![[jakey1-min(1).png]] > by Jakey Goldstrom > Retired NHA > March 2, 2018 I spent the winter break in San Francisco. Then January. Then February. I was listed on the injured reserve for that time, then completely removed from the Wanderers’ roster a couple days ago. A lot of people were calling and texting me, asking what happened, asking if I’ve been traded or put on waivers or something. I asked our front office to end my contract. We agreed on a buyout. I’m retiring. ___ My whole NHA career has been a fluke. I was studying at Golden State University and playing recreational adult league hockey when the Blades and Heat had open tryouts in 1999. Many of my rec teammates bullied me into signing up for tryouts, since I was 19 and wasting my youth playing with dads. Their words, not mine. I got lunch with Hans Roxas and Dougie Campbell after the last day of tryouts. Hans got their call first—goalie privilege, I guess. I got my call right after. Dougie bought us a cake to celebrate. I think he already knew we were picked and wanted to get a head start on getting to know his new teammates. That evening, I called my mom to tell her that the Blades offered me an contract. She was working at Berkeley at the time, teaching sports management—she’s why we were in the Bay Area in the first place. I told her I was worried I wouldn’t finish my degree. She just laughed at me. “At least sign the entry contract,” she told me. “You can always finish school later, but you might not get to play later.” Moms are always right, so I signed the contract. ___ In 2003, I lost my edge and crashed into Hans Roxas. My skate cut their neck. Apparently it sliced an artery, that’s why there was so much blood. I pressed my hand to the cut. It didn’t stop bleeding. I was begging for it to stop, begging for it to be fine. I was panicking more than Hans was, really, and their last words before they collapsed was them assuring me that they’ll be okay, *it’s fine, Jakey*. Whenever I remember it, I see it from outside my body. I always see myself crying. I spent two days by their side in the hospital, refusing to leave, even though the team had to continue playing. The Blades took it out of my paycheck, then sent me away to Montreal. I killed Hans, my best friend, my first teammate. I thought that was the reason why the Blades traded me. That’s what everyone thought of the trade. I killed them, so I was exiled. ___ I lived with Biel Sheppard for a couple months, after I was traded. She pulled me out of my spiral, helped me feel like a person again. She would sit with me when I would break down in her kitchen, after seeing something that reminded me of them. “Hans would hate to see you like this,” she said to me once, as she handed me a box of tissues. “You’re *such* a sensitive white boy, though I guess that’s the appeal.” I laughed for the first time in what felt like years. ___ I first met Angel Sheppard after one of my first practices as a Wanderer. He sat himself down on the locker room bench next to me. “Why are you sad?” he asked. “Hockey’s fun. And it’s your job.” I laughed at that, because he was right. Even though he was only ten years old, he was smarter than me. ___ In 2004, my teammates and I were shot at outside of Le Forum Montreal. Biel was hospitalized. Charlie Belrose and I were relatively fine—just a few scratches from diving onto the concrete—but Biel lunged towards the shooter to protect us. I also can’t exactly recall the events as they played out. I was useless as a witness. Too traumatized. Charlie was the one who called for help. Charlie later told me I’d taken Biel’s scarf and pressed it against the gunshot wound, to slow the bleeding. It was only enough to make her survive for another few days, though. In the hospital, when she knew she was dying, Biel told me to take care of Angel. “Angie is your kid, too,” she said. “Keep your eye on him, he’s your future teammate.” ___ The NHA doesn’t schedule games on February 28 or March 3 anymore, even if they land on profitable weekends. I’ve noticed that people try to avoid me around that time, especially other players. Maybe they think it’s respect or giving me space, but it just feels like I’m being treated like bad luck. Maybe I am. ___ I think most people were shocked to see Hans back with the Blades as a coach in 2010. I remember shaking so much that I could barely breathe. I had their phone number, still in my contacts list after a decade. I called them, still sniffling. “I’m sorry,” I said. It was the only thing I could think of to say. Hans just laughed, but it wasn’t a mean