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Biography & Autobiography Sports

Pain Killer

A Memoir of Big League Addiction

by (author) Brantt Myhres

foreword by Michael Landsberg

Publisher
Penguin Group Canada
Initial publish date
Apr 2022
Category
Sports, Addiction, Personal Memoirs
  • Paperback / softback

    ISBN
    9780735239432
    Publish Date
    Apr 2022
    List Price
    $22.95

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Description

#1 BESTSELLER
"This book is at times startling, yet very real and down to earth . . . I saw [Brantt] in all phases of his life and his career. I consider him a friend and an ally. Pain Killer sends a strong message." --Darryl Sutter, former NHL player, coach, and GM
From the only player to be banned for life from the NHL, a harrowing tale of addiction, and an astonishing path to recovery.

Brantt Myhres wasn't around for the birth of his daughter. Myhres had played for seven different NHL teams, and had made millions. But he'd been suspended four times, all for drug use, and he had partied his way out of the league. By the time his daughter was born, he was penniless, sleeping on a friend's couch. He'd just been released from police custody. He had a choice between sticking around for the birth, or showing up for league-mandated rehab. He went to rehab. For the fifth time.

This is his story, in his own words, of how he fought his way out of minor hockey into the big league, but never left behind the ghosts of a bleak and troubled childhood. He tells the story of discovering booze as a way of handling the anxiety of fighting, and of the thrill of cocaine. In the raw language of the locker room, he tells of how substance abuse poisoned the love he had in his life and sabotaged a great career. Full of stories of week-long benders, stripper-filled hot tubs, motorcycle crashes, and barroom brawls, Pain Killer is at its most powerful when Myhres acknowledges how he let himself down, and betrayed those who trusted him. Again and again, he fools the executives and doctors who gave him a second chance, then a third, then a fourth, and with each betrayal, he spirals further downward.

But finally, on the eve of his daughter's birth, when all the money was gone, every bridge burnt, and every opportunity squandered, he was given a last chance. And this time, it worked.

It worked so well, that not only has he been around for his daughter for the past eleven years, in 2015 he was signed by the LA Kings as a "sober coach": a guy who'd been there, a guy who could recognize and help solve problems before they ruined lives and made headlines (as the Kings had seen happen three times that season). Not only did Myhres save himself, he saved others.

Unpolished, unpretentious, and unflinching, Myhres tells it like it is, acknowledging every mistake, and painting a portrait of an angry, violent, dangerous man caught in the vice of something he couldn't control, and didn't understand. If Brantt Myhres can pull himself together, anyone can. And he does, convincingly, and inspiringly.

About the authors

Contributor Notes

BRANTT MYHRES played for the Tampa Bay Lightning, Philadelphia Flyers, San Jose Sharks, Nashville Predators, Washington Capitals, and Boston Bruins. He was suspended four times by the NHL for failing drug tests and was eventually banned from the league for life. After becoming clean and sober and studying substance abuse behavioral health at Mount Royal University in Calgary, Myhres was hired by the Los Angeles Kings in September 2015 as the team's player assistance director.

Excerpt: Pain Killer: A Memoir of Big League Addiction (by (author) Brantt Myhres; foreword by Michael Landsberg)

Prologue

I used to work out in Los Angeles with Bob Probert. I thought that was pretty cool. More than cool. For one thing, Bob was my idol. He was a lot of people’s idol, but my respect for the man probably ran a little deeper than most, since he and I did the same job for a living. We were both tough guys, and tough guys respect each other. Still, Bob was the coolest tough guy ever to put on skates, so I figure I probably respected him a little more than he respected me. But that was fine.

The San Jose Sharks were paying for my trainer at Gold’s Gym in Venice Beach. They were also paying me millions of dollars to play hockey, so they’d hired the trainer to take care of their investment. I thought that was pretty cool too. On my first day at the gym, the trainer told me to go warm up on the bike and meet my training partner for the summer: Bob Probert, legendary Chicago Blackhawks enforcer.

