8703020981
DETROIT FREE PRESS
871223
Wednesday, December 23, 1987
STATE EDITION
1D
Photo MARY SCHROEDER
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL EDITION PAGE 1D
Copyright (c) 1987, Detroit Free Press
'HE HAS THAT LOOK'
DEMERS WON'T QUIT ON TROUBLED PROBERT
He answers the door, invites you in, offers a cup of coffee. The small
apartment is decorated in earth tones, almost cozy in the early-morning light.
A smoked glass bookcase holds jet-black stereo equipment, its lights flicking
silently. Neat. Clean. Maybe you figured the place would be a mess, dirty
clothes stuffed under a mattress, the remains of last night's party all over
the floor. Wouldn't that be a hockey player's lifestyle?
"See this?" he says softly, fingering a large canvas wall painting. "I
really like this . . . I don't know . . . it was the last one, and I liked
the way it looked, the colors and all . . . "
Bob Probert shrugs. He lives here, in this Riverfront apartment
overlooking Joe Louis Arena, because he has to. He walks to work. He has no
driver's license. He is an alcoholic, a fact that dogs him like a 24-hour
shadow. He is uncomfortable talking about it, as you would be, uncomfortable
with the memories, with the drunk-driving incidents, with the night he spent
in jail, with the medication he must take. But he agrees to talk about it,
because his problems, like this apartment, are something he must live with --
and one day move away from.
It takes courage.
He is trying.
"I want to put it all behind me," he says, looking straight ahead as he
speaks, "I'm tired of having my name just associated with bad things . . . "
Have you ever known a child who caused you headache after headache, yet
somehow plucked a heart string, got under your skin -- so you grew mad,
furious, but you always gave him another chance? Bob Probert, 22, is a boyish
soul inside a big man's body, 6-foot-3 the way some people are 6-10, imposing,
intimidating, yet blessed, and cursed, with the sympathetic face of an orphan.
"You see him, even when he's just gotten into trouble," says his coach
Jacques Demers, "and he has that look that says, 'I'm sorry. Help me."'
The Detroit Red Wings have been trying to help Probert almost since he
joined the team in 1985. His bouts with alcohol have crashed them through a
lot of barriers, brushes with the law, disruptive behavior. Yet in between
there has been some beautiful hockey. "God touched him with talent," says a
coach. Right now, Probert, a powerful wing, is second in the NHL in
game-winning goals. He is playing on the first line with Steve Yzerman and
Gerard Gallant. He's doing great. And therein lies the dilemma:
The Wings need him -- and they need to help him.
"I've struggled with the moral and professional aspects of what we're
doing," says Colin Campbell, the assistant coach who has become Probert's
unofficial monitor, driving him to probation meetings, getting him home,
making sure he stays ready to play. "My job is to get Bobby on the ice at all
costs. But sometimes you think he's not learning. Maybe he should be
penalized more. He doesn't need people slapping his back and telling him what
a great hockey player he is. He needs to be told the truth."
He pauses.
"Then again, I think hockey has saved Bobby . . . So what's the right
thing to do?"
It is a tough question, for Probert, lanky and strong, is nonetheless
easily influenced. Get serious, he gets serious. Laugh like a party animal,
he's right there with you. Who is the real No. 24? Here is a young man so
good-natured that telling people "no" takes him half an hour, a player who,
despite his "tough guy" reputation, has never fought with a teammate or
started unprovoked trouble. Yet he's been convicted of drunken assault on a
police officer, has gone through several alcohol rehabilitation centers, and
is one offense from being locked up for a long time.
A few weeks ago, after Probert skipped several Alcoholics Anonymous
meetings, a judge slapped him in jail for a night. Quiet. Good-natured.
Irresponsible. Troubled. Where's the sense to it? How can this be the same
guy?
"I don't know why it all happened," says Probert, sighing, as he runs a
fist through his wavy brown hair. "A lot of it started during my first year
in the pros. . . . I got a little carried away with things. I was playing in
Detroit, just across from my hometown (Windsor). It was a big thrill. A lot of
people were coming up to me, wanting to buy a drink. . . . I could have said
no. I can't blame them for my problems.
"It's just that things have been going really well lately. My hockey's
been good. And then this incident happens and everything comes up again. I
know I missed some meetings, but I don't think I deserved to go to jail
because of it."
"What should have been done instead?" he is asked.
He swallows. His expression is blank.
"I don't know," he says softly. "I guess . . . there was nothing else
that could have been done.
