A better hockey player (Pt. 1)

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It was the evening before my first day of high school.

I had been uncharacteristically single-minded that summer.  For the first time, I was going to be—at least temporarily—attending a school outside of New York City’s public school system. The Catholic high school of my parents choosing was to be my destination for at least half of the school year.  The deal was that if I was miserable there after the Christmas break they would transfer me to the local public high school for which I was zoned; the default setting that all of my friends were attending.

Knowing only two other people who were going to what I was forced to call “my new school”, and dreading the lack of comely females and terms like dress code or worse, uniform…I had found the sole silver lining.  This school was the only one of it’s kind in Brooklyn in one respect that was most important to my just-turned-fourteen year old mind.  They had an ice hockey team.

I had not played formally, but fancied myself an undiscovered star of the street after only two years of skating at all.  Three to four hours of non-stop playing each afternoon after school in the P.S. 207 schoolyard.  Endless hours on the weekend.  I knew I was ready.

If not for the small matter of never having ice skated, that was.  So all that summer I spent every available moment roller-blading (when no one had ever seen such contraptions).  On most weekends, I had dragged my family to SkyRink in the city to raise my comfort level with the genuine frozen article.

On this particular evening, as I cruised the neighborhood at full speed, I put aside the apprehension and anxiety of being the new boy in a new school, with my eyes set firmly on the prize:  A spot on the Xaverian High School ice hockey team.

The sight of the city championship banner which hung proudly in navy & gold in the gymnasium was all that I saw during orientation, no matter which direction I looked, and that vision lingered long after the interminable ride home on the B9 bus.

This focus drove me forward with powerful strides along avenues, and turned me, with careful, precise cross-overs down side streets I had never explored.

A voice at the corner of East 38th street and Fillmore avenue brought me to a reluctant stop with a spray of imaginary ice shavings.

Mr. Gavagan goes to Albany

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What follows is a transcript of my statement in support of the Child Victims Act to members of the New York State Assembly, press, advocates & survivors of childhood sexual abuse. “I’d like to say that I’m making this film from some pure journalistic curiosity.

As you know, that’s not the case.

I am making this film because at fourteen years old,  when all I wanted in the world was to be a better hockey player, I skated down the wrong block. Five blocks from my home in Brooklyn, a trap had been laid. This was a trap perfected by a man who by that point had coached a thousand young boys over twenty years. He made himself a master of manipulating both adults and children.

When I decided to move forward with this project, I sent this man, my abuser of 4 years a letter asking him to be involved in this documentary about “the men who made us what we are today.” He jumped at the opportunity, saying it would be the honor of his life.

I’d like to show you a few moments from these interviews now.

(I then played four minutes of interviews with my own abuser. Admitting and justifying sexual abuse as a “lesson”. Raising the concern that doing this interview could put him in jail. Laughing with relief when the issue of New York’s statute of limitations—age 23—is raised. And then this man walking away, fading back in to his neighborhood.)

When people see this man walking back into his neighborhood, they all ask the same question: “What neighborhood is this guy walking back into?”

Your neighborhood. That’s the answer to that question.

All of our neighborhoods.

Those who have suffered sexual abuse as children have become tragic experts in a field that the rest of the world wants to pretend does not exist.  Yet survivors can be society’s lifeguards. While millions of children splash about in the surf right now, there are sharks circling. Survivors bear the scars of these sharks. We are the ones who can say “There. There is the predator that attacked me.”

Give the people who know, the chance to say what they know.

The statute of limitations have taken the whistles from the lifeguards. Victims are forced to watch; helpless, mute—as predators sink their teeth into the next victim, and the next victim. While we scream on the sand, child after child is snatched from the sunlight and dragged to the darkness below. Not every child will survive to see the surface again. None will emerge from this fully intact.

