Every night in hockey arenas across Canada and the United States, modern-day gladiators drop their gloves and exchange bare-fisted blows to the bloodthirsty roars of the paying public. Tens of millions of people a year, including children, watch and cheer on the fighters. Some players are paid handsomely; others barely a living wage. But either way, these fighters are lauded, valued, and considered to be essential to the game. That is, until their playing days are over. Hockey enforcers spend their lives fighting on ice to protect their teammates and entertain their fans, but when their playing days are over, who’s left to fight for them? Major Misconduct scrutinizes a highly dangerous and controversial cultural practice. The book dives deep into the lives of three former hockey fighters who, years after their playing days ended, are still struggling with the pain and suffering that comes from bare-knuckle boxing on ice. All of these men believe they may be living with the degenerative brain disease chronic traumatic encephalopathy. They may have had their shot at pro hockey glory, but none of them is rich or famous, and the game has left them with injuries and trauma. They have experienced estrangement, mental health issues, addiction, and brushes with the law. And they’ve stared death in the face. The debate surrounding fighting in hockey is hotly contested on both sides. This daring and revelatory book explores the lives of those who bare-knuckle boxed on ice for a living and investigates the human cost we’re willing to tolerate in the name of hockey fighting. "A compelling read from first word to last, Major Misconduct tells the too-often ominous personal histories of hockey's gladiators and the culture of violence that forms the dark underside of an elegant and exhilarating sport." —Gabor Mate, MD, author of In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction Jeremy Allingham is an award-winning journalist and musician from Vancouver. He works for the CBC, where some of his most recent and poignant work has included in-depth coverage of the opioid crisis, the Northern Gateway Pipeline, and federal politics. Introduction Growing up, my most vivid hockey memory is one that was repeated over the course of countless, very early weekday mornings. There I am, standing on skates, in full gear, just barely able to see over the boards and staring out at the lingering fog hovering above the ice. The rink is cold and quiet. The ice surface is perfect and smooth. It hasn’t been touched since the Zamboni’s last laps late the night before. The hour may have been ungodly (3:57 a.m. or so) and it may have been mere minutes until a dad would come out and let us onto the ice, but those moments were excruciating. The anticipation to hit the ice, to mark up that clean sheet with choppy, pint-sized strides was overwhelming. I couldn’t wait. And when that dad came out, and the gate opened, with its creaking hinges and always-sticky latch, I was set on the loose. The freezing cold air on my face. The cacophony of steel cutting ice. The echo of wooden sticks on rubber pucks and the near-deafening bass of puck on hollow, wooden boards. The whistles. The drills. Bright orange cones zigzagging across the playing surface. Our white, smoky breath, rhythmically leaving our bodies as our lungs heaved for air. We skated, and skated and skated some more, as the fog lifted to the rafters and the sun rose outside the rink. It was bliss. It was freedom. It was religion. Hockey is an easy game to love, and love it is what I’ve always done. But there’s a dark side of the sport that, despite taking place out in the open for all to see (often right at centre ice), is able to hide in plain sight. And like a savvy defenseman backpedalling on a dump and chase, it interferes with my love for the game. It’s the fighting. Bare-knuckle boxing on ice has long been accepted and promoted, not only as a necessity in the game, but as a promotional draw. “By golly, not only do these men fly across the ice at inhuman speeds, shooting a rubber bullet more than 100 mph, they also take breaks in the action to pulverize each other’s faces with bare fists!” I can almost hear Bob Cole or Chris Cuthbert making that call, or something close to it anyway. Hockey’s history and its current culture are steeped in fighting lore. Go up to pretty much any player or fan and ask them about a Gordie Howe Hat Trick. They’ll be quick to tell you: it’s a goal, an assist and a fight in the same game. The inference has always been that a Gordie Howe Hat Trick is just as good (if not better) than the traditional, and objectively more valuable 3-goal version where hats float down from the crowd over the glass, littering the ice, like flowers on stage for a virtuoso artistic performance. You can probably already tell where I stand on fighting. But in the interest of full disclosure, for a long time, I was fully on board with the scraps. I lived for Coach’s C