Inside the ‘holy s–t’ moment and secretive NHL hearing that ended Nazem Kadri’s decade with the Maple Leafs

We played the first two games in Boston, and won the critical first — which meant we’d head back to Toronto with at least a split on the road, if not a two-game lead. But in Game 2, with just over five minutes to go in the third period, we were trailing 3-1.
That’s when Patrick Marleau carried the puck into the Bruins’ zone and was hit into the stanchion at the Boston bench by Jake DeBrusk. I saw Marleau go down awkwardly. It looked like an aggressive hit by DeBrusk, trying to pin him against the post.
Once again, I reacted right away. As DeBrusk continued into the corner, I tried to give him a cross-check to the chest, but he kind of ducked down as I hit him. My stick bounced up his chest and caught him right in the face. It was completely unintentional. My stick slid up his arm, but I knew the league wouldn’t care. DeBrusk would play the next day, so thankfully I hadn’t hurt him badly, although he sold it for all it was worth on the ice.
After the hit all hell broke loose. Once again, Chára was on top of me. TD Garden wanted my blood. I was kicked out of the game with a match penalty right away. As soon as I saw the ref gesture, I knew I was f—-ed and regretted what I’d done. I’d let my emotions get out of check in a game we were still in. And now, with only a few minutes to go, I’d taken us pretty much right out of it. I’d also set myself up to miss more time. It felt like a terrible case of déjà vu.
The next day, Brendan Shanahan told me to pack my bags. We’d been summoned to headquarters for an in-person hearing.
My other hearings had been over the phone, so this didn’t bode well for me. In-person hearings were usually reserved for serious cases, and could result in a suspension of five games or more. That’s a critical number of games to miss in the playoffs.
The night before the meeting Shanahan and I had dinner in Manhattan at a nice Italian place. We went over what was going to happen the next morning, preparing for it like a court case. I was so anxious I could hardly eat. But Shanahan was supportive. I think he knew what kind of guy I was; he understood my character. He also understood what I’d been trying to do on the play, even though I’d messed up.
At the hotel that night I stayed up late organizing my notes, feeling as if I were about to go on the stand.
So there I was the next morning, over coffee and pastries, surrounded by suits watching the biggest mistake of my career play over and over again. It was a sold-out crowd. Every seat was taken.
It was the most painful thing I’d ever had to sit through.
Everyone was looking at me, then looking at the TV, looking at me, the TV, me, TV, me — frame by frame, in slow motion, over and over — as I screwed myself out of the playoffs and likely my time in Toronto. They played it for probably an hour straight.
And they asked me every question you can think of.
What do you think about the hit?
What were your intentions?
What was your thought process?
They wanted details. It was a full-blown interrogation.
I tried to be as sincere and genuine as possible. I just spoke right from the heart. In doing that, in telling the truth, I felt I was best suited to think on my toes when asked any question, to tell them exactly what I thought. I had nothing to hide.
I wasn’t trying to be malicious and hurt anybody. But in hockey, sometimes you have to send a message. In reality, yes, I wanted to get him because of what he did to Patty. I’m thinking that — but I’m not thinking that I wanted to run his face through the dashboard. I’m just trying to get a good lick on him. Knock him down, then maybe drop the gloves and square it away.
Still, I had to be careful, because the disciplinary team could try to twist your words. Like any lawyer, they could take anything you said out of context: “Oh, so it was retaliatory? You were trying to get him back?”
It becomes a bit of a slippery slope.
I was coached before the meeting on how to answer — on things I should say or refrain from saying. I was advised not to mention certain words. A lot of it wasn’t so much what you say but how you say it. Everyone knew I was reacting to DeBrusk’s hit on Marleau.
But I couldn’t say that, because then it becomes retaliatory. I had to be careful not to implicate myself by making it seem premeditated. That’s what made me nervous. I wanted to tell the truth, and yet I didn’t want to say it the wrong way.
