How Neal Pionk is doing his small part to address hockey’s lack of diversity

When the killing of George Floyd brought racism to the international forefront in May, Neal Pionk didn’t know what to do.

He is not an outspoken political or social advocate. He rarely posts on social media; he made three Instagram posts during the 2019-20 season — one for Hockey Fights Cancer, one for a donation the Jets players made to Winnipeg Harvest and a thank you to frontline medical workers responding to COVID-19.

But he felt strongly that he needed to take action, big or small, in a way that felt true to his values.

“The George Floyd incident happened and then everybody was posting on social media and speaking their opinions,” Pionk recently told The Athletic. “I just kind of sat back for a few weeks. I just said I’m going to take it all in. And then once I saw, ‘OK, there is an inequality and there’s one in my sport that I play.’ That’s when I decided to take action.”

The more Pionk thought about inequality, the more he began to root the idea in hockey’s immense — and rising — cost to play. He saw the lack of diverse representation in the NHL and thought about how hockey’s financial toll can disproportionately affect athletes of colour.

“It can affect minorities and it may prevent them from playing a sport they love. Hockey should be for everyone, no matter their background,” he says.

As the NHL’s pandemic pause rolled along, Pionk became convinced he wanted to do something to make hockey more accessible to people of colour.

But he didn’t know what his options were.

From the moment he broke into the NHL with the New York Rangers, the 25-year-old Pionk has been able to focus on playing hockey above all else. Six goals, 39 assists for a career high 45 points this season convey Pionk’s level of hockey expertise.

But like most white athletes, he has no training or first-hand experiences with racial justice — just the conviction that more diversity would be better for the sport. When it came to turning his recognition of racial inequality within his sport into action, he needed help.

“I called my agent. I just said, ‘Hey, I want to do something but I don’t necessarily want to post on social media. He gave me a great idea: He said, Call my partner, Brett Peterson. He’s on the board of NextGen and they help out low-income, diverse families and they help them afford hockey.’ I said perfect. I called Brett, I got in touch with Dee Dee Ricks, who’s the head of NextGen, and we got to work,” Pionk says.

Peterson is a former AHL defenceman and current player agent who’s on the board of the NextGen AAA Foundation. NextGen is a nonprofit organization that provides mentoring, education and hockey programs to diverse, low-income and/or at-risk youth throughout the United States.

“Our mission is to keep these kids that show promise in the sport of hockey and we use hockey as the conduit to help them get a better education,” says Ricks, NextGen’s founder. “We’ve given out over $1 million in scholarships since launching the foundation in 2017.”

High school hockey can thus become a young athlete’s focus, even if they never make it to the NHL. By helping athletes afford elite American prep schools like Kimball Union Academy in New Hampshire, where tuition for boarding students costs upwards of $60,000, NextGen wants to change lives.

Those high schools become routes for young athletes to get into college while playing the game they love.

And when Ricks explained this process to Pionk, he knew immediately that he wanted to help.

“I was very fortunate to be able to afford hockey my whole life … and look at where it’s brought me. I couldn’t even imagine my parents coming up to me and saying, ‘You can’t play hockey this year. We can’t afford it.’ But that’s a reality: hockey is a very expensive sport and there are some kids who can’t afford it.”

That’s how he met Brayden Howard, the 12-year old from Buffalo with whom he has very much — and very little — in common.

Brayden Howard is a defenceman with the Buffalo Junior Sabres, a competitive hockey program whose players often go on to play in the NCAA. He likes to watch Henry Danger — a cartoon show about a teenaged superhero — and play Fortnite with his friends.

He is a shy, straight-A student who volunteers at a local bingo hall, calling out the numbers to senior citizens. He spent his summer working for his dad’s landscaping business to help the family make ends meet.

Brayden is also a very good athlete.

He started skating at three years old but didn’t know how fast he could go until he was five. That’s when he saw another boy wheeling around his outdoor rink without pushing around a prop for support. His dad, Pierre, remembers watching as Brayden realized he didn’t need his skating trainer: He just threw it into the corner and started to skate like a hockey player.

Brayden has no recollection of this. His first hockey memory is his first goal, which he scored at seven years old.

“I remember skating the puck and I think it was just a low shot, bottom right,” Brayden says. “And then I just remember everyone cheering.”

(Photo courtesy Pierre Howard)

With 13 goals in three NHL seasons, plus 11 more in college and one in the AHL, Pionk can relate. He also knows what it’s like to shut down a two-on-one rush — Brayden’s favourite feeling when playing hockey — or to be a 12-year-old doing a bit of volunteer work.

Although in Pionk’s case, he was dragged kicking and screaming by his mom.

“I remember it like it was yesterday. My mom brought us to the mall. And you know the Salvation Army bell ringers — do you have those in Canada? They needed volunteers. I think I was 11, maybe 12 years old — old enough to understand what was going on and old enough to understand what I was missing out on with my friends,” he says.

“So my mom grabbed all of us one day, me and my brothers, and said we’re going to ring bells. And I’m sure I gave an eye roll and folded my arms and all that stuff. But we went and we sat in the mall for an hour and we rang bells. We had to ring bells and make sure people put their spare change in the Salvation Army can. I remember as a kid being, ‘Do we seriously have to go ring bells again?’ But that’s the basis of our childhood — you’re going to have to be a better person than you are a hockey player.”

