September 8, 2014 | Occasus | Issue 4 | Creative Nonfiction

Game Over

It’s a grey Friday afternoon in November on Western University campus when Mike Iacocca walks into Somerville House with a hot chocolate in hand and sits down with me to talk hockey.

At first glance, nothing seems different about the 21 year old since I last saw him, but appearances can be deceiving. It wasn’t long ago when the two of us laced up our skates across the dressing room from each other five days a week, but a lot has changed since then.

I ask him how he’s doing as we sit down. “I’m ok. I’m not a disaster, busy with school. I’ve put all my eggs into that basket now,” he says.

Iacocca’s referring to the fact that he’s no longer playing competitive hockey. In fact, he’s not playing hockey at all these days. After roughly 80% of his life was dedicated to Canada’s favourite game, his gear is now stowed away in a closet back in his hometown of Guelph, Ontario.

This seems blasphemous as the words ring in my ears, but I remind myself it is a fair reaction to the cruel reality that has struck us both. The passion and desire still burn, but we are no longer good enough to play the hockey we want to. For our entire lives, we wanted to play forever, and thought we would, but then someone turned the lights out on us.

“I just remember packing my bag and throwing my skate guards on my skates, and realizing right then: ‘this is the last time I’m ever going to put them on for real, ever,’” Iacocca recounts to me. “Ever ever ever. That’s a strong word.”

It is the harshest of realities for a hockey player when the day comes that he can no longer play the game at the level he desires. It hits him at the core of his being. Whether you’re Wayne Gretzky, or a kid who never played past minor hockey, that day will inevitably come, but knowing this doesn’t make the transition out of the game any easier.

“Since I was 10, every summer was about improving on last season,” he says. “There was something past not making the OHL, something past not earning a scholarship, but then Western was my last shot. I came so close to making the team, and then was told its over. That’s hard to take.”

Iacocca was oh-so-close to making the Western Mustangs, a top-10 CIS varsity hockey team in Canada, but after three weeks of training camp and exhibition play, head coach Clarke Singer decided to take another player for the final roster spot, Noah Schwartz.

Schwartz, a Toronto boy who grew up playing on one of the best minor-hockey AAA teams ever (the 1992-born Toronto Junior Canadiens), battled Iacocca and prevailed.

“It was the Mustangs or nothing for me,” Schwartz says to me one day while we catch up at UCC. “I would be devastated if I didn’t make it. I would have nothing to do except school.”

While Iacocca and I played together on the St. Thomas Stars of the Greater Ontario Junior Hockey League, Schwartz and I have a history as well. The last four years of my junior hockey career included numerous individual battles between the two of us – the type that builds an unwritten bond of respect between opponents off the ice.

I remind Schwartz of my breakaway save on him in last year’s playoffs. He reminds me of the hat-trick he scored in our first game against each other last season. Touché.

When I bring up Iacocca, Schwartz recalls how close he was to being in his position, instead of occupying a spot as a rookie forward for the ‘Stangs.

“I went to training camp and Clarke Singer told me I had to earn the spot,” Schwartz says. Despite finishing top-ten in league scoring and leading his London Nationals to a league championship last season, there were no guarantees he would play competitive hockey again.

“For three weeks, Singer never said a word. Then one day he pulled me into the room and told me I was on the team.” He smiles as he recollects that glorious moment. “It was an amazing feeling. I worked so hard all summer for it. I called my dad right away after I made the team.”

What a difficult sport it becomes when the hockey player reaches such a competitive level. One more battle won, one more goal scored, and his life could be entirely different. Instead of blending back into the crowd of “average Joes,” the player could be a successful graduate of junior hockey, with that little Canadian boy still inside him believing there still awaits more steps to be taken.

“I point the finger at myself for not making it impossible for him to cut me. That’s what makes me feel bitter. Shame on me for not making it happen,” Iacocca says with a conviction that tells me no one could sway his thinking.

The loving hockey parent will tell his/her son that he gave it his all and should hold his head high, but being cut from a team at this (or any) level is not something a hockey player takes lightly, and regardless of what outsiders may think, it is personal.

The moment he realizes it’s the end of the line, it’s like a death in the family, and a gaping hole is left in his heart where the dream of a career as a hockey player used to brew 24/7.

“From about age 15, it’s a five-six year drive of trying to make it,” Iacocca says, describing the total effort it takes just to get a chance at moving up the hockey ladder. “I was a highly-touted prospect and felt I had a shot. I was consumed by it and everything I did – workout, what I ate – revolved around trying to make it.”

Iacocca’s six year drive culminated with his recent shot at making Western, and when he left Thomson Arena after being cut, he decided to leave the rink indefinitely. While the intramural league at Western may seem like a fun, grass-roots brand of shinny, many former Junior B players don’t see it that way, which is why Iacocca refused to play this year.

“Mooney [Iacocca’s roommate and former St. Thomas teammate] and those guys say ‘come out and play man, its funny,’ but it’s not a joke to me. I will continue to play hockey, but just not right now,” Iacocca says.

Tyler Bryson is an example of a former Junior B player who did choose to play intramurals, but even he admits it’s not even close to being what hockey used to be. With 241 career games played, all with St. Marys of the GOJHL, Bryson attests to the stark difference between this year and last.

“Intramurals is a joke. I got paid to play hockey the last five years. Now I pay to play.”

Bryson and I used to play together for parts of three seasons in St. Marys and spent many a trip together car-pooling to the rink. In those hours of being in each other’s company for months on end, you become like brothers – brothers who know how to get under each other’s skin. 

“Nothing else matters when you’re out there shooting pucks at goalies' heads,” he says to me with a grin. We both laugh, knowing full well there were heated moments between the two of us at times. One practice, I took so many shots around the ears that I challenged him to fight me, but the next day, we were back to being fun-loving teammates again.

“I miss going to the rink with the boys,” Bryson says nostalgically. “It’s like a family. Now you don’t really have that bond anymore.”

That bond comes from years of being the kid who missed the birthday party because of a game, or the son who shows up late to the family reunion because of practice. Waking up one day suddenly without a team to play for or reason to work out isn’t easy to digest.

“Everyone misses it, but you know it’s eventually going to end,” says Bryson. “It’s going to hit you… I still don’t know if its hit me yet.”

It’s funny to hear Bryson, Schwartz, and Iacocca talk because they take the words right out of my mouth. While each player has taken a different path this year, they all speak the same language and share a common identity that sometimes outsiders don’t fully understand. It’s an identity that is difficult to have stripped away.

“Hi, I’m Mike and I play hockey. That’s who you are. It’s part of your title,” says Iacocca. “You can’t dumb it down and say ‘it’s ok, now that it’s over’. You can’t just flick a switch one day and change your entire life, it takes time.”

Iacocca takes one last sip of his hot chocolate before we pack up to go our separate ways. True, he may no longer introduce himself as a hockey player, but as he walks away I realize something very important. Who we once were has shaped us to be who we are today as people, and that is something that can never be stripped away. 

DEVIN GOLETS is a 4th year student studying MIT and achieving a Writers Certificate at Western University. This fall marked the first time in his life he did not play competitive hockey.