There is blood on somebody’s hands here…

The statute of limitations by it’s very existence in cases of child sex abuse—create more victims. Many lawmakers seem to cast their vote as if they believe a shark, once fed, will never eat again. The reality is that these predators will feed for a lifetime on our children. And the short statute of limitations in our state guarantees 30, 40, 50 more years of children—-our children—your children—-as prey. A generation of children that could so easily have been spared.

I have been forced to watch—helpless— as my own abuser, a coach with direct easy & access to a hundred children a year for decades, found his next victim, and his next victim. I reported him at twenty-four years old. So close…

In my case, the criminally short statute of limitations has created a video vigilante. In my darkest years, this story could have had other endings. I would have killed myself to end the pain. I would have very easily killed my abuser to end the threat to other children. To make the shame go away. I could have made the only person who knew my secret go away just like that. What are your options when your ability just to tell the truth has been taken away by law?

But I but I didn’t drive the three hours from New York City to impugn the good name of this esteemed body by implying that the majority don’t care about safety at all.

In fact the majority have voted to make the great state of New York a safe haven. Let it be known to molesters, pedophiles and child sex predators that this state has chosen to protect you. You are safe here. With each failure to pass the Child Victims Act we are saying to these criminals: Welcome to New York.

When we have to rely on other states such as Massachusetts to enforce our laws, to arrest & try our criminals what we are telling those who rape and  molest children is this: New York is the path of least resistance. Stay within our borders, and you are unprosecutable.

Passing the Child Victims Act can change that. A vote for the Cild Victims Act can put you on the right side of history. You can let the true experts, the survivors, have their day in court, to say what they know. You can give the lifeguards  back their whistles, you can play your part in looking an a pandemic, a shark-infested sea, and saying: “We’re gonna need a bigger boat”.

You must extend the statute of limitations by passing the Child Victims Act and giving the victims back their voice…otherwise I’m afraid that this legislative body will go down in history as an assembly of accomplices.”

A public step for a private person

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I am a writer, first and foremost. Mine is not an an instinct for exhibitionism. I can be intensely private. These days, that seems to render one an anachronism. I do not tweet what I had for breakfast. I do not ‘check in’ online to let an imagined audience know that I just bought a half gallon of milk at the local bodega. I do not vent my grievances as status updates. I try to avoid airing dirty laundry, and even the clean linens are kept in their place, folded; not flaunted. I am not judging a single person who has embraced these ways.

Yet through my creative writing, every hope, fear, strength and weakness has always—will always—be laid bare. Scattered across a dozen screenplays, one would find the unvarnished truth of an emotional life lived. Nearly none of those stories are strictly autobiographical, yet they are all me. And if I am writing these with an eventual audience to receive them in mind…then I have already tweeted my breakfast, so to speak. And my ‘modest’ ego deems that worthy of 120 pages at a time, rather than 140 characters. So again, I am not judging those who partake in the technological party. Only the chosen medium distinguishes the forms of sharing ourselves. One of many ways that I am old fashioned.

My training and experience in the independent film world, fifteen years of honing my craft as a writer, a dozen years as a meditator facing ‘what is’…and my entire biography have all merged within Coached into Silence. If you sought out this page today, you’ll know the line is blurred beyond recognition.

Beyond just including my personal story among the others in Coached into Silence, never was this me/movie muddiness more obvious than September 25th. It sank in as I was being wired by our sound mixer Bret, preparing to step in front of the camera for the first time since we were all required to do so in film school a dozen or so years prior. The mere moments from having a microphone taped to my skin, to the beginning of the interview left little time for mental luxuries such as self-consciousness. If I had thought about a ‘Big Screen Debut’ prior to that, myriad considerations; my clothes, my hair, my crooked teeth, my voice, my poor posture…all would have had their moment to annoy and undermine. Without a second’s thought given to these considerations, I had once choice, which was hardly a choice at all. Just be me. This was not a role to be played, this was not a character that I had written to safely hide behind and speak through. For better or worse, my entire directive was; Be Me. That was my intention on that day and with this documentary: Serve the truth as I know it.