So I was pretty close to having it all. The job I’d wanted since I was a little kid. Hitting the weights with a legend, at the gym where Arnold Schwarzenegger got huge. Gold’s has an outdoor workout area. On one side of the chain-link fence are a bunch of huge guys pumping iron under the California sun, and on the other is the ocean, the boardwalk, and a parade of beauties a young guy from Swan Hills, Alberta, could have hardly imagined.

Not many people get to live out their dreams down to that kind of detail, but there I was. I had it pretty good.

One day Probie said, Hey Myze, you like Harleys?

Yeah, I love bikes, why?

Well, me, Jeremy, and Chris are going to hit the canyons tomorrow for a ride. Want to join?

That would be his Blackhawks teammates Jeremy Roenick, who went to the All-Star Game pretty much every year, and Chris Simon, one of the toughest guys in the league. So, pretty cool guys to hang out with.

Sure Probie, I said. But I don’t have a motorbike licence.

Don’t worry about the licence, buddy, I’ll rent the bike for you. I’ll put the deposit on my Visa and we’ll be good to go.

So there I was on the back of Probie’s bike, riding down the highway to the dealership. It must have been quite the sight. Two six-foot-four, 225-pound guys doubling on a Harley.

When it was time to go our separate ways, he said, Okay, we’re going to meet at Malibu Chicken around nine a.m. See you then.

I was renting this house that was about ten minutes from the beach, a nice little spot. I took the bike home and sat down to watch some TV. But that evening I was getting a little restless. I started thinking, Brantt, are you really going to just sit here and watch TV? How fucking boring is that? You’re only twenty-five years old. You’ve got some cash in the bank. If you head down to the beach on this Harley, you never know—you might meet a nice girl to take for a ride and enjoy the sunset.

You might even go for a beer.

In fact, anyone would be crazy not to. Unless they’d already been through two stints in rehab.

Which I had.

I’d been kicked out of the league twice. I’d been drafted, because someone thought I would make his team better. And I’d been kicked out, twice, because the league thought I was making it worse.

Now I was back. I was with my third team. I was doing better than ever. Making more money than ever. Enjoying the breeze off the ocean in Venice Beach. All I had to do to hold on to all this was stay sober.

But I told myself that one beer isn’t really a relapse. That I’d just head down to the bar by the beach. That I’d have just one.

I jump on the Harley and off I go. As I’m driving I’m not concentrating on how beautiful the palm trees are or how the ocean is looking as the sun goes down. I’m wrestling. I’m saying the words Don’t do it, Brantt. Turn the bike around. You’re going to fucking blow this again. Couples are walking down the narrow streets in flip-flops and loose-fitting clothes. Everyone is tanned and relaxed. No one has any idea what I’m going through. They probably think I’m just like them. Just enjoying the evening, like a normal person.

I’m not. The funny thing is, I’m not enjoying this at all.

The bars are all lit up and everyone inside looks happy. I feel left out, like everything is happening without me. It’s one bar after another. It’s as though all anyone does here is drink. I park the bike, put my helmet on the handlebars, and walk into this Mexican place for my one beer.

I sit down at the bar. It’s sickeningly familiar. The taps of draft, the specials on the chalkboard. The bottles lined up shoulder to shoulder across from me, where I see myself in the mirror. Catching myself in the act. The beer doesn’t even taste that good. Not really. When you haven’t had a drink in a while, the buzz hits right away. You’re not convinced you even like it. A minute before, I was sharp. Now I’m not so sure.

Not for that first sip anyway. That first, guilty sip.

By the time I finish that beer, though, it’s not hard to remember what I loved so much about booze. And let’s be honest.

I’ve never stopped at one.

Soon it’s two. Then three. Now the guilt is draining away. The rush is a relief, bordering on giddy joy. The world transformed in a few short minutes into a better place. Why would I stop now? Now when the bar is a sea of smiling faces? When the lights are swirling around me, and the music is irresistible?

I had money. I felt the warm glow of security knowing I could drink as much as I wanted.

I went outside for a smoke and noticed my helmet had disappeared. I just laughed.

