Alias

October 29, 1997

“Come on! Come on! Hurry up, we’re going to be late!” I yelled at my father, who was finishing hooking something up to the house phone. I was too excited to care what it was.

“Calm yourself, Nicky!” he chuckled.

“I can’t! I’m too excited!”

I was eight years old. I had turned eight over the summer in July and my father had promised to take me to one of the opening games for the Quebec Nordiques, as my present. He had scored some pretty impressive tickets for the second-row seats. I had on my Joe Sakic jersey and my official Nordiques team cap. I was set to cheer on my favorite team.

“Dad, we’re going to be late for the game! I don’t want to miss any of it! Including the warm-ups!” I continued to plead. “I gotta see Sakie!”

“Nicky, settle down, we’ll get there in time!”

My father finished his project and turned to me, smiling. His smile had changed recently though. It was aged. He looked like he was stressed and like he was hiding something.

Little did I know that he was…

But at the time I was too excited about our trip to the hockey game to give any thoughts about his odd facial expressions any consideration.

“Alright, let’s go!”

He took my hand and we walked out the door (and) toward our old faithful 1990 Mustang. We both got into the car. I wasn’t old enough to sit up front yet, no matter how much I wanted to be twelve years old. I took my usual spot in the back seat.

It was a quick, but scenic ten-minute drive to the Colisee de Quebec, where the Nordiques played. We passed by many cathedrals and the tall modern buildings of Downtown Quebec.

We turned the corner, onto the street that led directly to the parking lot that surrounded the large movie theatre-like building. The Arena sat in the center of the lot, looming large. It could be seen from a few miles away. The Colisee always attracted many fans and the parking lot was full of tailgaters partying and some were very drunk. They weren’t going to enjoy the game as much as me!
Tonight’s opponent happened to be the Boston Bruins. I was not much of a Bruins’ fan, but I definitely did not hate the team. I thought the Bruins were a pretty remarkable team and I liked to watch Ray Bourque play. But I was born in Quebec and the unwritten rule “made” me a Nordiques’ fan.

My father pulled into a special parking spot assigned to a friend of my father’s, Pierre Page, the GM (General Manager) for the Nordiques. My father often visited Mr. Page at his gym and he was actually going to be stopping by for a visit the next day.

We got out and quickly headed into the building and got to our seats with little problem. We were right up by the boards and got an up front view of the players and the ice. I watched, star-struck as Ray Bourque skated by, right in front of me for the warm-ups.

When the game had started, my guy, Joe Sakic shot a nice wrister that sailed past the Bruins’ goalie. He raised his arms in celebration and my guy Joe came flying by right in front of me. It was an experience that I would never forget. It was a magical night. I soaked in every moment.

My father sat beside me and smiled approvingly, as I jumped up and down rooting for my Nordiques. Joe Sakic had a hat trick that night and it made me especially happy. I was proud of him, even though the Bruins won the game in OT (Overtime). To be honest, the Nordiques weren’t really that good of a hockey team.

Everything was going right, it was magical and special. Somehow, when things are this good, you sometimes get the feeling that there’s going to be something bad coming. Well, things were great right then. I felt so full of life whenever I was watching hockey at the arena or playing by myself. Hockey and me – that was my world…the best ever. If only that awesome feeling could last.

But…things do change, and not always for the better.

After the game, as my father and I drove us home, we chatted non-stop in the car about the game.

“Did you see when Sakie passed to Foote and then he passed it back and Sakie deked the Bruin defenseman, who was all like “WHA--?”! That was the greatest, aye!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it!”

“I wish I could live at the rink and watch every single game!”

“You wouldn’t be able to do that. Security’s tight. Besides, I’d miss you too much!”

“You’re right, papa!”

We turned onto our street and into the driveway of our small French village house. I prepared to get out of the car, still buzzing with excitement.

“Go inside and get into bed. I’m going to go run an errand and be back in a little bit. Tell your mother, okay?”

“Okay!” I was sent off to bed, still jubilant from the night’s exciting events. Mom greeted me and, after I got ready for bed, Mom came to kiss me good night and told me one of her old childhood adventure stories. I contentedly drifted off and fell sound asleep.

My father went to meet up with some pals for a couple of beers. He was an Irishman after all. That was his “errand”. He came back around 11:30. By then, I was fast asleep, or, at least that’s what I told them later when they asked.

We'd had a good life, right up until that night, at that moment.

My father returned from the bar, after downing a few too many beers. He was drunk. He had a wicked temper and it was showing.

Granted I knew he had some tiny arguments with my mother before, such as the classic “you were supposed to give me a call when you were coming home from work” or “you were supposed to put Nicky to bed”.

