Hockey Confidential (5 page)

“It's not about sport, it's about life,” Lindsay said of concussions. “The work that's being done in Boston with Dr. [Robert] Cantu and Dr. [Ann] McKee is unbelievable; the research is showing more and more how much trauma and havoc is created in the brain with a concussion . . . I get calls every day from people who have kids suffering from it, eight, nine, 10 years old, they can't concentrate in school, they can't sleep. I don't want to be known as a concussion guy, but you want to do as much as you can to help. I most certainly don't have all the answers. Now you've got [Atlanta-based] Dr. Ted Carrick [who treated Crosby, amongst others] looking at neurology from a functional point of view—eye movements and vestibular and inner ear functions—but it's just one piece of a really big, difficult puzzle. For the future of hockey, all these specialties have to come together to work more.”

As much as Mike Leahy's ART gave Lindsay the foundation for what he does with his hands, he's constantly trying to broaden those horizons. He's studying the work of and working with noted French osteopath Dr. Guy Voyer as well as learning from and working with Carrick, for the past seven years working towards earning his status as a Board Certified Diplomate with the American Chiropractic Neurology Board, making him one of only a handful of Canadian chiropractors who have attained that status. He feels treating the human body is now all about interrelating a variety of disciplines and the way the brain processes movement of muscles and joints.

“Guy Voyer has changed my whole perception of the body as a complete system. I'll always be thankful for the touch that Mike Leahy taught us, and Ted Carrick is looking at the brain as a processor—eye movement, inner ear, balance—as something that dictates what the joints and soft tissue do. I've spent all these years doing peripheral treatments; I'm just now starting to understand the integration of it all, and let me tell you, the results are crazy. ART, for me, it's a lifetime course.”

It's the summer of 2013 and Lindsay, just shy of his 50th
birthday, is in Kingston, Ontario, dissecting human cadavers at Queen's University, trying to learn even more about the fascia he's been manipulating for more than 20 years. His thirst for knowledge and new information and techniques is insatiable. As much as he still enjoys the practical part of his work, using his hands to treat a world-class athlete, he can see himself doing more academic work in the future, more studies, more clinical research. For example, he's absolutely convinced there's a correlation between players who get concussed and suffer soft-tissue neck trauma and those who end up subsequently needing hip surgery, but as he says, “The medical world won't listen to you unless you can quantify it, so I want to go back into the academic world and quantify some of these things I believe I know from my experiences.”

But the small-town guy who estimates he spends at least 150 days a year on the road knows he'll never stop treating athletes.

“That's the rush,” he said. “You get a call from a great athlete and he needs your help. Those are the ones you remember. It's been a privilege for me to work with these athletes. I've learned so much from them. You watch them train, it's no joke. Their level of preparation is incredible, they're all in. The best athletes still prepare the best and they make it look easy and it's not easy. I also love working with these young kids in hockey today, to see the change in the attitude of these young guys, how they understand the big picture. They just get it.

“I'd like to have that mix—do some academic work, treat some athletes who need it. I'm trying to travel less, pick my spots more, get home for four- or five-day stretches. It's a good thing [wife] Kate is so understanding. She knows—she was in three Olympics, she's an elite athlete—and the only reason she puts up with me is because she understands what I'm doing and who I'm doing it for. Along the way, after 20-plus years, it's all about evolving, deciding what to add to your arsenal. It's just not possible to stop learning; I'm perpetually learning. I don't have the answers. I want to get better and help as many athletes as possible.”

In the meantime, though, as he sorts through it all, Mark Lindsay tries every day to take to heart the advice his wife, Kate, passed along to him years ago, when he was treating a tennis superstar at a tournament. Kate was on another court, chatting with Rafael Nadal and his famous coach, his uncle Toni Nadal.

“It was an impromptu thing, very casual, and Kate was talking to Rafa and Uncle Toni. They talked to her about their philosophy; they said it included three things, and we've really tried to adopt them: stay hungry, hidden and humble. You have to be humble because you realize you can't fix everyone—there are going to be people you just can't help. You have to stay hungry because there's so much to learn, it's constantly changing and evolving, and you have to try to stay up on it. And hidden . . . well, most times I can walk into a room full of people and no one knows who I am.”

