Prologue

I used to work out in Los Angeles with Bob Probert. I thought that was pretty cool. More than cool. For one thing, Bob was my idol. He was a lot of people’s idol, but my respect for the man probably ran a little deeper than most, since he and I did the same job for a living. We were both tough guys, and tough guys respect each other. Still, Bob was the coolest tough guy ever to put on skates, so I figure I probably respected him a little more than he respected me. But that was fine.

The San Jose Sharks were paying for my trainer at Gold’s Gym in Venice Beach. They were also paying me millions of dollars to play hockey, so they’d hired the trainer to take care of their investment. I thought that was pretty cool too. On my first day at the gym, the trainer told me to go warm up on the bike and meet my training partner for the summer: Bob Probert, legendary Chicago Blackhawks enforcer.

So I was pretty close to having it all. The job I’d wanted since I was a little kid. Hitting the weights with a legend, at the gym where Arnold Schwarzenegger got huge. Gold’s has an outdoor workout area. On one side of the chain-link fence are a bunch of huge guys pumping iron under the California sun, and on the other is the ocean, the boardwalk, and a parade of beauties a young guy from Swan Hills, Alberta, could have hardly imagined.

Not many people get to live out their dreams down to that kind of detail, but there I was. I had it pretty good.

One day Probie said, Hey Myze, you like Harleys?

Yeah, I love bikes, why?

Well, me, Jeremy, and Chris are going to hit the canyons tomorrow for a ride. Want to join?

That would be his Blackhawks teammates Jeremy Roenick, who went to the All-Star Game pretty much every year, and Chris Simon, one of the toughest guys in the league. So, pretty cool guys to hang out with.

Sure Probie, I said. But I don’t have a motorbike licence.

Don’t worry about the licence, buddy, I’ll rent the bike for you. I’ll put the deposit on my Visa and we’ll be good to go.

So there I was on the back of Probie’s bike, riding down the highway to the dealership. It must have been quite the sight. Two six-foot-four, 225-pound guys doubling on a Harley.

When it was time to go our separate ways, he said, Okay, we’re going to meet at Malibu Chicken around nine a.m. See you then.

I was renting this house that was about ten minutes from the beach, a nice little spot. I took the bike home and sat down to watch some TV. But that evening I was getting a little restless. I started thinking, Brantt, are you really going to just sit here and watch TV? How fucking boring is that? You’re only twenty-five years old. You’ve got some cash in the bank. If you head down to the beach on this Harley, you never know—you might meet a nice girl to take for a ride and enjoy the sunset.

You might even go for a beer.

In fact, anyone would be crazy not to. Unless they’d already been through two stints in rehab.

Which I had.

I’d been kicked out of the league twice. I’d been drafted, because someone thought I would make his team better. And I’d been kicked out, twice, because the league thought I was making it worse.

Now I was back. I was with my third team. I was doing better than ever. Making more money than ever. Enjoying the breeze off the ocean in Venice Beach. All I had to do to hold on to all this was stay sober.

But I told myself that one beer isn’t really a relapse. That I’d just head down to the bar by the beach. That I’d have just one.

I jump on the Harley and off I go. As I’m driving I’m not concentrating on how beautiful the palm trees are or how the ocean is looking as the sun goes down. I’m wrestling. I’m saying the words Don’t do it, Brantt. Turn the bike around. You’re going to fucking blow this again. Couples are walking down the narrow streets in flip-flops and loose-fitting clothes. Everyone is tanned and relaxed. No one has any idea what I’m going through. They probably think I’m just like them. Just enjoying the evening, like a normal person.

I’m not. The funny thing is, I’m not enjoying this at all.

The bars are all lit up and everyone inside looks happy. I feel left out, like everything is happening without me. It’s one bar after another. It’s as though all anyone does here is drink. I park the bike, put my helmet on the handlebars, and walk into this Mexican place for my one beer.

I sit down at the bar. It’s sickeningly familiar. The taps of draft, the specials on the chalkboard. The bottles lined up shoulder to shoulder across from me, where I see myself in the mirror. Catching myself in the act. The beer doesn’t even taste that good. Not really. When you haven’t had a drink in a while, the buzz hits right away. You’re not convinced you even like it. A minute before, I was sharp. Now I’m not so sure.

Not for that first sip anyway. That first, guilty sip.

By the time I finish that beer, though, it’s not hard to remember what I loved so much about booze. And let’s be honest.

I’ve never stopped at one.

Soon it’s two. Then three. Now the guilt is draining away. The rush is a relief, bordering on giddy joy. The world transformed in a few short minutes into a better place. Why would I stop now? Now when the bar is a sea of smiling faces? When the lights are swirling around me, and the music is irresistible?

I had money. I felt the warm glow of security knowing I could drink as much as I wanted.

I went outside for a smoke and noticed my helmet had disappeared. I just laughed.

By two thirty I’ve finished a bottle of tequila.

I said to this Mexican guy sitting next to me, Hey pal, know of anywhere I can get some blow? Of course he does. Not far away. Perfect, I tell him. Let’s roll.

When we get outside I’m surprised the street is empty. The tanned, good-looking couples have all gone home. The storefronts and restaurants have gone dark. I’m having a hard time standing.

How are we getting there? the guy asks.

I point at the Harley.

We’re going on that thing?

