Derek Boogaard was never one to back down from a fight.
Like children learn to kick a soccer ball or dribble a basketball, Boogaard learned to throw punches at an early age. At the age of 11, he punched a fellow classmate in the nose after being taunted in the schoolyard for being bigger than the rest of the kids his age. From that moment on, Boogaard would accept any and all challenges, even taking on bigger, stronger friends of his older brothers.
Concerned about his safety, Boogaard’s parents offered hockey as an outlet for his aggression. “It’s something that he really enjoyed to do,” Joanne Boogaard told the New York Times in 2011. “And because he struggled so much in school, we bent over backwards to give him every opportunity that you could for him to do what he liked to do.”
Fighting had always been an integral part of the game of hockey for Boogaard. At age 16, his father signed him up for skating lessons. Almost seven feet tall on skates, the lessons would help him become more agile on skates, better able to keep up with the smaller, sharper skaters he was supposed to cover. Boogaard also took boxing lessons, which would help him cement his place in the lineup as a fourth-line enforcer, not afraid to drop the gloves when he felt necessary.
Boogaard realized enforcing would always be his ticket to the big leagues, as he didn’t have the speed, skill or scoring abilities to make an impact on the scoreboard. His impact would be in roughing up the other team, making them afraid to act in any way that would end with them confronting the 6’4, hulking winger.
Like children learn to kick a soccer ball or dribble a basketball, Boogaard learned to throw punches at an early age. At the age of 11, he punched a fellow classmate in the nose after being taunted in the schoolyard for being bigger than the rest of the kids his age. From that moment on, Boogaard would accept any and all challenges, even taking on bigger, stronger friends of his older brothers.
Concerned about his safety, Boogaard’s parents offered hockey as an outlet for his aggression. “It’s something that he really enjoyed to do,” Joanne Boogaard told the New York Times in 2011. “And because he struggled so much in school, we bent over backwards to give him every opportunity that you could for him to do what he liked to do.”
Fighting had always been an integral part of the game of hockey for Boogaard. At age 16, his father signed him up for skating lessons. Almost seven feet tall on skates, the lessons would help him become more agile on skates, better able to keep up with the smaller, sharper skaters he was supposed to cover. Boogaard also took boxing lessons, which would help him cement his place in the lineup as a fourth-line enforcer, not afraid to drop the gloves when he felt necessary.
Boogaard realized enforcing would always be his ticket to the big leagues, as he didn’t have the speed, skill or scoring abilities to make an impact on the scoreboard. His impact would be in roughing up the other team, making them afraid to act in any way that would end with them confronting the 6’4, hulking winger.
It was what he was known for. Boogaard felt the tug of his jersey all too often and knew what he had to accomplish. He would fight, disregarding all the broken knuckles and countless concussions, all the way until he signed with a junior hockey team, his first step in reaching his dream of playing in the National Hockey League.
“He didn’t have a plan B,” Len Boogaard told the Times. “Plan A was to play hockey. There was no backup plan.”
Boogaard signed with the Western Hockey League’s Regina Pats in 1998 at age 16. It was his first taste of professional hockey, of what it meant to be on a team and know your only role was to fight, and to fight hard. Despite the Pats giving him a contract, Boogaard rarely stepped on the ice. When given the chance, Boogaard was immediately challenged by a player four years older than him. It was a fight he would not win. The Pats assigned him to a lower division team in Calgary, and Boogaard’s playing time didn’t improve at all.
Angry at himself for not proving his worth, and at his coaches for not seeing his potential, Boogaard quit. It seemed like the end of his professional career, but he would continue working on his play, and the Pats took notice. But, as they had previously done before, the Pats sent him packing - this time, to the Prince George Cougars - after losing one fight.
Two years into his time with the Cougars, Boogaard began to win fights, despite his mother’s pleas to stop. Dismantling opponent after opponent, the online arena of hockey started to take notice, naming him the toughest player in the WHL’s Western Conference. Despite scoring only once in 61 games with the Cougars, Boogaard’s presence electrified the crowd. They’d chant his name, expecting and waiting for the winger to drop the gloves. Boogaard was used to being the aggressive, mouthy enforcer for the team, but he found himself as an overtime hero during the WHL playoffs in 2000.
In a journal entry, Boogaard spoke of his excitement and disbelief at his first playoff goal. “I was standing in front of the net and I turned around and the puck was just sitting there while the goalie thought he had the puck,” Boogaard wrote. “I backhanded it into the net and the game was over. It was an unbelievable feeling. The guys came out of the bench and the place was going nuts.”