By two thirty I’ve finished a bottle of tequila.

I said to this Mexican guy sitting next to me, Hey pal, know of anywhere I can get some blow? Of course he does. Not far away. Perfect, I tell him. Let’s roll.

When we get outside I’m surprised the street is empty. The tanned, good-looking couples have all gone home. The storefronts and restaurants have gone dark. I’m having a hard time standing.

How are we getting there? the guy asks.

I point at the Harley.

We’re going on that thing?

Hell yes.

Where’s our helmets?

Don’t worry, bro, I’ve been riding bikes since I was five. We don’t need helmets. Jump on.

There we were, driving down Washington Avenue, only now the night is cool and the hum of traffic is gone. All I can hear is the thunder of the Harley echoing down the empty street.

We were cruising along when I looked back at the guy and said, Yo bro, where are we going? Are we close? I was shouting over the roar of the wind. The wind can be deafening when you’re not wearing a helmet.

He said, Oh shit, it’s right here, turn right! I turn the handlebars and the next thing I see are these two little snakeskin cowboy boots fly by. The bike is in full flip mode, and I’m bouncing on the road. When I open my eyes I notice that I’m in a real bad neighbourhood.

My bike is about fifty feet from me and it looks mangled. I look at my arms and legs. I’m mangled too. I get up and run over, lift it up, jump on, and hit the start button. I’m relieved when it starts. I looked around for the Mexican but all I see are his cowboy boots sticking out of the ditch. I have no clue what condition he’s in but I’m not sticking around to find out. I put the Harley in gear and take off down the highway. It’s now three thirty in the morning. I’m not having fun anymore.

All of a sudden I hear the cop sirens going, telling me to pull over.

I’ve been pulled over before. I’m not intimidated by cops. But this time I’m really fucked. It’s funny how a siren can clear your head. Jail for sure. One hundred percent, my career is finished. I pull over and shut the bike off, sitting there with no helmet on and blood all over my clothes. The cop walks up to me and says, Licence and registration please. I’m so hammered I can’t even get my hand into my pocket to grab my ID.

Whoa, whoa, you’ve been drinking a lot tonight, mister.

Yes, officer, I have been drinking tonight. I know I should not be driving in this state.

Then I had to grovel.

Officer, you got to understand. The reason I was drinking was I just signed a five-year contract in the NHL. I was celebrating.

I actually started to cry. If you bust me my contract and my career are over. Please give me a chance.

He said, Well, I don’t usually do this, but how far away do you live?

Five minutes from here.

Okay. Lock that bike up and walk your ass home. If I see you within two feet of that bike I’m arresting you and you’re going downtown.

Needless to say, I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and promised I’d never drink and ride again.

I may have even meant it.

I lock the bike and start walking down the road. Then I turn the corner and pull myself under this truck, wait for the cop to drive by, and then get up and walk back to the bike. Then I unlock it, fire it up, and away I go again down the road.

I made it home somehow, but when I pulled into my driveway I forgot to hit the brake and ran the bike right into the side of the house.

I wake up naked on my floor to the sound of my cell phone going off. It’s Probie: Myze, it’s nine o’clock, where are you?

Shit: Probie! I slept in, is all I can say. And that much is true. I grab the bottle of Advil and pop three of them. I take stock of the road rash and the dried blood, but I’m still pretty drunk so I’m not really feeling much. I’m just focused on meeting the boys.

As I’m driving there, all I’m thinking is, I’m so fucked, Probie is going to kill me, maybe I should start thinking of an excuse! I’m having a hard time keeping the bike between the lines, mostly because the handlebars are bent, so I have to steer to the left to make the bike go straight. The front fender is broken half off and I’m still drunk. The gas tank has a big dent in it. All I can think about is, What the hell am I going to say to Bob?

I pull up and see the boys waiting outside, and as I get closer I see Bob’s eyes open wider.

Myze, holy shit! What happened to the Harley?

Well, Probie, did you see the construction going on? The gravel was loose and I put ’er down.