laugh. “Sensitive as always, Jakob.” It was awkward for a little bit, since I’d convinced myself that the all the Blades hate me, but we’re alright now. Best friends again, even. They asked me to look over their own article that they published in 2014, talking about their injury, how previous Blades management essentially shut them out from hockey, and their support for the Players’ Union during the lockout. While editing, I asked why they never mention it was my skate that cut them. They said it wasn’t fair to blame me—they don’t even remember me being there and the injury seemed to hurt me more, since I agonized for years, thinking I had killed them. “I never said sorry for all of that,” I remember them saying. “You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “It’s your career that ended.” “I’m still sorry.” Hans said. We sat in silence for a little bit. It was closure, at least, at last. ___ Biel was right, as always. I met Angel Sheppard again in 2011, when he was a rookie and I was recently named captain of the Wanderers. I took care of him best I could, like I promised. I let him stay in my home, I cooked for him. You might think that the Wanderers constructed this narrative artificially, but it was all real. I do love that kid. When Angel left Montreal, it was the first time Montreal didn’t have a Sheppard playing for them since 1990. First, Biel Sheppard, then her wife Charlie Belrose-Sheppard, then Angel Sheppard. Then, suddenly, no one. It was such an abrupt end to such a great era of hockey, tossed away so callously. The Wanderers lost their heart that day. I called Hans, I called Campbell, I called Sixby, I called Harper. I called every Blade I knew. I asked them to watch out for him and take care of him, because that’s my kid, too. ___ When we played the Blades back in November, I lost my edge and crashed into Dougie Campbell. I thought I hurt him, too. I was terrified I was ending another Blade’s career. He wears a neck guard, thankfully. Not even a scratch. Dougie just shoved me away before I could get in a fight with anyone, and I looked towards San Francisco’s bench, where Hans was standing. I felt sick. I told our trainers I hurt my back—which I did, and it did turn out that I’d re-herniated my disc—but it was the kind of hurt that I would’ve usually just played through. I went back to the locker room for the rest of the game, trying not to break down. I saw it again in my head, Hans bleeding out as I tried to hold the wound closed. I saw it again in my head, Biel bleeding out as I tried to hold the wound closed. I kept seeing it. I couldn’t get the feeling of dried, tacky blood off my fingers. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But I held it together. I wanted to talk to my former teammates after the game. They didn’t want to talk to me—fair enough, they’d just lost and the Wanderers had just injured two of their best forwards, Matti Årud and Skyler Iwata. I did talk to Hans, though, but it wasn’t a great reunion. We would usually go for a late dinner after our teams played, but we just ended up having a shouting match in the back halls of Dogpatch Arena. You’ve probably seen the tweets about it. We were loud. Kind of impossible to miss. My back finally gave out after that. I had to go to the ER. I couldn’t sleep at all. I felt hungry. ___ It always hurt me, too, whenever my teammates got injured. That sounds stupid, but when I saw Zhenya voted MVP, Charlie being inducted into the Hall of Fame… I’m happy, too. I’m proud of them. When Zhenya broke her collarbone, when Charlie was getting chemo, it hurt me to see them hurt. I hated to see them suffering. Hockey is a team sport. We share our wins, we share our losses. But people don’t like sharing their real losses, their real pain, their real trauma. I don’t mean to make someone else’s pain about me. But I think sharing can lighten the load. It’s easier to move a heavy couch with a friend than moving it by yourself, isn’t it? I’ve only ever had “soft” injuries through my career. Sprained wrists, concussions, bruised ribs. I haven’t *broken* anything, but it does add up. You can’t really un-crumple a piece of paper. I wake up in pain most days. That never used to happen. Over-the-counter painkillers are usually enough, but lately it’s not. I don’t want to take anything stronger, out of fear that I’ll become addicted. I’m still in pain as I’m writing this, physical and mental. So, I’m sharing that with everyone now. It helps a little bit, so thanks for reading. ___ I majored in literature, the study of writing, of human expression