Brayden’s family values are similar — Pierre and his partner, Kelly, talk a lot about giving back — but his experience as a volunteer has gone a little more smoothly.

NextGen requires its athletes to perform 25 community service hours each year in addition to keeping good grades. Most choose to volunteer within the context of their sport; perhaps they’ll coach or volunteer at an athletic facility.

Brayden chose to read bingo.

“The first time, I was nervous,” he admits. “But I got more comfortable. I still get kind of nervous sometimes.”

“He doesn’t shy away when somebody asks him to do something,” says Pierre. “There’s kids who would be like, I’m not doing that.”

NextGen recruits program participants based on their academic and athletic potential, their financial need and their proclivity for success.

For two years, NextGen has paid for Brayden’s travel tuition with the Buffalo Junior Sabres, where coach Craig Rivet, the 923-game former NHL player, calls him “the silent assassin.” His work ethic and humility have made him a program favourite.

“The hope is that, when he gets ready to go to prep, we can work to get him a full ride,” says Ricks. “Or, if not a full ride, we can come in and supplement him to go to these prep schools. Because mark my words: This kid will make it.”

Pierre sees the same opportunity for Brayden that Ricks does.

“For me, making it would be a good degree and you get a chance to go to school playing a game that you love. Making it would be having a four-year degree playing a sport he loves, and if anything comes from that it would be the icing on the cake,” he says.

For two years, everything had gone according to plan. Brayden’s excellent academics kept him in the program and his play on the ice impressed his coaches.

Then COVID-19 swept through the United States and Ricks watched as NextGen’s operating budget dropped by $300,000.

She spent the spring unsure as to whether she could continue to fund all of NextGen’s most promising participants.

“Dee Dee let us know that the funding would probably be unavailable,” Pierre says, “but she was going to try.”

For Brayden, losing his spot on the Junior Sabres would mean less coaching and access to state of the art facilities and the possibility of missing out on the prep school route to college. There was no number of extra shifts at Pierre’s landscaping business that Brayden could work to cover the program costs.

“The Junior Sabres organization in Buffalo is probably the team to play for at his age. You’re trying to keep your kid at that level but not lose your house doing it,” Pierre says.

Summer tryouts were cancelled due to COVID-19 and the Junior Sabres decided to return the same roster from last season. But without NextGen’s funding, Pierre was at a loss. He began to face the prospect of telling his son he could no longer play the sport that he loved so much.

“Next thing you know, she emails me and says ‘I think I’ve got something.’ I’m like … an NHL player? To tell you the truth, I freakin’ cried on the phone call. I cried on the phone call when I talked to him. Because you don’t expect things like that. People don’t just come up and do stuff for you. You always think that you’re going to have to work or sacrifice or not let your kid do something,” he says. “That’s the last thing you want to do is tell your kid that he can’t do something.”

In May, Pionk told Ricks the same thing that he had told his agent: He wanted to help and he didn’t want to just cut a cheque and take off. The idea of sponsoring a young athlete at NextGen felt right but if it was possible, Pionk wanted to build an ongoing relationship with that player.

His willingness to put in time, as well as money, gave Ricks hope.

“Brayden is such a special kid,” Ricks says. “He was the only one that I presented to Neal. We really try to understand the player and what kind of involvement they need. Some people just want to give money and don’t want the kid to know. But I felt that Brayden, because he is a little bit shy and is exceptionally talented, really could benefit from that extra mentoring.”

Pionk was moved by Ricks’ description of Brayden’s work ethic and his commitment to school. He also clocked the fact that Brayden was helping his dad with his landscaping business — the same family business that Pionk and his brothers grew up working on with their dad, Scott.

This led Pionk to his second major unknown.

Peterson and Ricks had helped him decide what he wanted to do. Now he needed to teach himself how to be a good role model.

He has coached at hockey camps and held leadership roles in his life but he has never been such a direct, one-on-one mentor. Heading into his first meeting with Brayden, he thought he might be able to help talk him through on-ice situations but also wanted to make himself available for any questions Brayden might have.

Ricks set up an introductory Zoom call for Brayden, Pierre and Pionk to get to know each other. In doing so, she asked Brayden what he knew about Pionk.

She expected him to rattle off stats — they’re both right-handed defencemen — or that he scored 45 points or plays for the Jets.

He told her, “He helped his father by mowing grass and I’ve been helping my dad all summer long.”

“It was everything to compose myself and not start bawling. This kid is just as unassuming as Neal and as down to earth as Neal is,” she says.

And that’s exactly how the two connected.

“Brayden was nervous on the phone but Neal made it easy,” says Pierre. “It was just like talking to your neighbour next door. We could relate on the same levels with his dad having a landscaping company. He’s asking Brayden what he likes more, mowing or weed whacking, and they’re having their own conversation on the side about landscaping. They could relate there and then they could relate to hockey. It was a nice transition and Neal was great: He told him, ‘Hey bud, this phone call doesn’t stop here. You can reach out to me.’”