But every time I spoke it seemed as though I’d made another mistake. By then my dress shirt was drenched. Meanwhile the hit kept playing, frame by frame. And again, the more I watched it, the worse it seemed.
“Holy s—t,” I thought. “I don’t think this is going to be good.”
I sat in the press box in Toronto, watching Game 3 against the Bruins and feeling surprisingly hopeful. We’d just flown back to the city in time to reach Scotiabank Arena by puck drop.
Well before the hearing I’d been convinced that the league had their minds made up. It would all be theatre — a logistical process they had to go through. They’d be watching my sins in slow motion and throwing the book at me before I even walked through those doors.
I’d tried to prepare myself for the worst so that anything less would seem positive. And considering what I’d anticipated, I was okay with the league’s ruling. Before we left New York I was told I was suspended for the remainder of the series against Boston. I’d never heard of anything like that before: not a set number of games, just the Boston series. Apparently they thought that if I went up against the Bruins again something crazy was going to happen.
But if we moved on to the second round, I’d be back in the lineup. The series was tied at one game apiece at the time. So if we swept the rest of the series there was a chance I’d be out for just three games. I was being overly optimistic, of course. Boston had a very good team, so we were unlikely to win three in a row.
It was painful to sit in the press box and watch the boys play without me. The first game wasn’t so bad. We took it 3-2 — potentially reducing my suspension to two more games. I was sure I was going to be back. I was around the guys, practising and everything, trying to stay ready in anticipation of returning.
When we lost the next game 6–4, I felt a little more anxious. “Oh, s—t, I don’t know,” I thought.
We were knotted at two games each, with the series swinging back to Boston for Game 5. I’d have to stay home; worried about my welfare, they wouldn’t allow me to go. There were Wanted posters with my face on them all over the city; Bruins fans were hungering for my head. Since this was the second time I’d been suspended for a hit in Boston, I understood the vitriol.
It was an incredible playoff series. I’m sure the fans enjoyed every minute. For me, though, watching from home, it was brutal. That was the worst part of the punishment.
We took Game 5, 2–1.
The longer the series went, the more anxious I became.
The series returned to Toronto for Game 6. All we needed was one more win to finally get the Bruins off our back and put this whole mess behind us. I did my best to weather the storm, praying we could get over the hump and have another opportunity to play. I just wanted a chance to redeem myself. So I kept practising and preparing, staying ready behind the scenes, making sure I was good to go.
But first we had to get out of the series. I felt sick about not being able to help the guys when they needed me. I was a big part of the team, and so I couldn’t help thinking I’d let a lot of people down. It’s not like I’m Wayne Gretzky or anything, but as I’ve said, I knew I’d be more effective on the ice than off.
I also knew that some fans were furious with me. And with a debate going on over what my future with the team should be, I did my best to drown out all the noise. I spoke with my friends and family, but that was pretty much it. I avoided people.
My teammates were great through it all. They could tell I was stressed out by the whole situation, that I cared, that I wanted to win just as much as anybody else. They also knew my hit hadn’t come from a selfish place, that I’d reacted to something that had happened to a teammate.
I was as nervous as I’d ever been as I watched Game 6 from the press box. The Bruins extended my purgatory with a 4-2 win — forcing a Game 7.
My punishment had now extended to its fullest length, the agony increasing with each game in the series.
Game 7. And I couldn’t even be in Boston.
F—- me.
I’m a relatively composed guy, but I was an absolute mess for that final game. Sitting alone in my apartment to watch it, I experienced a complete, crippling anxiety about the outcome because I had no control over it. It’s funny how when you’re actually playing in the game, you don’t feel an ounce of that. And again, the worst part about it was feeling that I could have made a difference.
We lost 5-1.
I sat quietly in the corner of my living room, utterly defeated. It was one of the worst days of my life.
That series and the aftermath were easily the hardest times in my career. I let people down, and that’s something that haunts me to this day.
I didn’t know it in the days that followed, but the hit on Jake DeBrusk marked my last play in a Maple Leafs uniform. That was how almost a decade with the franchise ended.