Play the game. That's what Syracuse Crunch coach Gary Agnew used to tell Trevor Ettinger. Skate a little. Show me what you've got.

But to Ettinger, the team's enforcer, playing the game meant something else. It meant a nod, a glare, a smile. Some unspoken gesture to stoke the fire of a tough guy on another team.

If the fire caught, gloves would drop to the ice. The combatants would rip and tug at each other's jerseys, straining for an advantage.

Fists would fly.

Ettinger would sometimes let his foe land a few punches. But he'd hold on, and as his opponent wore out, Ettinger would draw upon his 6-foot-5, 240-pound reservoir of strength and throw more punches of his own. Torrents of them.

He'd lean into his opponent, grinding him to the ice. Foes would try in vain to escape, but Ettinger would grab them, shake them, pull them near. He punched and punched and punched. Sweat flew off his bleached hair.

Sometimes when he was close to finishing the job he'd glance at his bench with a check-this-out grin. Then he'd hammer away some more until an official would step in and end the battle.

On the way to the penalty box Ettinger would raise his hands ¯ ones sometimes so gnarled and sore from fighting that he couldn't grasp a hockey stick ¯ and wave them wildly.

"Let's go!" he'd yell to his teammates. "Come on!"

As the hometown crowd roared, Ettinger would leave the ice, his jersey and pads askew. Teammates would tap their sticks on the ice in the universal hockey gesture of appreciation.

Trevor Ettinger fought to show loyalty to his teammates and earn approval from fans, and he usually won on both counts.

Off the ice, Ettinger fought a different kind of fight. He worried about life after hockey, was saddened by the ups and downs of two romantic relationships and, friends say, he was growing weary of fighting.

On July 26 at the home he shared with his mother, Edna Wardrope, in Nova Scotia, he killed himself at age 23.

Now, as the Crunch lockerroom and the War Memorial stir again with signs of hockey, many fans and players are asking themselves why Ettinger lost that particular fight.

Furious fists, gentle heart

Ettinger grew up in Upper Kennetcook, Nova Scotia, a farming and logging community of about 1,000 that's so small that one can find it only on very detailed maps. It sits about an hour's drive north of Halifax.

Upper Kennetcook includes perhaps 100 houses, a couple of gas stations, some stores and a few stops signs. It has no true main street, just a single primary road that cuts through the town.

Ettinger lived on a long dirt stretch called Miller Road. Actually, that's what everyone else called it. The road wound up a small hill, an incline that Ettinger dubbed "Miller Mountain." It's a wooded region where Ettinger loved to hunt and fish.

Like many young Canadian boys, Ettinger took to skating early on. By the time he was 11 or 12 it was apparent his size ¯ a head or two taller than anyone else ¯ would eventually steer him into a tough-guy role.

Although hockey has for several years tried to tone down fighting, teams still value enforcers. The good ones protect their more skilled teammates from cheap shots by opponents while at the same time creating a little havoc by crashing around the corners and the crease.

It's the toughest job in the sport, and Ettinger accepted it. But even as a teen he was a gentle giant, fighting an opponent during a game and then buying the same kid a drink or candy bar afterward.

Dany Dube coached a major junior team in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, when Ettinger made his debut there in 1997. Dube described Ettinger as someone more anxious to prove himself as an all-round player than as only a fighter.

"He knew it (fighting) was part of the whole mandate," Dube said. "You get kids who are fighters. They will fight everywhere, the street. He was not like that. I don't think he was a rough kid at all. But he was mean when it was time" to fight during a game.

Ettinger was eventually selected by Edmonton in the sixth round of the 1998 NHL draft. In six seasons of major junior and pro play, Ettinger scored seven goals and compiled 1,892 penalty minutes in 362 games.

Last year was Ettinger's first season as a regular in Syracuse, and he posted 145 penalty minutes in just 38 games ¯ averaging nearly one fight every other game.

But the menacing intentions of Ettinger's fists contrasted to the warm heart he displayed. Wherever he played ¯ from Cape Breton to Dayton, Ohio, to Syracuse ¯ he quickly became a favorite of fans and teammates.

He was the big lug who chose to disarm with a smile. He sometimes wore a baseball cap that read "Life is Good" and he wanted to make others believe that even when he didn't.

Ettinger liked to wear hats, many of them goofy. He'd buy caps at restaurants ¯ Subway, or Bob Evans for example ¯ and wear them to practice to give his teammates a laugh.