Ricks says that the 45-minute call felt particularly meaningful after all of the financial uncertainty of the spring.

“It’s been a hard year for our families and our kids and it was really such a beautiful moment. Neal was just so engaged with him. And it was just so cool that Brayden had gone through that much detail to research Neal and read so much about him. He’s just 12 years old,” she says.

Pionk says the conversation he had reminded him why he wanted to take action in the first place.

Toward the end of the call, after Brayden and Pionk had gotten to know each other a little bit, Pierre spoke up. He started by thanking Pionk, Ricks and Brett Peterson.

Then the gravity of the moment caught him and he started to cry.

“He gets emotional and you can tell how much it means to him and how much it means to Brayden to still play hockey — for him to have his kid do something that he loves,” says Pionk. “You can tell because of how emotional he got and the fact that he had to pick up a second job just for his kid to be able to afford hockey. It almost makes you get choked up. It makes everybody feel good that we’re doing something right.”

Pionk says this is a feeling that no social media post could ever replace.

He also knows that one Zoom call was only the beginning.

When Brayden reached out to congratulate him on Winnipeg’s first win of the postseason, Pionk responded to say thanks. Pierre remembers the “Dad! He wrote back!” he got from Brayden and the way it brightened his son’s day.

More than this, Pionk says he wants to build an ongoing relationship and hopes to meet Brayden and Pierre in Buffalo the next time the Jets are in town. Brayden’s hockey season starts soon and Pionk plans to reach out again when it does.

“What I’m hoping for is if Brayden is struggling within the game of hockey, he reaches out to me and says ‘Hey, what can I do here?’ Or maybe he had a really good game and he tells me about that. I think that would be awesome too. But more than that, if there’s something and he wants to reach out to somebody other than family and friends, he can reach out to me,” Pionk says.

“I’m very thankful for it,” says Brayden. “He’s just a good guy. I want him to be my mentor as I grow in hockey.”

(Photo courtesy Pierre Howard)

Pierre gets emotional when reflecting on the impact Pionk and NextGen have already had on Brayden. The idea that Pierre has gotten close to having to tell his son that he can’t play the game he loves is hard for him.

He’s too well versed in parking lot legends.

To Pierre, a parking lot legend is someone who grew up playing a sport and did it so well that everyone in their neighbourhood knew how great they were.

It could be any sport; football like he played or hockey like Brayden is playing. A parking lot legend is that player who could have been great in leagues far beyond that parking lot but never got the chance.

“You can have an athlete who’s the greatest in the world but doesn’t have the means or the connections to do things. All he becomes is a parking lot legend. Kids will talk about, ‘Do you remember so-and-so?’ And it will be, ‘Yeah, but what did he do after that?’ And nobody knows,” he says.

Pierre hopes that Brayden will never be mentioned in those terms.

“He’s going to be successful at something if he’s put in the right spots and we continue to educate him and grow him. You learn your life lessons, you’re educated, you’ve played sports, you can be successful at something,” he says. “If he stays on this path, I really do think Brayden could be successful at something just because of his mindset.”

For Ricks, who says prep schools will be lining up to pay Brayden’s way into their programs, giving him that shot is exactly the goal.

On a grander scale, she hopes that more professional athletes will take Pionk’s approach, combining donations with commitments of their time. This would allow NextGen to fund the dreams of even more kids as hardworking and gifted as Brayden.

“He has no idea how far his dollars are going to go,” she says. “Because there is a huge need to diversify the sport. Until these younger kids can look up and see more players of colour at the AAA, at the highest levels of prep school hockey, they’re not going to have anyone to look up to.”

Pierre hopes that this is how change can become generational.

“If he’s ever in a position to give back, he knows how he made it,” Pierre says. “And he can give back.”

Pionk didn’t begin this process with all of the answers and doesn’t believe he has them now.

He does feel vindicated in his decision to stay off social media and to instead take direct action to stand up for his values. He says the emotional connection he’s forming is more important than any social media post. Like a lot of NHL athletes, he’s not comfortable being an outspoken advocate for social change, even if he believes in it.

“I don’t have to go on social media and defend myself or get on one side or the other,” he says. “I know what’s right and I get reassured by that when I get on a Zoom call with somebody like Pierre and Brayden. When Pierre, who’s a grown man with a kid, starts crying on the Zoom call, that’s when you know. That’s why it’s more important to me to do something rather than to post on social media.”

Critics will argue that the NHL hasn’t done enough to address systemic racism — and that the league needs to join the NBA, WNBA and other sports leagues in standing up against racism.

They will also argue that players like Pionk should be more publicly vocal in keeping with their private values.

Pionk is wise enough to know that his action is small — and it is just a start. While his commitment to NextGen is technically year to year, he plans on working with them for a long time.

“This isn’t going to solve the world’s problems tomorrow but it is a step in the right direction. I say that for myself, too. It’s a step in the right direction in helping out other people. And that’s something I was taught from a very young age by my parents,” he says. “No matter who you are, how much money you make, it doesn’t matter. There’s always someone hurting more than you are. So help.”

(Top photo: Jeff Vinnick / NHLI via Getty Images)