgery took only an hour and a half, but by the time the surgeon had woven more than three hundred stitches inside and outside the six-inch gash on the right side of my neck, it seemed like every person in North America had seen the accident.

  My sister, Terry, was in the hospital room with me. She drove down from Toronto and must have left right when the collision happened, because she was there within two hours, when I woke up. As I feared, Mom had seen the collision on television, had watched me bleed out until the cameras turned away and the announcer lost his composure. “Take the … aww man! That is the … oh God! Oh, please take the camera off. Don’t even bring it over there. Please. Oh my God. Please take it away. That is terrible. Oh my God, what happened?” Mom saw it all and heard it all. She flipped. My brother, Garth, was at her house when it happened. She called him into the living room. “Something’s wrong. Clint’s bleeding.” He told her not to worry because it was probably just another broken nose. “His nose is always in the way,” he said.

  Reporters swarmed the hospital. They tried to sneak in, saying they were relatives. A few made it all the way to my room, but we sent the bastards away. The Sabres’ physician, Dr. John Butsch, came in and I asked him what the damage was. He was reassuring. “You lost a lot of blood, but you’re out of danger. You’re going to be fine.” The surgeon closed the veins on the sliced side of my neck. The other side would compensate, Dr. Butsch said. They had to repair the severed tendons and muscle. The gash stopped a millimetre from my internal carotid artery. If the skate had sliced just a bit deeper, it might as well have been a guillotine.

  I asked Dr. Butsch when I could get back on the ice. He said he wasn’t sure because I’d lost so much blood, but it would likely take a while. Other doctors and physicians came in as well, and they told me a lot of different things. Team management shared their thoughts, too. Everyone had an opinion. Some told me to take the rest of the season off and recover through the playoffs—”Just take it easy for a couple of months.” Some said I should retire. But it didn’t really matter what they said, because I was going to play as soon as I possibly could. A lot of people thought I’d never come back. I didn’t even entertain the idea.

  The press kept hounding us, so the hospital asked me to do a press conference. The room was packed. My sister was still there. It was just me and her and the hospital’s PR staff.

  “When you get knocked off the horse, you get back on,” I told the reporters. “It’ll be tough to play, but I’ll have to be ready … I’ll be psyched for it … I’m anxious to get in there. I’ll be happy to play. Something like this kind of opens your eyes. You have a life to live … I’m lucky to be here.”

  There was such a demand from the media that we had to do a second press conference later that afternoon. And that’s when I broke down. I don’t really know what happened. I wept in front of everyone, with this big bandage on my neck. Earlier, because I was a Sabre, I’d visited with some kids in the cancer ward and posed for pictures and signed autographs. They were so happy and sweet. They were so excited to see me. But it affected me—I’m alive and going to make it. These kids are still fighting. Some of the kids will die. How scared was I during the accident? And these kids deal with this every day? Everything flooded out at the press conference. I broke down. I didn’t care about the cameras or the recorders. Maybe that’s when the shock set in. I let it all out and then pulled it all back in.

  I was supposed to stay at the hospital for a few days, but I couldn’t get any rest. Even after the press conferences, the reporters kept coming. It was a circus, and it was too much for the hospital to handle. I couldn’t stay there any longer, so they released me that night. They took me down to the basement and drove me out a secret exit.

  Two days after the accident, I was back where it all started. I called Jim Pizzutelli and asked him to open up the Aud for me before everyone arrived. We walked down the hallway I’d stumbled through, dying, less than 48 hours earlier. I went onto the ice and stood in the blue crease. My blood was gone.

  “Boy, we’re lucky to be here,” I said.

  “Damn right,” Jim said. “And we’re back.”

  It was nice of him to do, and it helped. But that was the extent of any therapy I’d receive.

  That night, the Sabres played the Vancouver Canucks. The team asked me to make an appearance for the fans. I didn’t want to do it. I felt like a clown. But they pleaded—told me the people of the city had stood behind me and were concerned. So, during a stoppage in play halfway through the second period, they opened the Zamboni doors. The arena announcer boomed, “Here he is, Clint Malarchuk!” I stepped out. I could have fainted from the standing ovation—I was so weak. I had to leave. I was shaking. My legs felt like rubber noodles. I could feel the stitches. It was like a pinch, a sting. Both teams tapped their sticks on the ice and against the boards as I waved.

  I assumed I’d be back on the ice right away, but I had to make sure the stitches wouldn’t tear out. I was paranoid that the wound would somehow reopen, so I was careful about turning my head or making sudden movements. But the Sabres knew I was coming back. There was no chance I’d take the advice of those who said I should take the rest of the year off. It wasn’t just me being stubborn—I was at the end of my option year. I’d have tried to come back anyway, but financially, I knew I didn’t have a choice. As for my body, I was still weak. It takes a while to make up the loss of that much blood. I was probably weak until mid-July, but I didn’t tell anyone. And no one talked to me about any psychological effects. I didn’t know the meaning of trauma then, but I knew the meaning of being a total pussy, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be one.