In fact I knew he’d been in a bar fight earlier that year, but the charges had been dismissed. But I still had the innocence of a child. All I knew was that my father was a good man.

He’d also said some things that made me realize that he thought my mother had a substance-abuse problem and that made him angry.

This time however, he was off the charts. I was startled awake around midnight to the sound of boisterous, strange noises. I thought I was having a nightmare. That’s really what it seemed like and that’s really what it was!

On October 30, 1997, my father came home and beat my mother.

I overheard the entire fight and the loud accusations they hurled at each other. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I HAD been fast asleep.

“You rigged the phone with a tape recorder, you son of a bitch?!” my mother yelled.

“I know you are using drugs! I’m certain of it!” my father yelled back.

“I have not and I do not!”

“You do!!”

‘Keep your voice down, you’re going to wake Nicky!”

“Why don’t you keep your voice down?!”

“I’m not doing drugs, Craig!”

“I swear you have!”

He shuffled across the floor toward the phone and checked the tape. I could hear the movement and I could only imagine what the scene was like. My kid curiosity spiked. I rolled out of bed and peered out my door. I saw my mother standing with her hands on her hips, shaking her head.

“There’s a call on here!”

“It’s innocent! I haven’t been doing drugs, Craig!”

He checked the tape. There was one call. It didn’t matter though. It set my father off like the bell ringing at the start of a boxing match. He went after my mother like a hockey goon in a fight. Lefts and rights. Choking. Cursing.

What started in the bedroom, spilled into the street, then to a neighbor’s house, where my father, burning like a four-alarm fire, ripped a door off its hinges.

I watched the entire scene, scared out of my mind. No matter how hard I try, even today, I cannot "un-see" it. I saw the neighbors join in on the commotion. My best friend’s father screamed at my father, while his wife grabbed the phone at once.

She had dialed 9-1-1 and soon the cops were called. Sirens blared, as the black and white vehicles raced down the street with blue lights flashing. My father, Craig Seguin, was arrested, October 27, 1997.

Scared out of my mind, I took off back to my bedroom and quietly closed the door. I briefly lingered at the door, leaning up against it. But I forced myself to crawl back under the safety of my covers and go back to sleep, but I heard my door creak open.

“He’s fast asleep,” came my mother's relieved whisper.

The door creaked shut once more. I felt the tears come and I cried myself to sleep once more. I remember that I had a nightmare and that I could barely sleep.

When I “woke” up the next day, I found that my mother was at the hospital. My neighbor came over and took me to see her. She was bruised and bloodied. She told me that she had just had a little accident and that I was going to be spending the next couple of days at the neighbor’s house. The hospital staff wouldn’t allow me to stay with her very long. I learned she had been taken to the ER to be treated for a fractured skull and internal injuries. She had four broken ribs and a punctured lung.

She didn't complain. Now, as I think about the hockey injuries I've endured so far in my young life (and in my life now), I think I must have inherited my high pain threshold from my Mom. (And you wonder why I can tolerate such pain in the NHL?)

She asked me, “Nicky, were you awake last night?”

I swore to her that I never woke up. That I didn’t hear the screams and the panic. That I didn’t witness the bizarre chase down the street into a neighbor’s house. That I didn’t see my father, an amateur boxer, rip a door of its hinges and lash away at the love of his life, causing her to bleed from her mouth.

I didn’t want to add to the turmoil and I felt that if I told her that I had known, it would only complicate matters more. So I stood by my response. I was asleep that evening. Fast asleep. Not awake. That was my answer.

I was the only child in the "normal", yet messed up, marriage.

I knew both of my parents loved each other and I knew that their marriage was troubled. My father was a drunken Irish goon and my mother was possibly doing drugs. That’s what I heard and that’s all I knew.

It’s not that my father didn’t care. But one can get the sense that he cared too much. That was just how he was.

Unfortunately my father wasn’t charged with caring too much, he was charged with attempted murder, aggravated assault and criminal restraint. Craig Seguin, my beloved father, was charged with five other felony counts.

It didn’t matter that my mother wouldn’t cooperate with prosecutors, who still figured that the physical evidence and the eyewitness accounts would net a conviction. It didn’t matter that she stayed by her husband, that she thought I needed my dad. She’d forgiven him of course, but he had committed a crime.

I did what I was told and I didn’t put up a fight. I went along with everything. I hung out at the neighbor’s happily until my mother was released from the hospital and I could finally see her.

We spent a few days together, without my father. I remember that she was trying to figure out what to do. She hadn’t exactly forgiven Craig, but she knew that I needed a father to be raised properly.
While, my mother figured out the next move, I continued to attend my roller hockey games and practices at the local rink when I could. But after some time, my hockey was put on hold for the first time.