Justin Bourne - Down and Back: On Alcohol, Family, and a Life in Hockey

THE RETURN
OF THE RING

When the NHL playoffs approach each spring, we go down the list of talented greybeards whove had great careers and pinpoint those we deem most deserving of getting their ring, and the sport as a whole seems to root for them. We talk vaguely about being a winner, and we talk about the team pursuit of winning the Cup, but in the context of individual hockey players its common to refer to their championship pedigree as includingor not includingrings.

I grew up with an innate understanding of the magic of the ring. My father, Bob Bourne, earned four of them as an integral part of the New York Islanders Stanley Cup dynasty in the early 1980s. For as long as I can remember, those rings have been part of our family history.

My perception of the ring has changed over the years. I share the reverence for the ring as some historical tomb that holds the magic of greatness past, a piece of fossilized amber to be handed down through generations, containing something capable of bringing old stories forward to the present moment. Theyre larger than life (both figuratively and literally these days), and almost supernatural, like something action heroes fight over in comic books. Within hockey, theyre proof of immortalization.

For me, though, other adjectives exist, too, others that are generally unfamiliar in the daily orbit of a Cup ring. Theres disappointment, theres hurt and mistrust, and more specifically, theres the pains of addictions and their consequences. I still revere rings, but theres a heaviness beyond their physical weight.

I was young during my dads heydaytoo young to fully appreciate the skills, talent and determination that made him a success. But I was fortunate that we spent enough time together at events and in dressing rooms as I got older to gain an understanding of what made him special to his teams and his teammates. I saw the way a grinning Al Arbourthe long-time coach of the Islanders, and fifth-winningest coach in NHL historywould shout an affectionate Shithead! when Dad would pop up years later, moments before theyd share a warm embrace. That particular brand of nickname comes from the special bond you form when youve been to the sports mountaintop together, having pushed and pulled with another person to get the most out of them, to achieve the type of goal you immortalize with gold.

I saw the numerous friends that would come through to be a part of Dads charity events years after retirement. I watched old VHS tapes and heard enough stories to appreciate what Life Before Me had been like. It had been successful, and it had been good, mostly.

During his career my dad banked respect away from the rink to go with what he earned on it. The scrapbooks and trophies around our family home in my early years spoke volumes about his character. In one corner, a Bill Masterton Trophy for perseverance and dedication to hockey. In another, a Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year award for his work to raise money for childrens health care, a pursuit that grew from the needs of my incredible brother, Jeff, who was born with spina bifida. (Jeffs life has been worthy of a non-hockey Bill Masterton, as his endurance through nearly 40 surgeries and navigating life in a chair has truly defined perseverance and dedication.) And we had a closet filled with Good Guy awards from the New York media, who annually recognized him for being an athlete who could be counted on for honest, straightforward answers after a win or a loss.

What you wouldnt see in our family home was a complete set of my dads four Stanley Cup rings, in part because he was generous with his success. He presented his first ring to his father, Victor Bourne. Grandpa Bourne raised his family on a farm near the dozen-person town of Netherhill, Saskatchewan, about two hours west of Saskatoon. The second ring went to his father-in-law, Jim Juba. Grandpa Juba was another solid prairie farm guy with an endearing Ukrainian accent who naturally vibed with my dad. It was a measure of love that my dad shared those rings with two men who had a big influence on his life. (In time, both of those rings would find their way back to him.)

In that same spirit, Dad eventually passed on one his rings to Jeff at his high school graduation, a family treasure meant to last a lifetime.

In the year 2000, it was my turn.

Dad left when I was about eight and Jeff was eleven, and so by high school graduation, my mother, Janice, had spent years with us, grinding over the day-to-day details of life. Mom was lovely, and the picture of patience and commitment through some days that werent easy. Because of that, I admit to feeling like she got jobbed out of some much-deserved attention the day my ring came. She had put in the work as a single mom for roughly a decade by that point. It was in June and at my high school graduationan event I see as a triumph over the mundane details of daily lifewhen a day known for celebrating the rote turned its attention to the rare. It was a substantial piece of gold, with two sizable diamonds (to represent the second Islanders Cup) set in the middle of an Islander-blue stone, and it instantly became the star of the show.