A lesson from my first year in professional hockey that took me 20 years to fully understand.
It was the fall of 2006. I was 24 years old and had just started my first job in professional hockey with the Hamilton Bulldogs, the AHL affiliate of the Montreal Canadiens.
I was the organization's first full-time strength and conditioning coach. Expectations were high, the days were long, and I was still trying to find my feet.
I had a lot to learn.
During NHL training camp, we had a player arrive significantly overweight and nowhere near the physical condition expected of a professional hockey player.
I remember one moment vividly.
He was running on the treadmill, shirt off, completing his VO2 max testing when Montreal Canadiens GM Bob Gainey walked into the room.
For those who know Bob, he was one of the nicest and most respected people in the game. He gave me my first opportunity to work in professional hockey, and I'll always be grateful that he took a chance on me.
You rarely saw Bob upset, but on this occasion, you could tell he wasn't happy.
The message that came back to me was clear.
This player would not step on the ice with the team until he met the conditioning standards expected of a professional hockey player.
And getting him there was my responsibility.
My first major assignment in professional hockey. I certainly didn't want to disappoint.
The instructions were straightforward. Get him into shape, but keep him away from the rest of the team until he was ready.
Looking back, it wasn't a bad deal for the player. Private, one-on-one strength and conditioning coaching five days a week!
For me, it meant arriving at the gym at 6 a.m., putting him through his training, and ensuring he was showered and out of the facility before the other players arrived.
I was already managing a significant workload while learning the demands of my new role. Now I had an additional player requiring individual attention every morning.
But I wasn't going to complain. This was professional hockey, and I had been given a job to do.
I sat down with the player and explained what was expected.
We established a training schedule, outlined the expectations, and I even had him sign an agreement committing to showing up every morning at 6 a.m. and completing the work.
Everything looked good on paper.
I had a plan. I had his commitment.
In my 24-year-old mind, six weeks of hard work and we'd have this problem solved.
And initially, things went well.
He showed up. He worked hard. His conditioning was improving.
I thought we were making progress.
Then, after a couple of weeks, things started to change.
I'd wake up to a text message.
"I'm not feeling well today."
"My alarm didn't go off."
At first, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
I genuinely wanted to see him succeed. He had a history, and I knew this might be one of his last opportunities to continue playing professional hockey.
I didn't immediately bring the missed sessions to the coaching staff's attention.
Instead, I'd meet with him privately, explain that this couldn't continue, and remind him what was at stake.
He understood. Or at least I thought he did.
But it happened again.
This time, our head coach, Don Lever, happened to arrive early.
He wanted to know where the player was.
There was no covering for him anymore.
When the player arrived, Don came into the gym and absolutely lit into him.
I remember feeling frustrated myself.
Here I was, getting up early every morning, putting in additional hours, trying to help this player get back on the ice.
And from my perspective, he wasn't holding up his end of the agreement.
I saw it as a problem with discipline, commitment, and accountability.
And that's how I approached it.
More expectations. More pressure. More consequences.
Ultimately, the player was released from the team.
Twenty years later, I still think about that experience.
Because what I didn't fully appreciate at 24 was that there were much bigger issues happening in this player's life.
Issues that had very little to do with his physical conditioning.
We were focused on what was immediately in front of us.
His weight.
His fitness.
His missed workouts.
His apparent lack of commitment.
Those were the problems we could see, measure, and attempt to correct.
But there was another struggle happening beneath the surface that our conditioning programs, early mornings, and signed agreements were never going to resolve.
We were addressing the symptoms without understanding what was driving them.
And I was part of that.
I don't share this story because I believe I could have saved his career. I don't know that I could have.
And I certainly don't believe accountability and expectations were wrong.
But I often wonder how differently I would approach that situation today.
Would I have asked more questions?
Would I have taken more time to understand what was happening outside the rink?
Would I have recognized that the missed workouts and apparent lack of discipline might have been signs of something much deeper?
I hope so.
One of the most important lessons I've learned over my career is that the problem presenting itself isn't always the problem that needs to be addressed.
We see this in rehabilitation all the time.
We identify pain, weakness, restricted movement, or poor performance and immediately begin developing strategies to correct them.
But how often do we stop to ask why?
What else is happening in this person's life?
What are we missing because we're so focused on what we can measure?
That experience in 2006 didn't immediately change how I practiced. I was too young and inexperienced to fully appreciate it at the time.
But it stayed with me.
And the longer I've worked with people, the more I've come to appreciate its significance.
Sometimes the most important part of helping someone has nothing to do with the problem they came to you to fix.
That's something I wish I had understood at 24.