If the golden rule of writing is to ‘write what you know’, it is trumped only by it’s prerequisite; the commandment to be that which you truly are. And so here I am, having  just been asked to speak at as press conference at the New York State Capitol in Albany on Tuesday about Coached into Silence and the experiences that inspired it. This is uncharted territory for me. Also speaking will be two of the heroes of this movement for justice, Assemblywoman Margaret Markey & Professor Marci Hamilton. They are among the giants upon whose shoulders we stand every day. It has been an honor to have them associated with Coached into Silence, to have them speak in our film. Now Assemblywoman Markey will be introducing me to the world, and it is my turn to speak. Be careful what you wish for…this genie will not go back in the bottle. That rounded glass refuge has shattered to shards.

What happens next?

I have been warned that I may lose the respect of many who are close to me, and possibly gain the respect of a stranger. I will quite certainly cause pain for those who love me. I’d rather those wounds scab instead of scar, so new healthier skin can grow. I want those who love me to know exactly who it is they are loving, with masks torn away and walls torn down. What I gain by taking this public step is not theoretical or down the road. In taking this step, I give myself the gift of integration and of wholeness. I am taking down the lone barrier in my life which has separated the world into ‘those who know’ & ’ those who do not know.’  I might also, as is my hope, provide some small measure of comfort for a number of people whom I will never meet. Those who are living in shadow may learn a simple single fact that makes this worthwhile: You are not and have never been alone.

More optimistically still, I daydream that someone—years down the line—may never need to take my film down off some dusty shelf in order to have benefitted from it. I retain the human right to dream, and so I dream that this project will have an impact. It has already had an impact on me, one thousand times daily. So if I lose the eye contact of those whom I call neighbor, perhaps I may gain the handshake of one who I would have labeled ‘stranger’, prior to this public step forward. Both definitions are relative, reductive, ephemeral and diminishing, as all labels are.

I am laying all that I have and all that I am on the line, personally & professionally. In our society, labels stick, merely for convenience; ease of reference. In my business, ‘typecasting’ is so prevalent because it allows a judgement, once passed, to replace any further complex consideration in the future. We put each other—and ourselves—in boxes, in closets, in drawers. These roles rarely fit, yet we play our parts. No wall can ever hold what a human being truly is, or more importantly what they can become. Evolution laughs at every fence that has ever been built. A natural world that created something called wings scoffs at all efforts at sequestration. Evolutionary means of overcoming may be a wee bit long-term, still, I understand the possibilities…and the risks.

My name is Chris Gavagan and the label that likely brought you here today reads thusly: I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of my hockey coach. My story was the genesis for Coached into Silence, and forms it’s spine…but better men than I provide it’s limbs, it’s lungs, it’s eyes, it’s brain and it’s heart. I hope to have the honor of introducing you to those courageous men in the coming months.

Every voice raised fights the silent injustices of this most silent of epidemics. If I began by self-applying the label of writer, I must now earn it. It is time for me to give voice to the many thousands of words typed.

It’s time to write the speech of my life.

Xs & Os

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While we prepare for our next round of interviews, I just wanted to take a few moments to summarize what has brought us to this point.

As a concept, the project which would eventually become Coached into Silence began several years ago.  At the time I had naively envisioned it as an objectively journalistic, detached “issue film” exploring the sexual abuse of boys within the world of organized sports. When the subject matter is so under-discussed and the stakes so high, such a documentary could have still had value. Anything that raises awareness can aid prevention. Anything that lets those who have suffered these abuses know that they are not alone can provide a small measure of support.    

We began our research process in the Fall of 2009. The deeper we found ourselves buried in the thousands and thousands of cases, the more we had to face the following disturbing fact: No matter how many cases you would find—-90% of these abuses will never be “cases” at all. The fact that we can even read about a report of child sexual abuse already makes it a rare exception to the rule. As we delved farther into the reasons for that statistic, we began a series of interviews with many of the leading experts on the subject. Psychological & legal experts, those at the vanguard of prevention, support and advocacy…all of whom played a part in opening our eyes to facets of the issue that we had never known existed. 

