IN JULY 1981, five months after the accident, I had just turned 13. To pick up my spirits, my teammates’ parents pitched in and paid for me to go to a three-week camp, the Andy Murray Hockey School in Brandon, Manitoba. Before I left, they made me promise that I would not play any contact hockey, and they made sure the instructors knew about it too.
Today, Andy Murray is head coach for the St. Louis Blues, but back then he was famous in Manitoba as the coach of the Brandon Travellers of the Manitoba Junior A Hockey League. In 1981, he had taken the Brandon University Bobcats to a league championship and the number one ranking in Canadian university hockey. The chance to play in front of Murray was exactly what I had been waiting for. I figured if I could get his attention, he would be my ticket to the NHL. I know that sounds kind of silly, typical of what an unsophisticated, small-town 13-year-old would think, but as it turns out, I was right.
I was a keener—first one on the ice, first in line for every drill. I put my heart into everything the coaches asked of me. I skated, shot and passed as if a championship was on the line.
One of the instructors that Andy had recruited for his hockey school was a scout for the Winnipeg Warriors, a junior team in the Western Hockey League. His name was Graham James. You’ve probably heard of him. He wanted my whole story, and I gave it to him. We started with my hockey background—right winger for the Russell Rams. He wanted my stats before the accident and details on my rehab. By the second week, he was questioning me about my parents. What did they do? Where did I live? I was a fairly open kid, used to the entire adult community of Russell taking care of me. Telling an adult about myself was perfectly natural. By the third week, I felt very comfortable and a little in awe of James. Mostly, I was flattered that he was interested in me. He told me I definitely had the raw talent to play in the NHL and said he was going to draft me even though I was still not cleared to play. He asked me what my dad and mom would think of me living away from home, and I told him the truth—it wouldn’t bother them at all.
I went home and shared all the promises James had made to me. Everyone was thrilled but worried about my arm. I was determined to play in the fall. Dr. Robertson told me that golfing would be good for mobility, so I golfed all that summer. My Grandpa Fleury gave me some old clubs and the Peltzes, a couple of honest-to-God angels who’d been watching over me for years, paid my fees at the Russell Golf and Country Club. Len Peltz was a teacher, and his wife, Ede, was a casual acquaintance of my mother’s. They owned the Jolly Lodger Motel on Highway 16 in Russell. Len and Ede are good people. They, like the rest of Russell, watched my brother Ted and me run around half-wild. But unlike most who just shook their heads and tsked at the lack of parenting, Len and Ede stepped in. And they did it without condemning my parents.
They bought us clothes when ours got a little too ragged. They fed us when we were hungry, and it was Mrs. Peltz who drove me to Winnipeg every month to see Dr. Robertson. She also worked on our table manners. Len often supplied my hockey gear, and both of them made sure our homework was done. Ted and I grew to love Len and Ede and to this day I think of them as a second mom and dad.
That fall, Coach Fowler put me back on the team. The only problem was that I was not allowed to play. I could skate and handle the puck in practice, but there was to be absolutely no contact. I’d watch the guys from the bench and cheer them on, but inside I was dying.
One really cool thing was that, even though I was always the highest scorer and often selected as MVP, the team was doing well without me. We had great coaches and a lot of good athletes. They seemed to come together as a group and realize that it would take tremendous effort from each person to win. It goes to show what kind of character those guys had. They could have packed it in because they had a good, built-in excuse, but instead they found a way.
A year after the accident, a team from Roblin, a small town forty minutes north of Russell, came down to play us for the Manitoba Provincial B Championship. I called Dr. Robertson and begged him to clear me to play. I knew that the transplanted ulnar nerve had not completely regenerated, because I had no feeling in my index and middle fingers. I could bend them and move them around, but they were dead. To impress my friends, I would hold them over a lit flame. Would the nerve ever make it all the way? Or was I as healthy as I would ever be? Dr. Robertson said he’d consult with some colleagues and get back to me.
The night before the game, I could not sleep. My friends had told me about how they would lie awake Christmas Eve, wondering whether Santa Claus had left them the gifts they had asked for. Now I knew what they meant.
The morning of the tournament, the phone rang and I tore across the linoleum in my bare feet and grabbed it. I knew it was Dr. Robertson because nobody ever called us. “Theoren,” he said, “I know it’s been a tough, difficult year for you, and I know you’ve had a lot of disappointments coming to Winnipeg each month.” He cleared his throat. “I think your arm has progressed enough that you can play.” The only other time in my life I felt so much excitement was at the end of the third period of game six in Montreal in 1989, but we’ll get to that later.
I had two younger brothers, Teddy and Travis. Hockey was as important to them as it was to me. Teddy was standing beside me, watching my face while I talked with Dr. Robertson. When I let out a “Yeah!” he started jumping up and down, shouting, “He can play! He can play! Theoren can play hockey again!”
That day at the rink as I got dressed, I started a routine that continued all the way through my career: left shin pad, right shin pad, left skate, then right skate. I put everything on left to right and made sure I was the first player after the goalie to step on the ice. As soon as I did, I’d genuflect and scoop up some ice shavings, then cross myself. Protection from ever getting hurt again.
We lined up and the ref dropped the puck. I took it from the draw, and eight seconds later I scored. That goal sealed my fate forever. Tommy Thompson was in the crowd. Today, he is assistant general manager/player personnel for the Minnesota Wild, but at that time he was the general manager of the Winnipeg Warriors. Graham James was his buddy.
Graham started phoning me—“How’s it going? What are you up to? A bunch of us are planning a trip down to the States this summer to watch some baseball. Ask your parents if it would be okay if you come along.” It was like a dream come true—the WHL wanted me, and not only that, they liked me.
My parents loved the idea of me going on a vacation to the States with a scout. It was like, “Where do we sign?” Graham picked me up in Russell and we drove to North Dakota. We picked up two other bantam hockey players from Winnipeg on the way. He had reserved a room at the Super 8 Motel, which had an indoor pool and a hot tub. I had never seen such luxury. The room had two double beds. James told the boys to take the one on the left near the door, and he and I would share the one on the right by the window. Around two in the morning, I woke up. There was a hand on me, rubbing my ass. “What the hell is going on?” I thought. I was facing the wall, away from Graham. I froze, trying to figure it out. Was he sleeping? He must be. I sweated it out, trying to figure a way to move out of his reach without waking him up. I worried he’d be mad. It is almost painful to think about how innocent I was.
That is all that happened that night. Nothing was said the next day. But the next night, I wrapped the top sheet tightly around my body, like a mummy. That way, if he had another dream and accidentally touched me, he would have no access to any part of me.
I returned to Russell tired and anxious. James had tried it a few more times, but the sheet trick worked, so he wasn’t able to get anywhere. Trouble was, after the second or third time, I stopped sleeping. I’d lie awake, staring at the pinpoints of street light that made their way through gaps between the curtain and windowsill while the silence in the room thundered in my ears.
By the next summer, I’d convinced myself it had all been one big mistake. James had continued calling me through the year and promising that I would be drafted by the Warriors, but first, he wanted me to play a season with a Tier I midget team in Winnipeg, the St. James Minor Midget Canadians. I would get to practise with the Warriors at the same time. He did not want me facing off in games against players who had eighty pounds and a foot in height on me. I was five foot two, 115 pounds.
The next year, in Grade 9, I was drafted in the second round by the Warriors. Graham was the coach. It was a trade-off. I would take it back today if I could, because it cost me my soul.