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9 Years Ago Today My @NHL Dream Came True.
I wrote a book about the journey called SEX DRUGS PUCKS AND SOULS: Secret Life of a Hockey Fighter to be published early 2024.
Here's an expert from that dream...
They announce the Opening Day Roster for the 2014 Boston Bruins @NHLBruins, and there I am, number 64, Bobby Robins @BobbyRobinsPro, officially on the roster. The oldest rookie to ever make an NHL Opening Day Roster at thirty-two years old, nine days before I turn thirty-three.
I still feel like I’m twenty-five though and have a lot of gas in the tank. I want to play till I’m forty. For fuckin’ ever, man. There’s a buzz that goes out into the hockey world and they’re talking about me on TV and writing articles about me. They’re saying good things about Boston’s new meat.
Time to back it up.
It’s Opening Night—a home game in Boston—against the Philadelphia Flyers and I’m going to fight today. I look out at the sea of faces and black and gold in the stands during warmups. They’re all cheering and screaming for me, Boston’s new fighter. I’m desperate and I’m hungry. And big and brown and scary. I’ll fight anyone. And I’m fast. And I’m looking to knock you on your ass.
Every shift.
I see the anticipation in their faces as they watch me in the tunnel. I hear it in the screaming when I take the ice and stand there for the National Anthem. I take it all in, and then I morph into The Savage. I’m in the warzone. I’m doing this for my family. To set us free.
This is my shot. This is my destiny.
I look up at the Garden and twenty thousand screaming fans, drunk, hostile, pissed-off, and proud—these Boston fans. I feel all those sets of eyeballs and cameras on me. I won’t let any anxiety or negative thoughts in. I’m a machine. I’m repeating the mantra over and over in my head, “I can, I will, I can, I will, I can...” And sort of singing it, until I believe it.
I want to set the tone on Opening Night against the Flyers. I know that my nemesis is out there. Zac Rinaldo @RinaldoZac. One of the most feared bodycheckers in the game. He’s my guy. The guy I’m supposed to fight. And he’s tough too. He can chuck ‘em. Legitimate knockout power.
First shift of my NHL career, I get smoked. I get the puck on the half-wall and look up ice. I want to panic, but think better of it, and know I have to make the play. I chip the puck to my centerman and Rinaldo lays me out, flat on my ass. Feel like I got hit by a truck. Ding! Something happens in my brain, and I get that feeling, but I keep going.
There’s an instant flood of emotions, hormones, chemicals, and blood. At first, I feel the shock of it all—the impact of the hit—and then it shifts to shame. I can’t believe I just got demolished on my first NHL shift. Next there is revenge, that boiling. That little rat, I’ll teach him. I offer up a challenge, but he’s much too crafty for that sort of business, especially now. He knows that he’s much more valuable on the ice doing what he does best, irritating and smashing.
I know it and he knows it, and so I commit to doing the same.
Later the next period I get my chance. He’s along the boards digging for a puck in front of the bench. I’m blacked out. Streaking across the ice. He doesn’t even see me coming. I smash Rinaldo into the boards. A dirty hit from behind. Could have been devastating. It all happens so fast. I’m pumping my legs furiously, going as hard as I can. The mind shuts off. As the valve closes, there’s no flow-state or anything. There’s only instinct and rage.
As soon as I finish the check, something hits me in the face. I look up, and there are knuckles flying at me. I’m in a fight with Luke Schenn. I’ve watched his fights already. I’ve studied the fights of all the Flyers pugilists. I know he’s a lefty, and I know his MO is to go toe-to-toe.
A lefty. I can either grab on with my right hand and throw lefts myself, which offers me some defensive protection in the fight, or I can grab on with my left hand and return fire by throwing rights in a beautiful display of toe-to-toe tiltage.
In front of twenty thousand fans at the Boston Garden, there’s no other option than to let it all hang out, dick dangling there under the game-day lights. With no regard for my face, I return fire with my right hand and keep punching as hard as I can, keeping my focus on that soft spot right below the chin and trying to smash my fist through layers of defense, jerseys, equipment, and skull.
The entire arena shakes with the sound and energy from the screaming fans. I can feel it reverberating through my body as I land that blow to his face and slam on top of my opponent, victorious!
The rest of the night is a blur. I remember looking out into a sea of microphones and reporters and talking about what it was like to finally play in the NHL at age thirty-two. I don’t know what else to say except that it’s a dream come true.
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Can't wait to share my story with you. Give me a follow: @BobbyRobinsPro as I document this publishing process.
P.S. I'm selling 4 exclusive advertisement spaces to be included in this savage memoir on page one + a full page spread in the back (to cover some publishing costs). If your company/biz wants to be on page 1 of the greatest sports memoir of all time, send me a DM for details. Thanks.
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