We were determined to represent the full scope of this issue. These abuses occur in every sport, across all levels of sport, and so we will be including survivors who played in the smallest town little leagues to those who eventually made their name in the professional ranks. There are no boundaries or barriers that guarantee a child is protected from falling prey to someone in a position of power intent on exploiting their access to children. “At risk” urban public schools and leagues are short of all resources, including those which would provide safeguards for children, while elite preparatory academies have the money and influence to protect the facade of their “pristine” reputations. 

From the cracked asphalt of inner city leagues blighted by poverty and neglect, to the immaculately manicured fields of private bucolic Ivy League feeder schools.  Once you have scratched the surface, you have to go all the way. 

As our research continued, we began to reach out to those who had been directly affected by these crimes. Men and boys, their parents and loved ones. There was nothing to be gained for them personally by opening these wounds and speaking out. Their hope is that by opening their lives to us others may be helped, may even be spared the nightmares that they have endured. 

As these conversations continued, the original ‘detached’ vision of Coached into Silence began to fade as the project became more and more personal with each passing moment.  As I began to meet these courageous people, as I talked to them for hours, the emotional roller-coaster rumbled ahead. One moment appalled at the crimes themselves and then outraged at the injustices that too often followed. In the next moment, I would find myself completely awestruck by the courage of these survivors. 

Though the conversations were painful, I felt safe sandbagged behind my role as “filmmaker”. It wasn’t long before each crack in their voice began to bring about cracks in my own armor. I’d sit with the articles & notes from these pre-interviews, I’d discuss themat length with m’lady and lead researcher. I’d sit silently by myself, taking inventory of my emotional and physical state, becoming aware of the knot in my stomach and I would ask myself “What are you resisting?”

During the next phone conversation with a young man who had been the victim of a serial molesting coach who left at least a hundred wounded children in his wake, the knot in my stomach returned. Exactly what I had been resisting revealed itself once and for all. 

I felt like a fraud.

How dare I ask these people to reveal these stories, their darkest days, their darkest secrets,  when I had chosen not to include the story I know best of all?

From the moment I chose to include my story as the thread that will tie all of these disparate stories together Coached into Silence has taken on a life of it’s own. The first step in that direction was a doozie….

Be like Mike. (Mixed messages)

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Sir Charles is firmly on the record: "I am not a role model...parents should be role models"

The rightness of the latter point doesn't overrule the wrongness of the premise. Of course parents should ideally be the first, most direct and most influential role models in a child's life, but for anyone whose occupation requires an audience of tens of thousands in an arena, and millions in their homes to recuse himself from responsibility is laughable. If Charles wanted to take a stand and a step toward dis-emulation, he could have asked to pull the replica Barkley jerseys from all of the stores. There were plenty of little #34 Sixers or Suns jerseys on the courts in those days. It wasn't the first, and it wasn’t the last time Charles was wrong.

To a child, everyone is a role model. Every encounter, every observation, every bit of media a child consumes, can have an influence as they learn how this world works. No interaction, no action or inaction is so small that it can escape a child's thirst to learn what a thing is and how it should be done. More than taking a village, it takes a society. You don’t opt in, you can’t opt out. If you exist, you are a living example. Whether you embrace that role or not, it's yours.

Gatorade's marketing machine didn't create the drive to Be Like Mike any more than Nike's Air Jordans did. Their accomplishment was to masterfully brand and commodify the most natural of instincts: imitation. They made it hummable, they made it cool, and they made sure that it was everywhere that you looked. By 1997 Michael Jordan the man had officially become his own sub-brand of Nike.

In 1932 when Babe Ruth pointed to centerfield to call his shot off of Charlie Root (or didn’t, depending on who you believe) it may have taken days or even weeks for the newspaper accounts to trickle down and be repeated in sandlots from coast to coast--but we live in the era of SportsCenter. Every home run admired, every bat flipped, every sack dance, every plume of chalk dust tossed high above the scorer's table, every Sharpie from every sockapplied to pigskin will be reenacted in most every schoolyard the following day. The through-line from Ozzie's backflip to Jeter's backhand flip, from a Gatorade dunk to a Blake Griffin dunk is our wanting to do as our heroes do.