Boogaard wrote that the moment was “the best feeling [I] had the last 2 years.” After years of ups and downs, his effort seemed to be paying off.
That’s when his phone rang. The NHL’s Minnesota Wild had called to say that they drafted Boogaard in the seventh round, No. 202 overall.
Derek Boogaard had, quite literally, fought his way to the top.
--
Bobby Robins had finally made the NHL, and nothing was going to stop him from working his hardest to stay there. Not the pain, not the intensity of the league, and certainly not an injury.
After an odyssey that saw Robins play on nine professional teams, including two years overseas, the hard-nosed enforcer had finally cracked an NHL roster and would make his debut on October 8, 2014, in the Boston Bruins home opener against the Philadelphia Flyers. It was this game that would change the course of the rest of Robins‘ season.
Robins was given a spot on the Bruins roster in an attempt to add an element of fourth-line toughness to the team, after resident enforcer Shawn Thornton had been let go in the off season. Robins understood his role perfectly: to continue to play the rough, physical brand of hockey he was known for, and to drop the mitts when he deemed it necessary.
Fighting wasn’t always an element of his game. Robins was actually afraid of fighting, and didn’t make the decision to add fighting to his resume of on-ice talents until 2010. During his first fight at a junior hockey tryout when he was 18, he broke his opponent’s nose, and was told immediately afterwards by a coach that he had what it took to become a fighter. Overseas, Robins would train with a boxer and return to America, determined to make an impact with his new skill set.
“After two years in the minors and two years overseas, I realized that I had given up on my dream of playing in the NHL because I let fear get the better of me. I vowed to play the same reckless style of hockey I always had, but this time I would add the dimension of fighting to my game,” Robins said.
“I looked at it as a valuable skill that I could add to my game and make me an asset to a hockey team. But more than that, it was about facing my fear and not letting fear consume me anymore.”
It was this decision to push fear aside, no matter the situation, that would come back to ultimately haunt Robins. In his first NHL fight against the Flyers‘ Luke Schenn, Robins sustained a concussion. Robins was at the starting line of a life-long dream, and was afraid speaking up would force him out of a spot that he had worked so hard to get to.
So he continued to play. He ignored the symptoms, took two more hits to the head and dropped the gloves one more time. The Bruins would send him down to their AHL affiliate team in Providence, where Robins would continue to play for two more games.
“I was trying so hard to not get hit and not fight,” Robins said. “There was one moment in the second game where I was skating the wrong direction and the play was going the other way, and something clicked in my head.”
The day after, Robins told his trainer. It wasn’t the first time Robins had been injured. With his brand of hockey, he had seen his fair share of injuries: dislocated shoulders, severed tendons, and concussions that had gone undiagnosed. His dishonesty when he suffered this concussion came from the same reason Robins included fighting in his game: fear.
“Most of the time, you just suck it up and play through it. I tried to do that this year and it got the best of me, and ended up lasting for a very long time, keeping me out of action for an entire season,” Robins said. “I just made the NHL when I got my concussion and my mentality at the time was that there was nothing that was going to stop me.”
Robins‘ current team, the Providence Bruins, uses the imPACT test to determine a player’s baseline at the start of the season. This computerized test takes about 25 minutes and measures a player’s memory, attention span, reaction time, and problem solving abilities. If, during the season, trainers suspect a concussion, they administer a repeat imPACT test and compare results. Ultimately, it assists professionals in determining the damage caused to the brain, as well as a treatment plan for the future.
Robins had ignored his symptoms for too long, increasing the severity of what he was going through. Describing his mentality as being in a “nightmare state,” Robins said the concussion provoked thoughts of suicide.
Boogaard signed with the Western Hockey League’s Regina Pats in 1998 at age 16. It was his first taste of professional hockey, of what it meant to be on a team and know your only role was to fight, and to fight hard. Despite the Pats giving him a contract, Boogaard rarely stepped on the ice. When given the chance, Boogaard was immediately challenged by a player four years older than him. It was a fight he would not win. The Pats assigned him to a lower division team in Calgary, and Boogaard’s playing time didn’t improve at all.
Angry at himself for not proving his worth, and at his coaches for not seeing his potential, Boogaard quit. It seemed like the end of his professional career, but he would continue working on his play, and the Pats took notice. But, as they had previously done before, the Pats sent him packing - this time, to the Prince George Cougars - after losing one fight.