At one school appearance in Dayton, he slipped on the tall, stripped hat of Dr. Seuss' "Cat in the Hat." The children gathered around him come storytime because they knew that even though Ettinger was a mountainous man, at heart he was one of them.

Ettinger loved karaoke. Once, during preseason camp in Columbus, he went to a sports bar and belted out Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle."

As much as Ettinger stood out, he also took pains to fit in.

He'd cook teammates meals. He'd pick up after roommates.

He was always active in the communities where he played, and was one of the most requested players for Crunch public appearances.

"He seemed like he enjoyed life, he was always smiling," said former Crunch winger Mathieu Darche. "We all knew him, but I guess there was a part of him nobody knew."

The season ends

Syracuse missed the playoffs and the 2002-03 season ended quietly last April. To an outsider Ettinger seemed headed home for another carefree summer, but his private torment was already brewing. At least one person, Lisa Monkley, had been in the middle of it for months.

In the summer of 2002, Ettinger broke up with his long-time girlfriend, Jessica Ryan. On the rebound, he met Monkley, 30, who lives on Prince Edward Island. By September 2002, Ettinger had purchased a three-quarter-carat, princess-cut diamond ring and proposed. Monkley, taken aback by the sudden proposal, accepted.

Monkley said Ettinger got upset when people questioned the whirlwind romance. She remembered one time when he cried after someone suggested he was too young to know how he truly felt.

"I always thought that was kind of strange that he would get so emotional when people would say stuff to him. I just figured it was because he was such a sensitive guy and that it was sweet," Monkley said. "Maybe it was because he was so frustrated that people were always telling him how he should be and what he should be feeling."

Ettinger began the 2002-03 hockey season with Dayton of the East Coast Hockey League. Teammates were aware that Ettinger was engaged, but said he shared few details about the relationship.

"I asked him a few times and he said, 'It wasn't right. I didn't really think it out or plan.' " That's the kind of guy he was. He just went with things," said Dayton teammate Chris Thompson.

Ettinger was promoted to Syracuse on Nov. 29. Two weeks later, about 90 minutes before a game against Wilkes-Barre/Scranton, Ettinger called Monkley and said he had something to tell her. He said he couldn't speak at the time, but Monkley said she demanded to know what was wrong.

Ettinger said he couldn't marry her. During the five-minute conversation Monkley ¯ who said she thought the relationship had been going well ¯ pressed Ettinger for reasons, but he was vague and game-time was approaching.

Ettinger talked again to Monkley when he went home for Christmas. Monkley said Ettinger told her he still felt a strong attachment to her, but he was uneasy about their relationship.

Ettinger was having trouble moving on from both Ryan and Monkley. Monkley said Ettinger persisted in calling her. She said he would cry, but he couldn't explain why he was so upset.

Slipping away

In March, Monkley said Ettinger called her and left a message that he was having problems. Ettinger said he'd call back later to discuss them. He never did.

Others also had trouble getting through to Ettinger. Thompson, the former teammate, said his friend ignored messages. When Thompson did get through, Ettinger would say he had to run and would promise to call back. Ettinger wouldn't.

Monkley saw Ettinger in June when she visited Truro, Nova Scotia, where Ettinger was temporarily living. Monkley said Ettinger again broke down and told her he was depressed and confused.

Ettinger and Monkley eventually hugged goodbye. Ettinger held on for so long and so tightly that Monkley had to push herself away.

At the same time Ettinger was going back and forth with Monkley, he was also trying to patch things up with Ryan. Ryan declined to be interviewed for this story.

Josh Dill, Ettinger's close friend and former teammate in junior hockey, said Ettinger carried guilt about hurting Ryan and Monkley.

"He told me 'I screwed up two girls' lives.' He felt pretty bad about everything," Dill said.

Ettinger also worried about his career. Friends said he fretted about whether he had the talent to reach the NHL and if his high school-level education would be enough to get him a good job.

Dill, who spoke to Ettinger three days before the suicide, said his friend longed for his earlier hockey days.

"He didn't want to grow up. He was always talking about how much fun junior (hockey) was, he didn't have a lot of responsibilities," Dill said. "I think maybe fighting was getting to him. What he said was how he's getting older, he didn't think they (Columbus) were going to bring him up. He didn't know what he was going to do after hockey."

Agnew said Ettinger was an eager student who kept those worries to himself. After last season, Ettinger signed a one-year contract worth $50,000 to play with the Crunch again this year. However, by late June, Ettinger's dedication to hockey was fading.

Larry Wallace, Ettinger's personal trainer, said Ettinger's workouts dipped from about five times a week to two or three. Wallace said Ettinger was caught in the quandary of worrying whether he would be in shape for the upcoming season and then becoming so depressed that he'd skip training sessions.