Let's face it: Many people figure Bob Probert has used up his good graces.
They say others have it tougher -- they face alcohol alone. Probert, for all
his trouble, still has his job, a sizable income and an organization that
embraces him rather than rejects him.
Then again, the average alcoholic is not greeted at his office by
reporters wanting to know how his rehab is coming. Nor does he stand in front
of a group of strangers who know him -- although he doesn't know them -- and
say "My name is Bob Probert. I am an alcoholic."
It was just about a year ago that he left a Windsor tavern after drinking
with friends, and crashed his 1986 Monte Carlo into a utility pole. One year
earlier, a Philadelphia goalie named Pelle Lindbergh had done the same thing.
Lindbergh died.
Probert was pulled from the car with minor injuries.
"I guess I was lucky and unlucky," he says. "Lucky that I wasn't killed.
Unlucky that I was caught." As they took him to the hospital that night, he
remembers thinking he had just ended his hockey career; the team would surely
disown him now. Instead, he met the next day with Demers, who did something
some fans decried and other hailed: he swore he would stick by his player and
make him better.
"Look, my father was an alcoholic," Demers explains. "I know that it's a
sickness. I know what my dad went through. He didn't want to be it. He
couldn't help it. When my dad died, I was a teenager. I was left crying,
wondering why he did it . . .
"When people say, 'Oh Jacques, you just kept Proby because he's good and
you need him on your team,' it knocks the bleep out of me. If he just did
things to mock the team or the coach, then I wouldn't stick by him. But I
remember saying: 'Why did my father die? Why didn't he help himself?' . . .
Maybe I figure I could be like a father to Bob Probert. He wants to fight it,
like my father didn't . . .
"Proby has given me more problems than any player I've ever coached. But I
think he's saying he needs help. He has a sickness. He's going to have to
fight this the rest of his life. And as long as I am coaching the Detroit Red
Wings, I'm going to try and take care of him. I don't care what anybody says
about it."
Probert sips from the coffee cup. The television is flashing silent
images. He is talking now about hockey, a preferred subject. "My father (a
police officer who died five years ago) got me into the game as a little kid.
He would have loved to see me play in the NHL. He never did. Not even junior
hockey. But he would have really enjoyed it."
Why not? There are nights when Probert muscles around the ice, checking
opponents, scoring goals -- like the critical go- ahead punch he provided in
last week's 8-3 win over Minnesota -- when everything seems right. He is on
track. The coaches are happy. He is happy. He is in prime time, first line,
skating with Yzerman. Who knows how good he can get?
"Let's face it, he's a great talent," says Campbell. "Yet here's one of
Detroit's premier athletes, making good money, recognized on the street, and
he's got to hitch rides with everybody. That's humbling. It's belittling. He
can buy a car, but he has to park it for the next year. He knows it's the
price he has to pay."
It is easy to get frustrated with Bob Probert. We see athletes as having
it all, and weakness such as alcohol and drugs as "stupid." It is not that
simple. What Probert endures every day is a plague of sorts, an itch that
can't be scratched. "A chemical dependency," says Demers, which means right or
wrong doesn't always enter into it. Sometimes it is just a gnawing sensation
for a drink, and where it began and when it goes away doesn't matter at the
time. To fight that doesn't take a hockey uniform, nor money, prestige, nor an
organization.
It takes courage.
He is trying.
The coffee is about gone. The conversation is winding down. You look
around the apartment."It's a nice place," you say.
"Thanks," he says.
"If you didn't have to live so close, would ---- '
"No, I'd go to the suburbs like the other guys," he answers. He pauses.
"Although you know, this is nice . . . "
It is 10 a.m. Not wanting to be late for practice, he asks for a lift.
You say sure. As he throws on his coat, like a kid heading out to play, you
realize Bob Probert can make you angry and sympathetic -- at the very same
moment. And in that way, he is like a lot of young people trying to grow up.
He is trying. You keep coming back to that. He is trying.
"You want this door shut behind us?" you ask as you step out from the
apartment, this place of convenience, the reminder that, for now, he still
cannot live the way he wants, but the way he must.
"Yeah, shut it," he says, "please."
CUTLINE
Solitary Bob Probert takes the ice at Joe Louis Arena: "I want to put it all
behind me," he says.
BIOGRAPHY;ALCOHOL;ALCOHOLISM;BOB PROBERT;HOCKEY;DREDWINGS;Red Wings