Two years into his time with the Cougars, Boogaard began to win fights, despite his mother’s pleas to stop. Dismantling opponent after opponent, the online arena of hockey started to take notice, naming him the toughest player in the WHL’s Western Conference. Despite scoring only once in 61 games with the Cougars, Boogaard’s presence electrified the crowd. They’d chant his name, expecting and waiting for the winger to drop the gloves. Boogaard was used to being the aggressive, mouthy enforcer for the team, but he found himself as an overtime hero during the WHL playoffs in 2000.
In a journal entry, Boogaard spoke of his excitement and disbelief at his first playoff goal. “I was standing in front of the net and I turned around and the puck was just sitting there while the goalie thought he had the puck,” Boogaard wrote. “I backhanded it into the net and the game was over. It was an unbelievable feeling. The guys came out of the bench and the place was going nuts.”
Boogaard wrote that the moment was “the best feeling [I] had the last 2 years.” After years of ups and downs, his effort seemed to be paying off.
That’s when his phone rang. The NHL’s Minnesota Wild had called to say that they drafted Boogaard in the seventh round, No. 202 overall.
Derek Boogaard had, quite literally, fought his way to the top.
--
Bobby Robins had finally made the NHL, and nothing was going to stop him from working his hardest to stay there. Not the pain, not the intensity of the league, and certainly not an injury.
After an odyssey that saw Robins play on nine professional teams, including two years overseas, the hard-nosed enforcer had finally cracked an NHL roster and would make his debut on October 8, 2014, in the Boston Bruins home opener against the Philadelphia Flyers. It was this game that would change the course of the rest of Robins‘ season.
Robins was given a spot on the Bruins roster in an attempt to add an element of fourth-line toughness to the team, after resident enforcer Shawn Thornton had been let go in the off season. Robins understood his role perfectly: to continue to play the rough, physical brand of hockey he was known for, and to drop the mitts when he deemed it necessary.
Fighting wasn’t always an element of his game. Robins was actually afraid of fighting, and didn’t make the decision to add fighting to his resume of on-ice talents until 2010. During his first fight at a junior hockey tryout when he was 18, he broke his opponent’s nose, and was told immediately afterwards by a coach that he had what it took to become a fighter. Overseas, Robins would train with a boxer and return to America, determined to make an impact with his new skill set.
“After two years in the minors and two years overseas, I realized that I had given up on my dream of playing in the NHL because I let fear get the better of me. I vowed to play the same reckless style of hockey I always had, but this time I would add the dimension of fighting to my game,” Robins said.
“I looked at it as a valuable skill that I could add to my game and make me an asset to a hockey team. But more than that, it was about facing my fear and not letting fear consume me anymore.”
It was this decision to push fear aside, no matter the situation, that would come back to ultimately haunt Robins. In his first NHL fight against the Flyers‘ Luke Schenn, Robins sustained a concussion. Robins was at the starting line of a life-long dream, and was afraid speaking up would force him out of a spot that he had worked so hard to get to.
So he continued to play. He ignored the symptoms, took two more hits to the head and dropped the gloves one more time. The Bruins would send him down to their AHL affiliate team in Providence, where Robins would continue to play for two more games.
“I was trying so hard to not get hit and not fight,” Robins said. “There was one moment in the second game where I was skating the wrong direction and the play was going the other way, and something clicked in my head.”
The day after, Robins told his trainer. It wasn’t the first time Robins had been injured. With his brand of hockey, he had seen his fair share of injuries: dislocated shoulders, severed tendons, and concussions that had gone undiagnosed. His dishonesty when he suffered this concussion came from the same reason Robins included fighting in his game: fear.
“Most of the time, you just suck it up and play through it. I tried to do that this year and it got the best of me, and ended up lasting for a very long time, keeping me out of action for an entire season,” Robins said. “I just made the NHL when I got my concussion and my mentality at the time was that there was nothing that was going to stop me.”
Robins‘ current team, the Providence Bruins, uses the imPACT test to determine a player’s baseline at the start of the season. This computerized test takes about 25 minutes and measures a player’s memory, attention span, reaction time, and problem solving abilities. If, during the season, trainers suspect a concussion, they administer a repeat imPACT test and compare results. Ultimately, it assists professionals in determining the damage caused to the brain, as well as a treatment plan for the future.
Robins had ignored his symptoms for too long, increasing the severity of what he was going through. Describing his mentality as being in a “nightmare state,” Robins said the concussion provoked thoughts of suicide.
