Page 64 of Good Vibes Only
“Because everyone in the hockey world said my numbers were a product of their play.”
“Huh?I’m sorry, I still don’t get it. Why would anyone say that? You had more points than them.”
The way he chuckled, with one eyebrow skeptically raised, told me I was missing something obvious.
“Mac, it’s because I’m short,” he said at last.
“According to who?!” I asked, angry and indignant on his behalf. “You’re not even that short.”
“Scouts. General managers. Coaches. Fans. Everyone, really.”
I felt so bad for him! It seemed so unfair. “I’m sorry so many people have doubted you. That must’ve been really tough to deal with.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles.”
“But it’s not right.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he said, seemingly indifferent.
I told him that I found it surprising and weird thatIseemed more upset about his treatment than he did.
“To be fair, there’s a reason most short players don’t make it to the NHL,” he said. “Hockey’s a physical game. And when you’re going up against dudes twice your size? Ain’t easy. Being small is a massive disadvantage.” He nudged my elbow. “Let’s face it. Size reallydoesmatter. Given your line of work, you know that’s true. Right?”
“Sure, size matters,” I conceded. “But givenyourline of work, you ought to know what’s more important is how you use what you’ve got.”
He grinned. “Fair. But still—”
“Still, yes, I understand your point about hockey being a physical sport,” I said. “I’m curious, though; what makes you different, Brett? Why’d you make the NHL when other shorter guys flame out?”
“Because I’m a little crazy,” he said with a wily glint in his eye. “When someone tells me I can’t have something, that makes me want it. When someone tells me I’m not capable of doing something, I’m hell-bent on proving ’em wrong.”
“Ah. So the doubters fueled you.”
He continued his story. Year after year, he was traded, cut from rosters, not offered contracts, yet he never gave up on his dream. He’d had to bust his ass for years for mere table scraps, always grinding for the next opportunity.
Things didn’t get any easier once he finally got his first taste of the NHL, either.
“I was so nervous, I played like shit,” he said. “Right after the game, the coach pulled me out of the locker room and into his office. He smiled and asked if I had fun. I told him the truth, that I’d been nervous, but I’d had a blast because playing in the NHL was a dream come true. He said, ‘Good, I’m glad.’ And then his smile faded and his voice started to rise, and he told me I’d remember that game for the rest of my life, because it was the last game I’d ever play in the NHL, because I was ‘fucking useless, soft as baby shit, and way too fucking small to play in this league.’ Then he told me to go pack my shit because they were sending me back to the minors.”
I gasped. “Oh myGod! What an asshole!”
“Yup.Hugeass, that guy.” Brett snickered. “On the other hand, though, I feel like I owe him everything.”
“What?! How?”
“I’m crazy, remember? I wanted to prove that guy wrong more than anything else,” he said. “I knewI had the skill to play in the NHL. But what stuck with me—what really hurt the most—was when he called mesoft.That’s the ultimate insult for a hockey player. Because I certainly didn’t think of myself as soft—but I wasn’t tough,and I wasn’t the pain in the ass to play against that I am today. And so that was the moment I realized teams would always see me as small unless I changed how I played. And that’s when ‘Showtime’ was born.”
“That’s when you became a dick, you mean?” I teased him.
He grinned. “Kinda, yeah. Because I knew I had to make something big happen every shift—whether it was a goal, an assist, a slash when the ref wasn’t looking, a fight. I had to learn to play dirty, to do whatever it takes to win.”
Brett spent another two years developing his game in the AHL before he got his next shot in the NHL, this time with a different team—the Nashville Fury. That was the beginning of his big breakout year, and in the five years since, he’d never looked back.
“What changed?” I asked.
“The first time around, I played small. I was afraid of getting hurt or making a mistake. I thought I was ready, but I wasn’t. But when I got my second call up, I was ready,” he said confidently. “And I could feel the difference in my play. The game felt slower to me, like I had an extra half-second to make every decision. That might not sound like much, but in a game as fast as hockey, a half-second ishuge. Suddenly I had all the time and space in the world—I was making plays, dodging hits, dekeing guys left and right, and every puck I threw at the net went in. But the best part? I had an edge in my game now. I wasn’t afraid of getting hit;Iwas going after the guys twice my size and laying them out with huge hits. And man, when you, as a shorter guy, take down a bigger guy? Itreallygets under his skin,” he said, wearing a proud and handsome smile. “Which only made my game even more effective.”
I clapped my hands. “That must’ve been such an exciting time for you.”