Wallace said Ettinger grew quiet and preoccupied. He rarely smiled.

"It was the darker side we started to see," Wallace said. "To explain it, as far as his depression, he couldn't explain it himself. He'd basically shrug it off. I'd pry more and more, but I got the impression these are things he had to work out. He didn't seem to have the ability in the last few days to (know) how to cope."

Ettinger withdrew from everyone.

"He was so worried about what everyone else thought. He wanted to make everyone else happy. He just wasn't taking care of himself," Monkley said. "I just think with him trying to make everyone else happy, he lost part of himself along the way."

Wayne Martin, who, along with his wife, Jean, let Ettinger live with them during his career in Cape Breton, said the dam holding back Ettinger's feelings of guilt over his broken engagement and what he viewed as a stalled career might have cracked once he lost hockey as a distraction.

"As long as he was at the rink and playing with the boys, his life was full. As soon as he hit home, the fast pace stopped. It hit him then," Wayne said. "He has such a high profile in that area. Seeing all his friends probably caused him pain."

Dill, who used to hang out with Ettinger during summers, said he didn't see Ettinger at all last summer and had trouble reaching him on the phone.

"He didn't want to do anything. He just wanted to be by himself. He said he was depressed, he wasn't happy with life," Dill said.

Wardrope, whom others described as having a very close relationship with her son, also was shut out.

"He just didn't seem quite himself when he came home. He just didn't seem as gung-ho as usual," she said. "Usually with me he'd tell me not to worry, everything was fine."

'A little boy who was sick'

he Martins said when Ettinger lived with them he was always the first to get up and greet strangers at the door. They said their phone was constantly ringing with calls from his friends wanting to go out with him.

The Martins saw a much different Ettinger when they visited him for the weekend before his death. They thought they'd be prepared because Wardrope had cautioned them about the change in her son's appearance and demeanor.

Still, they were shocked.

Ettinger, whom Jean Martin said showered three or four times a day when he lived with her, was unkempt and sported stubble on his face and long hair. Normally very organized, Ettinger still hadn't unpacked his boxes from Syracuse.

Ettinger was wasting away. Wayne Martin looked at him and wondered where his once-wide shoulders went. Ettinger had lost about 30 pounds and he had a desperate look.

"When we saw him it was like he was 10 years old, the way he'd look at his mother, like a little boy who was sick," Jean said.

At one meal during their visit, Ettinger excused himself from the table and took refuge by lingering in the bathroom.

Ettinger's role as an enforcer demanded that he lay himself bare in front of a crowd every game. Every punch absorbed, every facial gash ripped open, every knockdown to the ice was a weakness for thousands to see.

Now, the man who accepted such potential humiliation nightly withered under the gaze of his closest friends.

"He had a big smile on his face, but you knew he was forcing it," Wayne Martin said. "He just couldn't be around people. When he'd go into a room or into a restaurant, he'd want to leave. He thought people were looking at him. He knew he was a lot smaller than usual. He said 'I'm just having trouble being in rooms with people.' "

Perhaps more to please others than himself, Ettinger took baby steps toward help. Dill said Ettinger got medicine to counter the depression and had an appointment with a doctor on Friday, July 25, the day before his death.

But Dill said Wardrope told him that Ettinger didn't take the medicine and he skipped the appointment.

"I think he was wanting to go to the doctor. But he couldn't bring himself to go. Ten feet tall and bulletproof, that's what he thought he should be," Wayne Martin said.

As Martin left Ettinger's house on the Sunday before his death, the two chatted on the way to the Martins' vehicle.

"How do I look?" Ettinger asked.

"You don't look good," Martin replied. "You look underweight. You may not want to try going to the States and playing at that weight and size."

"I'm going to see the doctor on Friday," Ettinger said, "and I'll do what he says."

Martin said he sensed Ettinger was just telling him what he wanted to hear. Martin made a mental note to call Ettinger on Saturday to see how the appointment went.

Jean dialed the phone Saturday evening. The news was bad.

In his bedroom just hours before, Ettinger had lost the biggest fight of all, the private one in his head, when he put a .22-caliber rifle to his right cheek and pulled the trigger.

More than 800 signed a guest book at a memorial service for Ettinger July 30 in nearby Shubenacadie. Wardrope said she received sympathy cards, flowers and emails from Ettinger's fans in Syracuse.

"I honest to God believe he was sick," Wardrope said. "He just hid it very well."