He was experiencing fogginess, confusion, manic behavior problems and difficulty concentrating in addition to feelings of anxiety, depression and rage. To cope with the symptoms, Robins began to self-medicate.
“There were times when I thought that maybe I had died in that first NHL game and that I was experiencing hell,” Robins said. “I just wanted it to be over. No more suffering. It’s been a mental battle and a physical battle, and I don’t know which one was worse.”
Luckily, the determination that once fueled Robins to make his dreams come true now fuels his will to heal. Nowadays, Robins isn’t concerned about the future, but rather getting healthy and moving forward with his life. Robins has been dealt an unlucky hand, but is trying to make the best of the situation.
“I’ve gone down the rabbit hole far too deep, thinking about what the future holds. I’m just trying to be in the present moment, and sticking to my protocol of getting healthy, and that’s all I can do for now,” Robins said. “I’m controlling what I can control.”
--
Six seasons and countless injuries later, Derek Boogaard was struggling.
He couldn’t remember when the addiction had started. Maybe it was as early as abusing during his time spent in the minor leagues, to ease the pain stemming from a collarbone fracture. Maybe it was losing track of the number of Percocet pills he was taking to numb his back pain - at times so severe, he could barely lace his skates.
Reality hit when Boogaard had to miss training camp at the start of the 2009-2010 season to admit himself into rehab. The renowned enforcer found that the Wild’s doctors were lax in prescribing drugs, not even bothering to check with one another to see who had prescribed what to whom. At one point, Boogaard had 11 prescriptions from eight different doctors, prescribing him powerful narcotics and opiates.
When he returned, his teammates noticed something off about Boogaard, once a friendly face around the locker room. He seemed to always be in a daze, and was often late to team meetings and workouts. It was clear that something inside Boogaard had changed, and teammates would urge each other not to share medication with Derek. In his return to the Wild’s lineup, Boogaard played in 56 games and racked up 105 penalty minutes. His performance wasn’t enough to ensure another contract with Minnesota, and in the off-season, Boogaard signed with the New York Rangers, excited for a fresh start.
A month into his season, Boogaard sustained a concussion during a fight that would sit him out for the rest of the season. He complained of headaches and nausea, retreating into his Manhattan apartment to keep to himself. During his time spent on injured reserve, Boogaard drove over 40 miles to buy thousands of pills from a dealer in Huntington, New York.
His return to hockey saw him skate in only a few practices before collapsing on the ice. Teammates and family members saw a darker side of Boogaard; once a light-hearted individual, the enforcer was now a recluse, taking little care of himself and veering back and forth between mania and depression. The Rangers would send him to his second rehab, where he would often skip meetings and therapy. Friends of Boogaard said they were under the impression he was on vacation, rather than battling an addiction.
On May 12, Derek Boogaard went out in Minneapolis with his younger brother, Aaron, and some friends. Aaron gave Derek 30 milligrams of Percocet and partied with his brother into the morning, stopping at as many as four different bars. When they returned to his apartment, Derek complained that he could not sleep because the room kept spinning.
“He was miserable,” Aaron told the New York Times.
Shortly after three AM, Aaron left a sleeping Derek to go see his girlfriend. When he returned to the apartment the next afternoon, Derek was still in bed. Assuming he was hungover, Aaron went to pick up their older brother, Ryan, from the airport. When they returned, Ryan noticed that Derek wasn’t breathing.
Derek Boogaard had died in his sleep. A mixture of oxycodone and alcohol had likely killed the enforcer as soon as he closed his eyes. A later scan of Boogaard’s brain had shown severe damage, caused over the years by countless injuries due to his role in hockey; blows to the head had seemingly caused Boogaard to develop chronic traumatic encephalopathy, a disease linked to Alzheimer’s. CTE, diagnosed post-death, manifests in a person long before death, usually in the ways of memory loss, mood swings, and addiction.
CTE is not uncommon among athletes whose sport demands physicality. Plenty of hockey players - enforcers, or not - and boxers develop CTE. The difference between these players and Derek Boogaard was that the degenerative disease usually killed when men reached middle age. Boogaard was only 28.
His death, in conjunction with two other suicides, raised questions as to if the NHL was doing enough to aid and protect at-risk players like enforcers. Rick Rypien, 27, and Wade Belak, 35, both faced many of the same battles Boogaard did, including concussions and addiction. The league would ban blindside hits the head, dangerous hits, and require that players suspected of having a concussion be examined in a room away from the ice. The league’s commissioner, Gary Bettman, however, is still reluctant to admit that CTE was caused by these players’ hockey careers.
