I Am Nobody. Greg Gilhooly

being tutored and mentored by a leading figure in the game. I thought I could see everything in front of me, that everything was finally coming my way. It all looked so promising, so attainable, so very real.

      But in reality, I couldn’t see anything.

      THREE

       ATTACKED

      THERE WAS NEVER a clear start to what he was doing, never a moment to look back on where I could say to myself, “There, it’s so obvious what he was doing, I should have never let it happen.” But then again, when I look back on all of this, all I can see now is that every single interaction with him was just such a moment, when “Of course, it’s all so clear what he was doing. How could I have been so weak, so stupid, to let this all happen?” is the only possible response.

      In a sense, our relationship just evolved from our initial meetings. I devoured Graham’s progressive theories about hockey systems and his love of fast-skating defensemen and speedy forwards who went deep into their own end to win back possession of the puck. I craved the attention he gave me in our meetings, being treated as a peer, as an adult, as somebody more than I was at home. I felt fortunate that he was willing to help me progress with my hockey and my academics, that he was willing to mentor me and bring out the best in me. So, when he suggested that we meet not at a restaurant but at a school field for a training session, I was ecstatic.

      Graham started setting up training sessions where he would show me various stretching exercises and body-positioning techniques to incorporate into my own off-ice workouts. This was in addition to the reading material he brought to our meetings which confirmed my belief that Graham was indeed a most different type of hockey coach. I was already completely captivated by his detailed analysis of the shortcomings of North American hockey and the benefits of learning Swedish and Soviet systems. Those systems were known for their focus on off-ice learning, so it was only natural for him to move on to dryland (off-ice) training, something they focused on and which at the time was still seen as somewhat revolutionary.

      I was the perfect willing subject. Beyond wanting to excel at hockey and take advantage of what Graham had to offer me, I was still, deep inside, the insecure, overweight young boy who in my own mind needed to work extra hard on my physical conditioning. No matter how tall, strong, and athletic I had become by age fourteen, in my mind I was still the uncoordinated, pudgy boy who hadn’t yet grown into his body.

      Graham had picked up on that, and he was very good at taking the stories of my past and using them to home in on my insecurities to convince me that I needed his training methods.

      “You know, a guy like you with big legs has to work hard to keep up with the play.”

      “You know, a guy like you has to fight for everything you’ll ever get, because nobody’s ever going to help you like I will.”

      “You know, coaches hate smart players, because they fear they can’t control them, they can’t teach them.”

      “You know, just because you’re smart and you know what to do doesn’t mean your body is going to do it all on its own.”

      I was hearing the echoes of “book smart, worldly stupid.” I was once again seeing myself as an uncoordinated, overweight young man. Neither could have been further from the truth, yet both were the reality I inhabited.

      Graham would never participate in any of the physical exercises or drills, blaming his asthma (or a hernia or an arm in a sling or some other excuse). I have no idea why it never dawned on me back then that these ailments would in no way have prevented him from, say, at least doing some of the stretching with me. I guess I was just so caught up in the moment and what I was doing that I never even noticed that he preferred to just lean back and stare at me. I would stretch, I would do squats, I would do push-ups and sit-ups, all under his watchful eye. I would mimic a goaltender’s stance and shuffle side to side and lunge laterally back and forth and back and forth until my thighs ached. I was always a model student for him. I viewed this as my opportunity to learn from an expert and impress a leading figure in the hockey community, one who could give me everything I had ever dreamed of.

      It must have been a very difficult time for him. Having identified me, having taken steps to bring me under his wing and groom me to be receptive to his thoughts and desires, and having isolated me from my family, coaches, and friends, and having made himself the most important force in my life, he now had to test my boundaries and assess whether the time was right for him to make his move on me. Would I be compliant? When could he safely take tentative steps to find out? How could he move forward without fear of getting it wrong and potentially opening himself up to being found out?

      Because he did not have constant exclusive contact with me, he would have to be very careful in making his next move, for while he had won my trust, there was no natural setting for him in which he could physically take advantage of me since I was still living at home with my parents. He only had our meetings and these workouts.

      But Graham was brilliant in his own way, the Rhodes Scholar of sexual predators.

      One night during a training session, he pushed me until I was exhausted. I had worked my legs so hard that I could already feel them stiffening as I sat down, leaned back, and gulped for air. I was sweating hard, my shirt was soaked, and stopping felt so good. The intense exertion gave way to the usual post-workout euphoria that I craved so much and that felt so good, so intoxicating. I loved to give my all to the task at hand and work to the point of utter exhaustion. That had always been my reputation in everything I did. I was the guy who worked the hardest in all the drills, the one who never stopped short in the skating drills but went all the way to the end of the rink and slammed the boards with my stick, who always stopped on the line, never before it. That’s just who I am. Or rather, who I was before him.

      Graham started going on about the physiology of a hockey player. He noted that a hockey player was required to perform everything on skates, two small edges of steel.

      “A hockey player looks with the eyes, which starts everything. Power to move where needed comes from the core and torso, and this power must be transferred to the hips and down to the legs. From there, all of that power has to be carried by the feet in the skates, which each sit on top of the ice on thin edges of steel, which transfer all of that power to the ice. A hockey player requires very strong feet, very special type of feet that can withstand the enormous forces. Can I take a look at your feet?”

      Not a demand. Not a command. A request. A simple request that at the time made enormous sense to me.

      “Sure.”

      I reached down and took off my socks. I leaned back and put my feet in the air for inspection. He took one foot and cradled it, stroked it. He squeezed it, twisted it slightly, ran his palm from heel to toes. He pressed into the arch. He released the first foot and grabbed the other. Same thing, an inspection, a slow, deep analysis of my foot. He stared at each foot for what seemed like a long time. It all seemed so scientific, so analytical.

      “You’ve got good feet. Big, strong feet. They’re perfect. Perfect.”

      The physical barrier was broken.

      From then on, post-workout foot massages became part of the routine. It didn’t seem strange to me but instead made perfect sense after what he’d told me about the physical mechanics of hockey. My feet felt so good after his massages, and I’d thank him for making me feel better and helping me recover from the pain of the drills.

      Said another way, I thanked him for touching me.

      The pattern was repeated. He made it the new reality as my training continued, despite any injury he might at the time have—a bandaged hand, an arm in a sling, whatever might have otherwise stopped a less persistent and less needy connoisseur of feet. So now, in addition to being my mentor and my friend, he was my massage therapist. He had already broken me down intellectually and emotionally. Now, finally, he had made his first physical move.

      This