I have zero interest in athlete autobiographies as a genre. As exciting as a great athlete like Wayne Gretzky or Michael Jordan may have been to watch during their career, in retrospect it all boils down to "I scored this many points, won these awards and championships, and retired on this date"-- and I can just check out their stats online if I want a reminder of those numbers. For me to be interested in anything an athlete has to say, there needs to be something special about them beyond their profession.
Enter Theo Fleury, who combined all-star hockey talent with a rattlesnake temperament... in a 5'6" 150-pound package. When I first got into hockey in the early 1990s, Fleury was one of the most exciting players in the game, putting up 90+ point seasons, hamming it up with epic goal celebrations, picking fights with players a foot taller and half again his weight, and trash-talking referees, opposing fans, and even mascots for bonus anti-hero style points. But what kind of background would produce this combination of skill and anger? And where might a volatile personality like this end up, if they made the wrong life choices and didn't know how to ask for help? This book answers these questions. It's supremely entertaining (albeit lowbrow), crammed full of fun 1990s-2000s NHL anecdotes you won't find elsewhere, and most importantly, is a really exemplary illustration of a person who spent decades wallowing in anger and self-destructive addictions but who eventually chose to take ownership of their life, clean up their act, and reboot their prospects by trying to help others instead of continuing to sit around getting high and feeling sorry for themselves. (At its core, this is a memoir about recovering from sexual abuse and addiction, not a hockey memoir, but given the ubiquitous hockey backdrop against which the entire story unfolds, it would be a challenge for a non-hockey fan to follow it.)
A number of other reviewers here complain that Fleury is an arrogant, self-centered jerk who doesn't actually own up to his mistakes. I didn't get that impression at all-- or rather, I agree that he comes across as an arrogant, self-centered jerk, but he's also an arrogant, self-centered jerk who chose to make himself exceptionally vulnerable and is taking responsibility for (most of) his mistakes, both as part of his own healing process and to serve as a role model to others. It may be that some readers find his arrogance so off-putting that they have a hard time perceiving that such a person could also believe themselves to be responsible for their own actions. But that's what I saw, and I felt that this combination of arrogance and vulnerability made for a compelling and strangely sympathetic character.
All that said, it's confusing and sad that someone who leveraged their fame to speak out against sexual abuse, addiction, and racism against indigenous Canadians, and to advocate for the importance of vulnerability and compassion in a society that does not teach men these skills, has subsequently become a mouthpiece for political ideologies that valorize hardness and are contemptuous of compassion. It's hard to square Fleury's current doings with the person he had become at the end of this book... just goes to show that (surprise!) people are complicated.