The Best American Sports Writing 2011 by Jane Leavy Page A

weeks later, Sanderson died. In Canada, the incident received as much media attention as the Obama campaign. Shortly after the public outcry, the junior Ontario Hockey League created a rule that suspends any player who removes his helmet to fight. But the OHL took great care not to excise fighting from its game altogether. A ban on fighting in this league, or any other, would be akin to a ban on tackling in the NFL. What the OHL did was merely make fighting safer. It didn't outlaw its savage element; it simply domesticated it.
    The stars need protection (Wayne Gretzky so appreciated Semenko's services that in 1983 he gave Semenko the car he won as the all-star game's MVP). The lesser players need a job. The league needs to sell the game. That's why fighting isn't going anywhere—the incentives are too strong to keep it around. Coarse and slapdash as it may have been, fight camp was teaching kids to cope with hockey as it is, not as we might wish it to be.
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    Brad walked us from the cramped dressing room and onto the ice. Todd threw a bucket of pucks on the plastic ice surface. Some of the smaller kids began shooting against the net while the older kids stood by to the side and talked among themselves while Derek and Brad began rehearsing some fighting moves on the other side of the ice. They seemed to be making it up on the spot. The entire class gathered to watch,
    A few minutes later Brad arranged us from tallest to smallest at the blue line. "Turn to your right," he said. "That's the guy you're going to fight." I looked to my right. On skates Dominic stood at least six-foot-five. It still wasn't clear how violent the fights would be, and I was genuinely scared of taking a bare-knuckles punch from Dominic. His size and quiet confidence almost nullified my moral objection to fighting a 16-year-old. Still, I was prepared to play the morality card if he broke my nose.
    "Listen up," yelled Derek. "This is how to prevent someone from hitting you." Derek grabbed Brad's jersey, and Brad wadded a handful of Derek's teal bathrobe. "There are three main types of jersey grips," said Derek. "The high shoulder grip, the elbow grip, and the wrist grip." Brad and Derek demonstrated each grip but did not throw any punches. Derek told us that the elbow and wrist grips are not ideal. "These are desperate," he said, "you want to go for the high shoulder grip." Brad took Derek's jersey at the shoulder and told us to watch carefully. Derek drew back his arm and slowly threw a punch at Brad's face. As Derek's fist came closer, Brad pushed his jersey-gripping hand forward into Derek's shoulder. It hemmed Derek's reach. Derek pushed his fist harder, and Brad pushed his shoulder in kind, robbing Derek of range and power to hit him. "The goal here is to take size out of the fight," said Brad. "I've fought guys much bigger than me and they never landed a punch because of this technique."
    Derek ordered us to square off with our partners. I grabbed Dominic's jersey and he grabbed mine, though his thumb accidentally clenched a loop of my skin. He twisted the fistful of nylon and flesh and cocked back his arm while I prepared for the inevitable dental work. He threw his first punch. I squeezed my fist around a wad of his jersey with so much force that my finger tendons immediately pulled. I pushed against his shoulder and closed my eyes. When I opened them I saw his fist, six inches from my nose. I could see individual blond hairs on each knuckle. He punched again and I pushed. Nothing. When it was my turn, my punches were similarly stymied. Dominic released his grip. "Wow, that really works," he said, offering a pinched smile that was either polite or deeply condescending.
    The rest of the kids were still jostling, and the rink was filled with the sounds of grunting and skates clawing into plastic ice. Brad shouted over the commotion. "If the guy lands a punch with your hand on his shoulder, it's not going to hurt," he yelled. "It's a glancing