Hell yes.

Where’s our helmets?

Don’t worry, bro, I’ve been riding bikes since I was five. We don’t need helmets. Jump on.

There we were, driving down Washington Avenue, only now the night is cool and the hum of traffic is gone. All I can hear is the thunder of the Harley echoing down the empty street.

We were cruising along when I looked back at the guy and said, Yo bro, where are we going? Are we close? I was shouting over the roar of the wind. The wind can be deafening when you’re not wearing a helmet.

He said, Oh shit, it’s right here, turn right! I turn the handlebars and the next thing I see are these two little snakeskin cowboy boots fly by. The bike is in full flip mode, and I’m bouncing on the road. When I open my eyes I notice that I’m in a real bad neighbourhood.

My bike is about fifty feet from me and it looks mangled. I look at my arms and legs. I’m mangled too. I get up and run over, lift it up, jump on, and hit the start button. I’m relieved when it starts. I looked around for the Mexican but all I see are his cowboy boots sticking out of the ditch. I have no clue what condition he’s in but I’m not sticking around to find out. I put the Harley in gear and take off down the highway. It’s now three thirty in the morning. I’m not having fun anymore.

All of a sudden I hear the cop sirens going, telling me to pull over.

I’ve been pulled over before. I’m not intimidated by cops. But this time I’m really fucked. It’s funny how a siren can clear your head. Jail for sure. One hundred percent, my career is finished. I pull over and shut the bike off, sitting there with no helmet on and blood all over my clothes. The cop walks up to me and says, Licence and registration please. I’m so hammered I can’t even get my hand into my pocket to grab my ID.

Whoa, whoa, you’ve been drinking a lot tonight, mister.

Yes, officer, I have been drinking tonight. I know I should not be driving in this state.

Then I had to grovel.

Officer, you got to understand. The reason I was drinking was I just signed a five-year contract in the NHL. I was celebrating.

I actually started to cry. If you bust me my contract and my career are over. Please give me a chance.

He said, Well, I don’t usually do this, but how far away do you live?

Five minutes from here.

Okay. Lock that bike up and walk your ass home. If I see you within two feet of that bike I’m arresting you and you’re going downtown.

Needless to say, I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and promised I’d never drink and ride again.

I may have even meant it.

I lock the bike and start walking down the road. Then I turn the corner and pull myself under this truck, wait for the cop to drive by, and then get up and walk back to the bike. Then I unlock it, fire it up, and away I go again down the road.

I made it home somehow, but when I pulled into my driveway I forgot to hit the brake and ran the bike right into the side of the house.

I wake up naked on my floor to the sound of my cell phone going off. It’s Probie: Myze, it’s nine o’clock, where are you?

Shit: Probie! I slept in, is all I can say. And that much is true. I grab the bottle of Advil and pop three of them. I take stock of the road rash and the dried blood, but I’m still pretty drunk so I’m not really feeling much. I’m just focused on meeting the boys.

As I’m driving there, all I’m thinking is, I’m so fucked, Probie is going to kill me, maybe I should start thinking of an excuse! I’m having a hard time keeping the bike between the lines, mostly because the handlebars are bent, so I have to steer to the left to make the bike go straight. The front fender is broken half off and I’m still drunk. The gas tank has a big dent in it. All I can think about is, What the hell am I going to say to Bob?

I pull up and see the boys waiting outside, and as I get closer I see Bob’s eyes open wider.

Myze, holy shit! What happened to the Harley?

Well, Probie, did you see the construction going on? The gravel was loose and I put ’er down.

Come on, Myze, that’s not what happened. Let’s chat about it later, but Jesus, were you hammered?

Just a tad, I said.

I’d like to be able to say I learned a lesson that night. But I was pretty much immune to lessons back then. I had been for a while. Some people respond to a mistake by doing things differently next time. Wiser people than me say, Never waste a mistake. That’s supposed to mean you can figure out what to do by keeping track of the things you’ve done that you shouldn’t.

But I wasted a lot more than mistakes. I wasted just about everything that came my way. Millions of dollars. The love of two wonderful women. More second chances from people I admired than I can count. I’m sure there were some I didn’t even notice. I wonder which is worse, losing that first million dollars or squandering that first second chance. The missed opportunities cost me more. They cost more than a million dollars, and they also cost me the respect of the people who offered them.

By the time I finally put my mistakes to good use, it was nearly too late. I could hardly have cut it any closer. I’d been a professional athlete once, now I was a bloated, bleary-eyed husk who could barely walk outside to light a cigarette without getting winded. I used to turn away autograph-seekers, now I was invisible. I’d made a living intimidating the toughest of the tough, now I was pathetic. Others looked down on me. I made them sick. I made myself sick. I was about as close to the bottom as you can get.

But something straightened me out. I’m not saying I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, because I don’t get to take the credit. And I’m not saying I deserved it, because if life were truly about balancing out rights and wrongs, I probably still have some misdeeds to pay for. But I did put in some hard work, and I did get lucky, and the two things happened at the same time.

It’s funny. I’d had more than my share of good luck, and no one makes it to the NHL without hard work. Neither had saved me before. But on February 27, 2008, something fell into place that gave me a chance to finally make use of all those mistakes. This book is about mistakes, then, lots of them, and my belated efforts to make the most of them.