If the face goes unrecognized, the hands do not.

Joe Tavares is not the type of man to wonder what might
have been. He's economical with his words, projecting equal parts stoicism and strength. If he were being cast in a movie, he'd be the strong, silent type.

So as much as a nine-year-old boy, brand new to Canada, desperately wanted to join the other boys his age and play the sports they were playing—soccer and baseball in the summer, hockey in the winter—Joe Tavares knew it was not to be.

“I wanted to play so badly,” he said, “but I couldn't.”

Tavares said he had to deal with “reality,” and this was his: when Manuel and Dorotea Tavares left the harsh life of the Azores (a string of volcanic islands off the coast of their native Portugal in the Atlantic Ocean) behind them in 1967, emigrating to Toronto in Canada's centennial year for the promise of a better life, there was neither time nor money for sports or recreation—certainly not at first, not for their eldest son, Joe, or his younger siblings seven-year-old Rita and five-year-old Danny.

Even as a nine-year-old, when his grade school day was over at Ryerson Public School in the Alexandra Park neighbourhood located on the western fringe of downtown Toronto, Joe had to hustle to his part-time job to help support the family, hucking dry goods in Kensington Market. But that didn't mean there weren't times when Joe was still sorely tempted to be a kid, one with a passion for sports.

“One day, instead of going to my job at the market after school, I played for the school baseball team,” Joe recalled. “I was pitching. I was on the mound when I saw my mother coming across the [baseball] field towards me. I dropped the ball and ran right to work. My teacher was mad. He didn't understand why I left. I ran because I knew what was coming next if I didn't.”

Not only was there no time for Joe to play sports, it wasn't long before there was no time for school at all. His reality was work, not education. With the Tavares patriarch, Manuel, working as a labourer and matriarch Dorotea staying at home to look after the family, there were soon more Tavares mouths to feed. Another brother, John, the first of the family to be born in Canada, arrived in 1968, and the youngest brother, Peter, in 1976.

By the age of 15, Joe was no longer going to school; instead, he was working two jobs that allowed younger siblings like John to play the games Joe couldn't. And even though Joe was able to play some soccer and hockey once he got into his twenties, getting married and having a family of his own meant that reality would at times trump sports once again. Joe's own son John would be given every chance to play the sports he loved, but Joe was often too busy in the sheet metal and structural steel business, supporting his family, to fully partake in his son's sporting endeavours.

“I didn't really have that chance to play [sports], but I did what I could so [brother John and son John] could play,” Joe Tavares said. “If [son John] wanted it, the opportunity was there for him. I would tell him, ‘It's there if you want it. Go for it.'”

Go for it, they did. Both of them. Like you wouldn't believe. Joe's little brother John, the lacrosse player; Joe's son John, the hockey player; an uncle and a nephew; the same name, but a different game.

Little did Joe Tavares realize, when he dropped the ball on the pitcher's mound to run to work that day with his mother in hot pursuit, it would help to spawn two of the country's greatest athletes, each of whom would not only play one of Canada's two national games, but, quite remarkably, dominate them.

If you hear the name John Tavares and automatically think
of the 1990-born centre with the New York Islanders of the National Hockey League, it's understandable. The eldest son of Joe and Barb Tavares of Oakville, Ontario, has been a national headliner since he became, at age 15, the first player to be granted “exceptional” status in the Ontario Hockey League, gaining admission to the league a year earlier than normal. He broke Wayne Gretzky's OHL record for goals by a 16-year-old, starred for Canada in back-to-back gold-medal performances at the World Junior Championship in 2008 and 2009, and was the first-overall selection in the 2009 NHL Entry Draft. At age 23, he lined up with the
crème de la crème
and played for Team Canada at the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia. Five seasons into his pro career, he was already an NHL superstar in every sense of the word, and if he plays his way into the Hockey Hall of Fame, it will come as a surprise to no one.

So, yes, it's perfectly understandable if he's who you thought of when you heard the name John Tavares.