Come on, Myze, that’s not what happened. Let’s chat about it later, but Jesus, were you hammered?

Just a tad, I said.

 

I’d like to be able to say I learned a lesson that night. But I was pretty much immune to lessons back then. I had been for a while. Some people respond to a mistake by doing things differently next time. Wiser people than me say, Never waste a mistake. That’s supposed to mean you can figure out what to do by keeping track of the things you’ve done that you shouldn’t.

But I wasted a lot more than mistakes. I wasted just about everything that came my way. Millions of dollars. The love of two wonderful women. More second chances from people I admired than I can count. I’m sure there were some I didn’t even notice. I wonder which is worse, losing that first million dollars or squandering that first second chance. The missed opportunities cost me more. They cost more than a million dollars, and they also cost me the respect of the people who offered them.

By the time I finally put my mistakes to good use, it was nearly too late. I could hardly have cut it any closer. I’d been a professional athlete once, now I was a bloated, bleary-eyed husk who could barely walk outside to light a cigarette without getting winded. I used to turn away autograph-seekers, now I was invisible. I’d made a living intimidating the toughest of the tough, now I was pathetic. Others looked down on me. I made them sick. I made myself sick. I was about as close to the bottom as you can get.

But something straightened me out. I’m not saying I pulled myself up by my bootstraps, because I don’t get to take the credit. And I’m not saying I deserved it, because if life were truly about balancing out rights and wrongs, I probably still have some misdeeds to pay for. But I did put in some hard work, and I did get lucky, and the two things happened at the same time.

It’s funny. I’d had more than my share of good luck, and no one makes it to the NHL without hard work. Neither had saved me before. But on February 27, 2008, something fell into place that gave me a chance to finally make use of all those mistakes. This book is about mistakes, then, lots of them, and my belated efforts to make the most of them.

Editorial Reviews

#1 BESTSELLER

“This book is at times startling, yet very real and down to earth. As troubled as Brantt was, he was still a great teammate and a player I enjoyed being with. I worked with him in San Jose, Calgary and LA, so I saw him in all phases of his life and his career. I consider him a friend and an ally. Pain Killer sends a strong message.”
—Darryl Sutter, former NHL player, coach, and GM

“A devastatingly honest account of one man’s struggle with seemingly insurmountable demons. Through a combination of raw talent and hard work, Brantt Myhres finally realizes every Canadian boy’s dream of playing in the NHL only to throw it all away at the mercy of drugs and booze. An enforcer throughout his career, it’s his battle with addiction that proves him to be the ultimate tough guy. Pain Killer is a knockout.”
—Will Arnett, actor

“I met Brantt when he was working with the LA Kings Organization and he was open about his story from day one. In LA, he was a mentor for the players that found themselves going down a dark path, similar to what he had gone through. It speaks volumes about someone’s character when they can hit rock bottom, pick themselves up, and then help others up: that’s Brantt. This book makes his story accessible to everyone, not just players. I’m grateful for his courage to share and hopeful that it will help many others inside and outside of the hockey world.”
—Paul “Biz Nasty” Bissonnette, broadcaster and former NHL player
“Brantt Myhres treats writing the same way he approached hockey. He is all-in, pulling no punches.”
—The Athletic
Pain Killer is far from an easy read, and it’s as much gut-wrenching as it is oddly inspiring. While fighting is far less common in the NHL these days than Myhres’ era, it’s quite the reminder of the very real turmoil many professional athletes may be dealing with behind the scenes.”
—Anishinabek News
“Banned for life from the NHL, the enforcer comes cleanin every sense. . . . Brantt Myhres has been sober for thirteen years now. He's truthful, he's humble, and he's trying his hardest to be a good father. He has concussion-related brain issues, but they're not clouding his hard-earned belief that hope and love are the only things that really matter in life.”
—David Giddens, CBC
Pain Killer is not your typical hockey autobiography; there are no championships or heroic on-ice moments. It is a rare glimpse into the dark side of professional hockey that concludes with a somewhat happy ending—certainly happier than one might expect.”
— Winnipeg Free Press