For years, I would play afternoon one-on-on wiffle ball with my friend Steve Migliore, taking turns batting as each real life member of our favorite lineups. In the age of YouTube, this has even become it's own endlessly entertaining cottage industry . (BSG, I’m a fan--call me!)

I have seen a ten year old prepare for each pitch by tugging the sleeve of her outstretched arm like Ichiro. There have been thousands of little hockey players who have only considered their pre-game preparations complete once they had tucked their sweater like Gretzky. A decade’s worth of on the field or on the court style can be influenced by a single player. Just ask Allen Iverson.

When it came to choosing a uniform number, there was a time when every basketball and hockey team had youngsters arguing for the honor of wearing #23 or #99.  I grew up loving # 44 for Reggie before I eventually shifted to hockey and made a commitment to both a number and a hockey hero by pulling on the #11 jersey as an aspiration and in tribute to Mark Messier (then still in Edmonton).

Wood, wiffle or aluminum; little as I was, I swung the bat with the same reckless abandon as my favorite Yankee Dave Winfield. When hockey took over my life, my intentionally wrong-footed wristshot from the wing mimicked Mark Messier. The celebration of an early evening goal scored, playing against the chain-link fence in the lengthening shadow of P.S. 207 could be part Brian Propp part Mike Foligno (and now his son Nick’s) leap.

Those fortunate enough, as I was, learned to throw a ball the way Dad taught us. I was blessed to have that. The times when he would return from work and we could stand at either end of the narrow alleyway between our house and our neighbor’s remain priceless memories. Him heaving the ball straight up into the sky and my yelling “Pop Up! I got it! I got it!." During those sessions, his praise for my effort, for not giving up on a ball, for being willing to dive headlong to make a play taught me lessons every day. By seeing what he valued in a player, I learned what he valued in a man. It didn't matter if other boys ran faster...just as long as I ran harder. All-out effort, all the time. You knew kids like me: small body, huge heart. Like Theo Fleury, I learned that heart was the ultimate equalizer.

Under Dad’s tutelage, I was a daily casual baseball player as boy but by the age of thirteen I had officially become a hockey obsessive. If I had chosen baseball, I could have continued to be tutored by my father. Perhaps even coached by him--as both of my brothers had been in Little League. I chose hockey; foreign not just in it's origins, but also to my family. Part of finding my own path was choosing not to do what my big brothers had done. It wasn't until I was 14 years old that I felt the pull to be part of a real, honest-to-goodness organized team. I chose hockey, and so my unquenchable thirst to learn the game and my quest for daily improvement fell to someone outside of the family circle. That is no more my parents fault than choosing hockey was mine.

Keep that in mind as you peruse this site.

We approach sports in a most permeable state, at a most malleable time. We pour our energies, youthful exuberance & instincts into a mold that we admire as we learn the capabilities and the limitations of our growing bodies. We want to be like Dad or Mom. Like our big brother or sister. Part of us, powerfully, wants to be like Mike.

I was drawn to sports by watching my heroes on television. That allure was strengthened by the chance to display and develop the characteristics that I knew my father valued.

We send our children to play sports to learn these lessons and more. The value of teamwork , of discipline, of responsibility and of loyalty. To see the reward of one’s efforts and tireless effort as a reward in itself. To strengthen the foundational lessons that that they have learned at home.

Oh yes...and for fun.

I’d really like to hear from anyone out there...players and parents alike.

Players: What initially drew you to play sports? Who were your sports heroes growing up? Was there a player you modeled your game on?

Parents: When you sign your child up for their first team, what benefits are you hoping they will find there? For fitness and for the pure love of the game? Following in your footsteps? All of the above?