But that would only mean you haven't met Uncle John—or Johnny T or the original J.T., as he's known (with apologies to his nephew and Justin Timberlake), the 1968-born, mild-mannered high school math teacher by day, who on summer nights and winter weekends becomes the ageless wonder and Canadian box lacrosse phenom. If there were a prize for the sports personality who epitomizes Canadian athleticism while garnering the least national recognition, Johnny T would win it in a walk.

“Put it this way,” says Hockey Hall of Fame player Brendan Shanahan, who played minor lacrosse with J.T., “John Tavares the hockey player has a long way to go to accomplish what John Tavares the lacrosse player has done.”

Young John would be the first to agree, if only Uncle John would slow down long enough to let anyone catch up. Every time he stepped on the floor for the National Lacrosse League's Buffalo Bandits, he was setting NLL records. His statistical dominance in the NLL has been Wayne Gretzky–like. Going into the 2014 season, Tavares had played more games than anyone else (280), scored more goals (779—142 more than the next best), assists (887—109 more No. 2) and points (1,666—404 more than the nearest competition).

If his offensive prowess is Gretzkyesque, his longevity brings to mind Gordie Howe. The NLL was originally known as the Major Indoor Lacrosse League (MILL). It opened its doors in 1986, but it was in 1992 that a 23-year-old Tavares burst onto the scene with the Bandits, winning three MILL championships in his first five seasons. In 1998, the MILL became the NLL, and while Tavares led the Bandits to three appearances in NLL championship games, there was just one more title, in 2008. At the age of 45, in his 23rd consecutive season, he was still at it, one of Buffalo's most revered athletes, a big reason why the Bandits, first at the old Memorial Auditorium and then at its replacement, First Niagara Center, have been the NLL's marquee franchise.

J.T.'s an institution in Western New York. Every time he scored a goal, the P.A. announcer would say: “Bandit goal scored by Johnny Who?” And the crowd would roar “Tavares” in response.

His impact in the summer lacrosse leagues of Ontario and British Columbia is the stuff of legend. In 1992, at the age of 24, he helped lead the Brampton Excelsiors to the national championship, the Mann Cup. They did it again in 1993. In 1994, he moved to the Six Nations Chiefs and won three consecutive Mann Cups.

But merely recounting his championships or MVP awards or all the goals or points can't begin to paint the true picture of the artistry and athleticism of the five-foot-11, 185-pound Tavares. Lacrosse is a hard game, especially the summer variety, played in hot, steamy, sauna-like arenas. Just running up and down the hard concrete floors can break down a man's body, never mind that there are big men—mean ones, too—using the legal lacrosse cross-check and other more violent illegal tactics to physically punish whomever has the ball. And in any game played by J.T., he has the ball. A lot.

There's no place to hide in lacrosse. Ask any hockey player who has played lacrosse, and there are many, and they'll tell you how much tougher and rugged a sport lacrosse can be than hockey, especially in front of the net, where a goal scorer takes his life into his hands while cutting through the middle.

Lacrosse fans are no different than hockey fans in that they like to debate who is the greatest player of all time. In hockey, some will cite the statistical dominance of Gretzky, the longevity of Howe, the game-changing dynamic of Bobby Orr, Mario Lemieux's unheard-of size, speed and skill, or the fire in the eyes of Maurice (Rocket) Richard.

It's no different in lacrosse. Old-timers will say the greatest of all time is Gaylord Powless or John Davis. In the modern era, many would say it has to be Victoria's Gary Gait, or his twin brother, Paul—big men who excelled in field lacrosse at Syracuse before dominating any box game they played anywhere. Peterborough's John Grant Jr., six years younger than Tavares, was making his own case to be considered the greatest of all time. But there's never any shortage of lacrosse people who'll tell you Johnny T. is No. 1.