  I played ten days after the accident, as soon as the stitches were taken out. My first game back was against the Nordiques. Jacques Cloutier started, and then they put me in for the last ten minutes of the game, just to get my legs back. We were winning at the time. The announcer made a big deal out of it: “Now in goal—Clint Malarchuk!” The arena was already going nuts. I got another ovation. I was shaking. The crowd was crazy. There was so much emotion in those ten days. The crowd was so loud, my heart was racing. I can do this.

  At the end of the game, the guys I had played with when I was a Nordique came up to congr
atulate me. Mario Gosselin was one of them. Paul Gillis was another. Having our opponents come see me after a game like that was something special. It really meant a lot to me.

  Meanwhile, I was the biggest celebrity in Buffalo. Everyone knew my story. People saw me as this macho hockey player, but they’d also seen me break down and knew how quickly I had come back. They thought it was pretty cool. I was a hero in that town. I couldn’t buy a meal in Buffalo. Couldn’t pay for a pizza. For years, people would tell stories about how quickly I’d returned from almost dying. One of my Pro Set hockey cards had a picture of me with this Kevlar scarf that Rip and I had made after the accident to protect my neck. It looked like an ascot, and I only wore it for a few games. I ended up switching to a high-collar turtleneck reinforced with Kevlar. I couldn’t handle that plastic throat guard that dangles off the mask. It was hard on my mobility and vision. Anyway, the back of the Pro Set card describes my injury and says I was “back in action a mere two days” after the accident. The myth was building. The card also notes that I was “winless in 11 playoff games.” Thanks very much.

  My career has come to be defined by that accident. It’s my claim to fame. I had a decent run in the NHL, but I wasn’t a Hall of Famer. Still, the fact is that I’m probably remembered better than a lot of goalies with similar stats. Even people who aren’t hockey fans have seen the accident. I was always proud of that. I got bucked off, but I got back on the horse. I refused to let go.

  That season, we met the Boston Bruins in the first round. I played a game or two in the series. I don’t remember the goals that went in or how things played out. I just know that I was okay, but I wasn’t great, whereas before I got hurt I was on fire. And I remember the Boston fans behind my net at the Garden making throat-cutting gestures at me during the game. Back and forth, across the jugular—reminding me to die.

  We lost the series four games to one.

  15

  Night Terrors

  THE PUCK SLIDES ACROSS THE CREASE. I PUSH OFF MY POST AS the other team’s forward cuts in. My defenceman drags him down from behind and they tumble into me. His skate cuts into my neck.

  I wake up.

  It was always the same. I’d sit up in bed, clutching my throat, hyperventilating and sweating, my heart pounding. I had the same nightmare almost every night until I eventually stopped sleeping entirely. It happened all the time, but I didn’t tell anyone.

  I spent the summer after the accident in Calgary, living between my mother’s place and my brother’s ranch. Garth had about twenty acres outside of town. I was there most days, helping him with the horses. I think he was proud of the way I came back, and I was proud to make him proud. By then, Garth was my father figure. Dad was still alive, but we hadn’t talked in years. Not really. I think he called me after the accident, but I barely remember talking to him if he did. Our relationship just faded away.

  I worked out like a monster that summer because I knew I’d have to prove myself when I got back for training camp. Also, I’d been so weak from all the blood loss and I needed to feel strong again. I’d lift weights, alternating body sections, depending on the day. Then I’d run anywhere from ten to twenty miles. And later, I’d box a heavy bag and a speed bag. There was a boxing gym in Calgary I’d go to three times a week to spar and work out. It was circuit training—the whistle blows and you’re doing step-ups; the whistle blows and you’re skipping; the whistle blows and you’re shadowboxing—it was always right to the next station.

  The gym was run by an old boxer named Coco. He was a small guy but seriously tough. A bunch of NHLers trained there, like Doug Houda. There were maybe eight of us who went there. You could spar with Coco; he was really quick and always tagged you good, just to make sure you knew he could beat the shit out of you. He was teaching us, but I knew a few things already. All the other guys were bigger than me, but he put them in their place. But because I had grown up boxing, most times I’d be able to tag him, too. I hit him pretty good once, and he got pissed off and laid into me hard. We ended up fighting. It was a real boxing match. I went home with a terrible headache and threw up. He gave me a concussion, I’m sure. I probably had quite a few of those in my day, but like most guys from that era, I didn’t worry much about it beyond thinking, Holy shit, my head hurts.