“There isn’t a lot of data, and the experts who we talked to, who consult with us, think that it’s way premature to be drawing any conclusions at this point,” Bettman said in a statement to the Times.
Regardless, the NHL and players alike seemed to be taking the steps to ensure that they put health first. Robins believes that the increased awareness - which detractors say discourage kids from playing the sport - will only help players in the long run.
For Robins, knowing he wasn’t alone was enough to quell the side of him that refused to come forward about his symptoms. “I think the awareness is important because it lets players know that countless other players have gone through it, and it’s common,” Robins said. “I know for me, I felt so weak and felt like a failure for letting myself get a concussion. That’s how crazy I got chasing a goal. I actually thought it was my fault and still feel guilt from it to this day.”
As the league gets more serious about cracking down on concussion protocols, the role that gave players like Boogaard and Robins a shot in the NHL and made them fan favorites is becoming less common. Nowadays, teams are putting an emphasis on speed and skill, rather than the willingness to drop the gloves that once was a huge aspect of the game. Players are no longer put on a roster just because they can fight; they need to first and foremost, play hockey.
“The league has to address it. So do the fans and players. This is the reality of the sport,” Robins said. “It’s violent for sure - we always knew that - but now we are seeing the toll this violence has taken on the individuals involved. I think it’s good to get a conversation going about this. I think we will see a day in the future where fighting is no longer allowed, and we will look back with great nostalgia at the days when guys dropped their mitts and went toe to toe at center ice.”
Robins believes a day will come where fighting is banned altogether from the NHL. Players like Derek Boogaard, once revered and celebrated for what he contributed to the game, will become part of an era that many will look back upon with fondness. While enforcing put Boogaard’s name in lights, it ultimately came at a big price to pay. Whatever happens, Robins is glad that enforcing has given him a shot to make his dreams come true, and he will continue working towards that goal with his health being of utmost importance.
“I’m glad I got to be a part of it. I wish it didn’t end like it did this season, but it’s been yet another test of my resilience and countless lessons have been learned,” Robins said. “I’m only concerned with healing now. And only concerned with raising a daughter.”
“Who knows what will happen with fighting in hockey. All I know is when my baby daughter grows up and her date picks her up for the prom, you can rest assured that I’ll have a highlight reel of hockey fights playing on the big screen and I’ll be in the living room doing kettle bell swings and/or shadow boxing.”
Luckily, the determination that once fueled Robins to make his dreams come true now fuels his will to heal. Nowadays, Robins isn’t concerned about the future, but rather getting healthy and moving forward with his life. Robins has been dealt an unlucky hand, but is trying to make the best of the situation.
“I’ve gone down the rabbit hole far too deep, thinking about what the future holds. I’m just trying to be in the present moment, and sticking to my protocol of getting healthy, and that’s all I can do for now,” Robins said. “I’m controlling what I can control.”
--
Six seasons and countless injuries later, Derek Boogaard was struggling.
He couldn’t remember when the addiction had started. Maybe it was as early as abusing during his time spent in the minor leagues, to ease the pain stemming from a collarbone fracture. Maybe it was losing track of the number of Percocet pills he was taking to numb his back pain - at times so severe, he could barely lace his skates.
Reality hit when Boogaard had to miss training camp at the start of the 2009-2010 season to admit himself into rehab. The renowned enforcer found that the Wild’s doctors were lax in prescribing drugs, not even bothering to check with one another to see who had prescribed what to whom. At one point, Boogaard had 11 prescriptions from eight different doctors, prescribing him powerful narcotics and opiates.
When he returned, his teammates noticed something off about Boogaard, once a friendly face around the locker room. He seemed to always be in a daze, and was often late to team meetings and workouts. It was clear that something inside Boogaard had changed, and teammates would urge each other not to share medication with Derek. In his return to the Wild’s lineup, Boogaard played in 56 games and racked up 105 penalty minutes. His performance wasn’t enough to ensure another contract with Minnesota, and in the off-season, Boogaard signed with the New York Rangers, excited for a fresh start.
A month into his season, Boogaard sustained a concussion during a fight that would sit him out for the rest of the season. He complained of headaches and nausea, retreating into his Manhattan apartment to keep to himself. During his time spent on injured reserve, Boogaard drove over 40 miles to buy thousands of pills from a dealer in Huntington, New York.