“I think he's the best who ever played,” said Brian Shanahan, the older brother of ex-NHLer Brendan and a stalwart lacrosse defender who won five Mann Cups alongside Tavares with Brampton and Six Nations. “It's not just that he's played the game at the highest level possible, it's how long he's done it. It's incredible. Gary Gait is amazing, he's a lot like Mario Lemieux, that's a good comparison. There'll be lots of people who say Gary or Paul Gait are best. There's always going to be that debate. But, for me, J.T. is Wayne Gretzky
and
Gordie Howe all in one. Like Gretzky, he's not the biggest or the fastest or the strongest, but he is the smartest and the most skilful. He just thinks the game on another level from everyone else. He's dominated for such a long time, so he's like Gordie Howe that way. He's 45 years old and he's still playing. It's incredible. He's so competitive. He'd slit your throat to beat you, but he's a tremendous teammate and a great guy, a really good person.”

Troy Cordingley would take it a step further.

“Not only do I think he's the greatest lacrosse player of all time,” said the head coach of the 2014 Buffalo Bandits and a four-time Mann Cup teammate of Tavares, “I think you could make a case for him being the one of the greatest Canadian athletes, if not
the
greatest, in any sport. To do what he's doing at age 45, in as physically a demanding game as lacrosse is, to have done it year in and year out—yeah, I think he's one of the best Canadian athletes ever in any sport.”

Scoff if you like, and many will, but I'm going to tell you a story.

Since the early 1980s, I've had a front-row seat to the greatest professional hockey performances of all time. I was in Hamilton's Copps Coliseum when Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux teamed up to win the 1987 Canada Cup. I was there at Maple Leaf Gardens when Gretzky played what he said was the greatest single game of his career, Game 7 of the Western Conference final against Toronto in 1993. I was maybe 50 feet away from Sidney Crosby when he yelled “Iggy” and scored the Golden Goal to give Canada the gold medal at the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics. All of those performances, and so many more, are burned into my memory as extraordinary athletic accomplishments, but then there's the hot, summer night in July 1992, when I first saw John Tavares play lacrosse.

It was an athletic display I'll never forget, a seminal sporting moment for me that I couldn't help but think about when Cordingley made a claim many would say is outlandish.

It was a midweek regular-season game in the Ontario Lacrosse Association Major Series, between the visiting Brampton Excelsiors and the Brooklin Redmen at tiny Luther Vipond Memorial Arena in Brooklin, Ontario. There couldn't have been more than 50 to 75 people there. I stood in the corner, at the glass, near the dressing rooms on the far side from the stands where everyone else sat to watch the game. It could not have been further removed from Copps Coliseum, Maple Leaf Gardens or the Winter Olympics.

It was Tavares's third year of senior men's lacrosse, but his first in Ontario after having played two seasons in B.C. I went to the game never having heard of John Tavares, and I left the arena that summer night feeling as though I had witnessed one of the most incredible feats of athleticism ever, bar none.

I was totally captivated. He seemed so much smaller than the other players, yet he was so dynamic and explosive, so graceful and cerebral. He ran the floor with a fluidity that's difficult to put into words, but his game was also so visceral. He was so lean, especially his legs, but they were like coiled steel. His swarthy skin glistened with sweat, his hawkish features evident under the wire face mask, his eyes bright like white-hot lights.

To the best of my recollection, he probably scored five or six goals that night, but it wasn't how many he scored as much as
how
he scored them, how he played the game, demonstrating an uncanny blend of intelligence, athleticism and extraordinary skill.

His passing and shooting were on another level from virtually every player on the floor. You could seem him process the game like no other, with Gretzky-like vision and creativity. The things he could do with the ball in his stick cannot even be described. He shot the ball overhand, underhand, sidearm, over the shoulder, behind the back, between the legs. He juked and jived all over the floor, faking and feinting, creating open spaces for himself, but he also carried big, aggressive defenders on his back through heavy traffic. He absorbed more physical punishment—cross-checks, big hits, blatant attempts at intimidation, both physical and verbal—than I'd seen any star hockey player take. Ever. He gave as good as he got, too, figuratively baring his teeth, literally getting his stick into the faces of opponents taking liberties, protecting himself, creating space for himself. He used trickery to sneak off the bench and score on a breakaway. He scored a goal diving through the air like Superman. He scored in tight and from far out. From behind the net and in front of it. He beat opponents one on one, he beat them one on three. He played with unbelievable passion, yet there was a calmness and sense of control and purpose to everything he did. Boundless energy, not an ounce of it wasted.