  Shortly after the accident, I went alone to see a movie called Black Rain. I loved going to movies alone. It was a way to turn my mind off. Michael Douglas was in this one. It’s about two cops in New York who get caught up in a gang war involving the Japanese mafia. There’s a scene where a character gets his throat cut. I didn’t see it coming—it was one of those things where a guy walks up and kills him from behind. There was all kinds of blood. I started panicking and ran out of the movie. I was in the bathroom, throwing cold water on my face. My heart was racing. It was a full-blown anxiety attack. After I calmed down, I made myself go back into the movie, but I was too rattled to concentrate. I couldn’t unwind, so I left. Anxiety had always been a big part of my life, but things were getting worse. I knew I couldn’t let anyone know. My career would be over if it seemed like I was breaking down because of a stupid injury.

  I went to training camp that year ready to battle for the number one position. Buffalo had traded Cloutier to the Chicago Blackhawks in the off-season, but Daren Puppa’s arm was fully healed and he was back. Everyone knew Puppa was their guy—they had drafted him to replace Tom Barrasso, whom the Sabres had traded to the Pittsburgh Penguins the season before. But I had been on fire when I was traded to Buffalo, and my stock skyrocketed after the quick return from the jugular injury. The job was open if I earned it.

  All through camp, the press kept hounding me with questions. It pissed me off. I thought I was okay, but these people still questioned whether I could ever play as well as I had before the accident. I told them I’d already come back and proven myself, so why was everyone doubting me? They wrote columns questioning whether I should be playing at all. One of the reasons I wanted to come back so fast was to prove to management and coaches that I could still play. But I was still being asked these questions. Everyone kept saying, “Oh, he’ll never be the same.” That pissed me off. I understand media, though—they’re going to play every angle. I just thought, Screw you guys. But even though I tried to put the accident behind me, their questions made me wonder. Should I be back? Am I ready? The truth was that, all through training camp, I was tentative in the net. I was worried in practice—subconsciously, at least. Scared. We had this one guy, Darcy Loewen, who was a really gritty player. He’d always skate hard to the net, even in practice. I’d flinch every time I saw him coming, even though I tried so hard not to. It was a tic I couldn’t afford to have. It exposed me. A goalie who flinches isn’t the kind of goalie you want in your net.

  My old Fredericton Express teammate Rick Dudley took over as the Sabres’ head coach for the 1989–90 season. He replaced Ted Sator, who was behind the bench when the accident happened. I was glad about the move—I really felt like Rick understood me. And our team looked even better on paper than it did the previous season. Rob Ray and Donald Audette were rookies on our team that year. Our other first-year guy was Alexander Mogilny, who had defected from Russia and was the biggest story on our team, if not in the whole league. Mogilny had been on the Soviet team that won gold at the 1988 Olympics in Calgary, playing on a line with Pavel Bure and Sergei Fedorov. He was also part of the Soviet junior squad that got into that bench-clearing brawl with Canada at the 1987 world junior tournament—the “punch-up in Piestany”—when they turned out the lights.

  I lived on the same street as some of the players, like Dean Kennedy, a farm boy from Saskatchewan who joined the Sabres in 1989 after spending the first part of his career out in Los Angeles. We made good neighbours. Sometimes in my driveway we’d set up a bale of straw with a plastic steer’s head with horns. Dean and I would put on cowboy hats and rope that fake steer for hours. It was an odd site in Buffalo. Sometimes, when I’d get home from practice, I
would set up ball hockey games with kids on our street. They’d get home from school in the afternoon, and I’d be waiting with my goalie gear on, ready to play. There’d be kids ranging in age from four to fourteen sometimes. We’d play until dark. There was a pond in the middle of the circle our street made, and when it got cold, we’d set the rink up out there and go play with the kids. Part of me just got a kick out of the joy they got from playing the game. Part of it was an escape. I was a kid again, outdoors, playing the game I loved without a care in the world. It helped ease my anxiety. It was the inactive moments of solitude that haunted me. I had to stay active. I’d play the game nonstop, forever, if I could.

  The street hockey always took place on off-days, of course. Never on game days. Especially not when I was playing. Those days were exhausting enough. My stress peaked on game days. I didn’t recognize it as obsessive-compulsive disorder at the time. I didn’t even know what OCD was. It’s not that being stressed before playing a hockey game is particularly abnormal. Every player feels pressure before they play, especially goalies. Lots of players throw up before games. I did it many times. You get so tight and anxious, it’s like your body just rejects the tension. It’s difficult to say that I was more stressed than other players before games—I can’t know how they felt—but I know that it consumed every part of me. I don’t think that is normal.

  I always had trouble sleeping, especially the night before a game. I’d toss and turn and wouldn’t be able to shut my mind off. It was shitty sleep after shitty sleep that season, and it was just the beginning of my battles with insomnia. I’d get into bed and think about how I needed to get a good night’s sleep in order to play well in the game the next day. And then I’d get stressed because I wasn’t falling asleep, and I’d think about how terrible I’d play because I hadn’t slept well. The stress would build and build. Even if it wasn’t related to hockey, I would find something else to obsess about. It could be anything: problems in my love life, the new coat of paint needed in the basement, whether the doors were locked and the stove was off.