The group of teenagers who bullied Phoebe Prince in 2009–10 in South Hadley, Massachusetts, drew Chris Nilan out to the fight. Prince, fifteen years old and a na- tive of County Clare in Ireland, had moved to America for a fresh start after suf- fering from mental health issues on the Emerald Isle and was a freshman at South Hadley High School in the quaint New England hamlet. After her relationship with a popular senior athlete ended, an extensive period of bullying began. Over three months Prince endured a campaign of taunts, texts, and social media. Eventually the bullying became too much to bear, and in January 2010 she hung herself in a stairwell. Her body was sent back to her father in Ireland.
For Chris Nilan, who spent thirteen seasons in the NHL defending his team- mates from the bullies of the hockey world, the deaths of Phoebe Prince and count- less other kids were too much for him to ignore. After all, he’s no patsy, a man waiting for someone else to step in. Chris Nilan does the stepping. He felt that he needed to get in the game and set things straight, just as he had so many times be- fore during his hockey career.
“There were five girls in Massachusetts who bullied Phoebe Prince, and she hung herself,” Nilan says bluntly, reached by phone as he boards a Montreal Cana- diens alumni bus on his way to play in a charity game. “There was a boy in Ottawa named Jamie Hubley who was a figure skater. It was fucking hockey players who were picking on him, and he committed suicide. I thought I could try to educate and empower and give kids some confidence, and maybe reach some kids.”
Nilan was so affected by the Hubley suicide that he got directly involved and participated in an antibullying television advertisement. In the television spot, Nilan sits stoically before a single camera, his soulful Irish eyes staring straight ahead. The fifty-seven-year-old Nilan is still very much a hard man from a hard world, and his rugged and craggy face has the marks to prove it. The TV spot gets to the point quickly.
“I’m Chris Nilan,” he says in a serious and deliberate tone straight into the cam- era. “I’m a former NHL player for the Montreal Canadiens, Boston Bruins, and New York Rangers.”
As he speaks about bullying, Nilan wields his words, short and direct, the same way he used to throw his fists on the streets of his Boston youth and on the ice during his professional hockey career.
“The recent tragic death of Jamie Hubley from Ottawa was the result of cruel treatment and constant bullying,” Nilan says to the camera. “The next time you or someone else is bullied, please stand up for yourself or for that other person. Bul- lying is not cool. It is cruel.”
At the end of the video, Nilan’s eyes remain locked in, never moving off target. He calmly holds up the inside of his left hand, a hand that has been stiffened over
the years from arthritis, the end result of a career and life spent punching faces and hockey helmets. But now his battered hand is being raised as a sign of peace, a helping hand extended to try to end the suffering of children everywhere. Inside his open palm, the words “No More Bullies” are poignantly scrawled.
After the Phoebe Prince and Jamie Hubley tragedies, Nilan started a campaign called No More Bullies, run from his website, KnucklesNilan.com. Nilan sells No More Bullies merchandise and donates a portion of the profits to outreach organi- zations for kids in need. More important, he routinely gives antibullying presen- tations in schools and community centers all over North America. His speeches are filled with positive messages that empower both children and school staff to help try to eliminate bullying. Several times a month, Nilan stands before a cluster of squirrelly students, microphone in hand, every eye turned toward him, and deliv- ers a fiery and unyielding message about bullies and how they try to force their will and their way on others through intimidation and aggression. His brusque words, delivered in his thick Boston accent, hit just as hard as his right cross used to.
In theory, a former NHL player nicknamed “Knuckles” would not be the ideal candidate to speak to a room full of children about violence both verbal and phys- ical. After all, Nilan was a player renowned for his many acts of on-ice mayhem, a powder keg on skates who amassed over 3,000 penalty minutes and 220 fights in 688 games.
But, in reality, Nilan is the perfect person to speak out on the dangers of bul- lying.
FOR THIRTEEN SEASONS IN the NHL, his involvement in the fight, his will- ingness to step in and sacrifice for his teammates, was the single greatest identi- fiable strain of his hockey strength.
From the minute Nilan entered the NHL, he lived in the lion’s den, and every season birthed anew an untold number of lions entering the ring to try to fight, in- jure, and intimidate his teammates. Despite being only 6'0" and 205 pounds, Nilan never backed down from anyone; he took on all the bullies: the grizzled old lions looking to send a message, as well as the young, rabid ones foaming at the mouth, eager to make a reputation. If you harmed his teammate or stepped out of line, and especially if you bullied them in any way, Nilan was there to step in and protect him. His fights were ugly affairs that featured tight, face-to-chest grappling and the kind of short, savage punches and gouging bloodshed that was typically seen in intimate back-alley scraps and bar fights where the grudges were personal.
Today, Nilan is hammer-handed and bone sore from arthritis, the price of a life spent fighting for those in need. Yet he’s still fighting, albeit not in the manner that made him famous and beloved by hockey fans all over the world. When Phoebe Prince committed suicide, it was once again go time, but in a different way.
“You’re always going to get some smartass kid who just doesn’t give a shit,” Nilan says as he settles into his seat on the Montreal Canadiens alumni bus. “It all starts at home. That’s part of the problem. Half of these kids who bully other kids learn it from their half-wit parents. The parents don’t want to say anything or take responsibility because it’s a direct reflection on them. They say that their Johnny is not a bully. Well, guess what: your Johnny is a bully, and he’s a fucking punk, and you gotta do something about it. That’s the truth.”
Nilan tells how he ended up in a school near Pittsburgh a few years ago, trying to help a young lesbian girl and her best friend who were being bullied relentlessly. The two girls had reached out to Nilan via the No More Bullies campaign. He went to Seneca Valley High School in a suburb of Pittsburgh to protect them, to pick them up, and to empower them.
“There was this girl in Pittsburgh who came to me,” Nilan says, his words pushing forward, driving the message home. “She had a friend that was gay who was being tormented and terrorized because of it. The friend kept all of it just be- tween her and her gay friend. She never talked to her mom and dad about it. She never talked to the principal. She didn’t go to anybody. She was just suffering in si- lence.”
Chris Nilan spoke with the girl and her friend, and it changed everything. His words of encouragement and power inspired the friend to come forward and in- stilled in her the confidence to speak up and say something to help her gay friend.
“My speech was it,” Nilan says, without a hint of gloating. “After she talked to me, the two girls went and talked to the principal, and demanded that something be done about it.”
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