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Welcome to the first installment of what may (or may not...I make no promises) become a recurring feature here at FFS, in which we take a closer look at those denizens of the NHL netherworld known as "agitators" to see what underlying pathology lays at the root of their behaviour and makes otherwise perfectly sane and rational human beings look at them and think "Holy fuck but this asshole is an embarrassment to hockey and deserves to be hung from the scoreboard by his nut sack" Today's subject: Steve Downie. Enjoy.
When I was about seven, my mom and I moved into the top floor of a two story duplex in the east end of Cornwall. In the first floor apartment lived another single mom and her son, Tim (no, really!), who was little more than six months older than I was.
Naturally, as kids of that age are wont to do, Tim and I became friends and shared many a jolly hour gallivanting across the neighbourhood playing hide-and-seek, cops and robbers or Cowboys and Injuns (oops, sorry. Deputized Law Enforcement Officers and First Nation Aboriginals).
We would also amuse ourselves, usually at Tim's suggestion, with such wholesome activities as attaching empty tin cans to the tails of stray cats to see how fast they could run (answer? surprisingly fast), burying roughly a metric ton of dog shit collected from the park across the street in Old Man Fraser's rose garden (that'll teach the old bastard not to keep our frisbees), or spinning our heads 360 degrees while puking pea soup all over passing priests...you know, the usual things seven year old boys get up to.
Anyway, one day Tim asked me if I wanted to watch him do something really cool. Well, shit, I was seven. I was all about the cool. And besides, he was older and I didn't want to risk another attack of the purple nurples for being a sissy. So of course I said "Sure!" Satisfied that he had secured his audience, Tim, as big as day and twice as badass, waltzed into the back yard of that duplex and promptly set fire to the landlord's tool shed.
Two hours, four firetrucks, an alarming amount of melted vinyl siding and one crispy lawn mower later, my mom told me I couldn't hang out with Tim anymore. "He's not right. In the head."
Which might go a long way to explaining why, every time I see Steve Downie, I can suddenly taste the acrid smoke of flame broiled John Deere.
I don't think I'm talking out of school here when I say there has always been something a bit off about our boy Steve. Something not quite right. In the head. As everybody knows, if Bobby Clarke called him a loose cannon and subsequently washed his hands of it all while expunging all traces of Downie's ties to the Flyers, you know there's something going on. But whatever could it be?
Well, according to my handy dandy pocket guide to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (What? YOU try doing staff evaluations without it, smart guy!) a "diagnosis of a personality disorder must satisfy the following general criteria, in addition to the specific criteria listed under the specific personality disorder under consideration".
To save you the trouble of the googling (unless you're into that kind of thing. I don't judge), allow me to guide you through those general criteria, with Young Master Downie in mind, in grossly oversimplified bullet point fashion:
- A. Experience and behavior deviating markedly from the expectations of the individual's culture. Presented for your consideration: A 50 foot search and destroy mission because he'd been embarassed. Pummeling an official with his stick. Knocking three teeth from the mouth of his own teammate for some perceived affront to his juvenile sensibilities. I'd say that deviates markedly from the expectations of the individual's accepted culture, wouldn't you?
- B. The enduring pattern is inflexible and pervasive across a broad range of personal and social situations. Presented for your consideration: This dovetails rather neatly into the first three links, doesn't it? Regular season games, pre-season games, practices and even bus trips. That's the sociopathic exacta right there kids.
- C. The enduring pattern leads to clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational or other important areas of functioning. Presented for your consideration: Suspended 20 games in the NHL for the McAmmond hit, 20 games in the AHL for the physical abuse of an official, and a ridiculously light 5 games in the O for ending a promising 16 year old's career. Of course, the problem with this is the "significant distress or impairment" would seem to apply mostly to Stevie's victims.
- D. The pattern is stable and of long duration and its onset can be traced back at least to adolescence or early adulthood. Presented for your consideration: Steve Downie is 22 years old.
- E. The enduring pattern is not better accounted for as a manifestation or consequence of another mental disorder. This one might be a little tougher to prove. I rather suspect that there are a whole whole host of other mental disorders warring within that cement skull. I'm no psychiatrist, but I'll take Antisocial and Narcissistic over Borderline and Histrionic in the cage match for 1200 Alex.
- F. The enduring pattern is not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance or a general medical condition such as head injury. Not yet anyway, and not for lack of trying, but God willing, that day will come.
Hmmm...
Heaven knows, I'm not here to judge (Ed.: BWAAA-HAHAHAHAHA!), so in light of everything, I leave it to you to draw your own conclusions about the underlying compulsions behind Young Master Downie's actions.
I would only ask you to weigh the preponderance of evidence and reach your own conclusions. Here, let me help: if Dave Branch had done his job four years ago and drummed Steve-o out of hockey like he should have, Dean McAmmond would still be a valuable NHL player, Bobby Clarke would still have a real job, Collie Campbell a few less ulcers, Akim Aliu might still have a career and Steve Downie would only be known today amongst his (much smaller) circle of friends as that crazy dude from the 7-11 with his many variations on the phrase "You want fries with that?" rather than a pro hockey player pulling in $600K a year as a twelve minute fourth liner with a mental problem.
Seriously, Steve. Seek help. Get the fuck out of my game first, but seek help none the less. And remember, things could always be worse. Last I heard, Tim's doing 12 years for arson.
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