This First Person column is the experience of Trevor Kew, a Canadian who lives in Japan. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

It’s been almost 30 years since I played minor hockey in Rossland, B.C., but it’s the guys I played with who I remember the most. Dallas, the town superstar who could score whenever he felt like it. Vanni — every time I assisted one of his goals, his dad would pass me a loonie. And Mike, my best friend, who we teased mercilessly for winning most sportsmanlike player six seasons in a row.  

But there is another teammate who remains in my thoughts for less pleasant reasons. He was one of those 16-year-olds with a child’s mean streak and a grown man’s physique. Bulging shoulders. Neck like a tree trunk. Bristling facial hair. 

It was the 1995-96 season. From the first practice, I knew he was someone I wanted to avoid. He seemed to sense it. Soon, he was following me around at practices, slashing the backs of my legs and calling me every name under the sun. 

The locker room became a frightening place. As younger kids, there had always been dads and coaches around, but in our teens, we were pretty much left on our own. Guys would challenge each other to helmets-and-gloves boxing fights. 

That teammate began calling me out in front of the team. I dodged it for weeks, changing quickly into my street clothes and scampering out the door. But eventually — perhaps I’d seen too many movies where bullies get their comeuppance — I donned my helmet and gloves to take him on. Predictably, I was the one who got bashed all over the room. 

As I dragged myself up from the black rubber floor, there was one thing that hurt even more than my throbbing head. It was the sense of feeling utterly abandoned by my teammates, including some of my closest friends. 

Despite never relishing the physical side of hockey, I accepted it on the ice. In games, we stood up for each other. Any opponent who roughed one of us up would soon have the rest of the team to deal with. But in the locker room that day, no one spoke up for me. Most egged the other guy on.  

I’m not quite sure why I stuck with hockey after that. 

I’d like to think that part of it was the pride I felt when representing my hometown. When I was eight, our team was invited to take a 10-hour bus ride (being a father myself now, I feel for our poor dads) to play between periods of an NHL game between the Vancouver Canucks and Los Angeles Kings. We were given shockingly neon pink Rossland Minor Hockey Association baseball caps. I wore mine for years until it turned white and fell apart. 

We may have been just a group of small-town kids, but it had always felt like we could take on anyone, even the big teams from Kelowna, Kamloops and Vancouver. And in 1996-97, we did just that. Unencumbered with that teammate who had tormented me, our team went all the way to a B.C. provincial final.

If I’m honest, though, I also feared being left out. At the time, my desire to be included, to be considered one of the guys, overrode fears of humiliation or physical violence.

It’s a feeling that can be incredibly destructive. Hazing rituals, fighting, drinking too much, unpleasant and aggressive behaviour towards women — many men do things in groups that they would never do alone. 

Having played competitive soccer in several countries throughout my life since, I certainly don’t think such problems are exclusive to hockey or Canada. But we should be aware that there is always a fine line between the bonds of a team and the madness of a mob.

In the end, I’m glad I wasn’t pushed out of hockey. It just drifted out of my life as I moved to England, then Japan, and continued with soccer instead. 

But whenever Team Canada suits up for a shot at Olympic gold or the Canucks make the playoffs, I find myself drawn back into the savage yet beautiful world of hockey and memories of my hometown, my teammates and the inseparable joys and sorrows of growing up.

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