Alias

I was born on July 24, 1990 in a small city located in the center of Quebec, Canada to Kimalee Seguin and Craig Seguin, a French-Irish couple. This city, known as L’Ancienne-Lorette, is a suburb of, and an enclave within Quebec City. The population of this enclave community is close to 16,000 people. It was a good place to grow up.

My name was Nicholas Daniel Seguin. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Why WAS that my name and why IS my name not that now?” Well, I will tell you why.

My family lived in Charny, just over the Pierre Laporte Bridge, about ten miles south of downtown Quebec. It was a nice and small little town and I felt comfortable and happy there.

My mother was a housewife, but mostly a “home-maker.” She was a fantastic cook, which was probably the main reason my body grew so strong over the years. One of my favorite French dishes she made was her Croque Monsieurs. They were nothing more than fancy ham and cheese sandwiches on croissant rolls, but I enjoyed them a lot. She also taught me values, which helped my character to mature in the right direction. She taught me the difference between right and wrong.

She raised me, while my father worked hard to bring in the money.

My father used to be a boxer. Built like a bank vault, he was a tough guy. He always had that intimidating look that got your attention. He owned an insurance company and, truth be told, when people looked at him, they thought they might need some of his insurance. I don’t know why they thought they needed some of HIS insurance, but he was pretty popular around Quebec City.

My father loved me very much and he found pleasure in taking me to the ice hockey rink when I was old enough to walk. He was an avid fan of the sport and he never missed a game on TV. Because we lived in the great city of Quebec, he would often cheer on the hometown Nordiques.

I took after him. Not out of choice, but more so out of chance. It was in my blood to become stellar at hockey.

When I was four years old, my father took me to my first Nordiques game. I was thrilled. It was a cool experience. One I would never forget.

We sat up front, in the seats right behind the glass. I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven. That was the truth. I had fun cheering for the team and watching as Joe Sakic, one of the players, streaked down the ice and got goal upon goal. He was an offensive machine and he was so entertaining to watch, by far my favorite player.

Not only was Joe Sakic my first favorite hockey player, but he taught me some special life lessons. He taught me “life is precious.” He expressed the fact that young players “shouldn’t take life for granted. Don’t waste a single moment of it. Cherish the life you have and work hard to accomplish your goals.” He also gave me one of my favorite quotes, “Once you’re in the game and it’s a part of your life, you never want to leave it. But you have to be committed to be able to travel. And do the things you need to do to be successful in whatever role you’re doing.” I wanted to follow in his footsteps. I wanted to play hockey and be like him. I guess you could say Joe Sakic was my childhood hero. Apart from my father and mother of course.

Adam Foote was another guy that I paid particular attention to. He worked really hard and was a leader on and off the ice. I actually came to enjoy watching not only Joe Sakic and Adam Foote, but also Peter Forsberg, Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, and Ray Bourque. You know, all the big names in ice hockey. But Joe Sakic was always number one for me.

At the tender age of four, I learned hockey thanks to my father, who would take me to the local roller skating rink when I was very young. I never had a lesson; I was taught by my father. It came easy for me. I guess I was a natural from the start. My father and I would often skate together. We would constantly play street hockey in front of our small, tidy home on Rue de L’Etourneau.

Those were good memories.

When I had mastered the ability to stand on skates, in my young eyes at least, he taught me how to hold a stick. For a change, I would skate at the roller rink with him, or even play a little street ball hockey, outside of our house. Once I learned how to use the stick, we would practice with the puck.

When I turned five, he let me join a minor league as a five year old “mite”.

I have fond memories of a shaky start. I kept falling on my face or tripping over my own skates. I remember that I crashed into the boards and cried until my parents rushed onto the ice to make sure that I was okay and they attempted to comfort me. I was strong. I was a fighter, like my father, and (of course) put up a fight and got back to my feet. But I learned quickly and I became more skillful and committed to the sport of hockey every day.

Nonetheless, my father was hard on me. Everyone thought he was a little over the top, but I accepted his harshness. I learned the hard way that a good hockey player didn’t whine. I pushed through my pain and became a true ‘team player’.

My father pushed me and my mother supported me.

I was the envy of the other kids. My skill was unmatched and I was a fast learner. I was leaps and bounds ahead of other kids. Coaches noticed also. I certainly had a good dose of natural and raw skill.

I continued to play in the minor league and gradually moved up the mite status, playing roller hockey in my free time just to sharpen my skill. I did this mostly after school and on the weekends with my father. We would also take to the streets to perfect my stickhandling whenever we could.

I had the time of my life.