through words. But I’m still finding it hard to say what I want to say here. When I went back to school to finish my degree, I noticed my thinking isn’t as quick as it used to be. Maybe it’s age, but I was in my early thirties at the time. Maybe it’s brain damage, but I’d only been diagnosed with one concussion at that point. It was frustrating. It would take me forever to read anything from a textbook, it would take me even longer to even understand what it was actually trying to say. If I ever had a child, I don’t think I would want them to play hockey. ___ I spent the winter break with Angel Sheppard and Tomek Trčka, in their shared apartment near the San Francisco Saints’ ballpark. Angel seemed much happier than he was the last time I saw him. Uninjured, clear minded, bright eyed. Happy. He’s doing great hockey-wise, too, I guess. Leading all NHA defensemen in points-per-game this season is pretty good. I think his plus-minus should be more plus than minus—but apparently that’s old-school thinking, it’s not very Moneyball of me. I told them both over coffee that I wasn’t flying back to Montreal any time soon. Angel was quiet for a while. Then, eventually, he asked me: “Is hockey not fun for you anymore?” I just nodded. It sounded so simple when he put it that way. It’s not *fun* anymore. Even after all these years, he’s still smarter than me. ___ Recently, I found out I had a daughter. She’s fourteen. Doesn’t actually look much like me, and I doubted that I was her father. But the first time I saw her laugh, I knew—she has the same smile as my mom. She plays hockey, but through her own volition, and not for anyone else. She would sneak away from home to go to the rink, saying that she was just hanging out with her friends. It was technically true. I wanted to be upset, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay upset. I thought it was funny. I used to do the same, because my mom always wanted me to put my education first. Maybe she is more like me than I thought. We don’t own our children, we can’t shield them from the world, we can’t stop them from getting hurt. But we can be there for them. I bought her new skates and a neck guard. ___ I always thought that everything happens for a reason, that there’s always a bigger picture. But lately, I’m starting to think that there’s nothing really noble about suffering. Nothing noble about playing through my pain. I don’t mean to say that pain is meaningless or anything nihilistic like that, but that sometimes suffering is just suffering—there’s no life lesson to be learned, no guaranteed personal development. Sometimes it’s just a wound that you need to let heal, instead of picking it open and making it bleed again and again and again. And after nearly eighteen years of playing professional hockey, it feels like I have hundreds of open wounds, big and small, inside and out. I can’t keep going on like this. I need to be with the people I love, I want to be able to hold them when they’re not bleeding and when I’m not bleeding. ___ Hans was also a little upset that our daughter played hockey. We agreed on that, at least. Right now, I’m writing this on my phone while at Dougie Campbell’s place, as Hans and Dougie are bickering at each other over some inane goalie discourse. They both still think I’m just taking a break from hockey, but I’ll tell them soon that it’s permanent. Montreal was good to me, and I’m forever grateful that the Wands let me play for so long, but San Francisco is where my home is. ___ The Wanderers won the 2004 and 2011 Championships. My name’s on that mug twice. I think that’s pretty good. I’m satisfied with that. It’s possible for me to push a few more years, but I know it will take a toll on me. I don’t think I could survive another playoff run, mentally and physically. I’ve played 1236 games of professional hockey. I can’t say I remember all of them. I can’t say that I deserve all of them. Sometimes I question the length of my own career. If I can give those seasons to Hans, if I could give those seasons to Biel, if I could give up my name on the cup for theirs, I would in an instant. I know this announcement of retirement is sudden. I think everything crashed down on me at once, my grief, my burnout, my own body. There’s only been two career ending injuries in the 21st century of NHA hockey, and I was there for the both of them. So, maybe it’s appropriate I retire like this. Goodnight, hockey. I’m sorry that this is such an improper farewell, but it’s time for me to be a person again. With love, Jakey Goldstrom ![[jakey autograph w.png]]