His return to hockey saw him skate in only a few practices before collapsing on the ice. Teammates and family members saw a darker side of Boogaard; once a light-hearted individual, the enforcer was now a recluse, taking little care of himself and veering back and forth between mania and depression. The Rangers would send him to his second rehab, where he would often skip meetings and therapy. Friends of Boogaard said they were under the impression he was on vacation, rather than battling an addiction.
On May 12, Derek Boogaard went out in Minneapolis with his younger brother, Aaron, and some friends. Aaron gave Derek 30 milligrams of Percocet and partied with his brother into the morning, stopping at as many as four different bars. When they returned to his apartment, Derek complained that he could not sleep because the room kept spinning.
“He was miserable,” Aaron told the New York Times.
Shortly after three AM, Aaron left a sleeping Derek to go see his girlfriend. When he returned to the apartment the next afternoon, Derek was still in bed. Assuming he was hungover, Aaron went to pick up their older brother, Ryan, from the airport. When they returned, Ryan noticed that Derek wasn’t breathing.
Derek Boogaard had died in his sleep. A mixture of oxycodone and alcohol had likely killed the enforcer as soon as he closed his eyes. A later scan of Boogaard’s brain had shown severe damage, caused over the years by countless injuries due to his role in hockey; blows to the head had seemingly caused Boogaard to develop chronic traumatic encephalopathy, a disease linked to Alzheimer’s. CTE, diagnosed post-death, manifests in a person long before death, usually in the ways of memory loss, mood swings, and addiction.
CTE is not uncommon among athletes whose sport demands physicality. Plenty of hockey players - enforcers, or not - and boxers develop CTE. The difference between these players and Derek Boogaard was that the degenerative disease usually killed when men reached middle age. Boogaard was only 28.
His death, in conjunction with two other suicides, raised questions as to if the NHL was doing enough to aid and protect at-risk players like enforcers. Rick Rypien, 27, and Wade Belak, 35, both faced many of the same battles Boogaard did, including concussions and addiction. The league would ban blindside hits the head, dangerous hits, and require that players suspected of having a concussion be examined in a room away from the ice. The league’s commissioner, Gary Bettman, however, is still reluctant to admit that CTE was caused by these players’ hockey careers.
“There isn’t a lot of data, and the experts who we talked to, who consult with us, think that it’s way premature to be drawing any conclusions at this point,” Bettman said in a statement to the Times.
Regardless, the NHL and players alike seemed to be taking the steps to ensure that they put health first. Robins believes that the increased awareness - which detractors say discourage kids from playing the sport - will only help players in the long run.
For Robins, knowing he wasn’t alone was enough to quell the side of him that refused to come forward about his symptoms. “I think the awareness is important because it lets players know that countless other players have gone through it, and it’s common,” Robins said. “I know for me, I felt so weak and felt like a failure for letting myself get a concussion. That’s how crazy I got chasing a goal. I actually thought it was my fault and still feel guilt from it to this day.”
As the league gets more serious about cracking down on concussion protocols, the role that gave players like Boogaard and Robins a shot in the NHL and made them fan favorites is becoming less common. Nowadays, teams are putting an emphasis on speed and skill, rather than the willingness to drop the gloves that once was a huge aspect of the game. Players are no longer put on a roster just because they can fight; they need to first and foremost, play hockey.
“The league has to address it. So do the fans and players. This is the reality of the sport,” Robins said. “It’s violent for sure - we always knew that - but now we are seeing the toll this violence has taken on the individuals involved. I think it’s good to get a conversation going about this. I think we will see a day in the future where fighting is no longer allowed, and we will look back with great nostalgia at the days when guys dropped their mitts and went toe to toe at center ice.”
Robins believes a day will come where fighting is banned altogether from the NHL. Players like Derek Boogaard, once revered and celebrated for what he contributed to the game, will become part of an era that many will look back upon with fondness. While enforcing put Boogaard’s name in lights, it ultimately came at a big price to pay. Whatever happens, Robins is glad that enforcing has given him a shot to make his dreams come true, and he will continue working towards that goal with his health being of utmost importance.
“I’m glad I got to be a part of it. I wish it didn’t end like it did this season, but it’s been yet another test of my resilience and countless lessons have been learned,” Robins said. “I’m only concerned with healing now. And only concerned with raising a daughter.”
“Who knows what will happen with fighting in hockey. All I know is when my baby daughter grows up and her date picks her up for the prom, you can rest assured that I’ll have a highlight reel of hockey fights playing on the big screen and I’ll be in the living room doing kettle bell swings and/or shadow boxing.”
