WYSB Presents: Paul Blase – “Deadman’s Meatloaf”

“Dead Man’s Meatloaf” 

By Paul Blase  

12/05/21 

My name is Paul. If you met me in the past few years of my life, you’d hardly know the fiber of my being. Part of that is because of the journey that my life has taken me to get where I am right now. That “right now” is here, talking to you. Sharing my unique perspective on life for the What’s Your Story Bro? blog alongside my good friend, Josh. That being said, I want to thank Josh for having me on board. We met 13 years ago in Portland, Oregon as two hockey players from opposite sides of the country chasing their dream. Although we haven’t seen each other in the flesh since 2010, we’ve always been in touch with one another, whether it was discussing sports, music, life, or reminiscing the good old days. Whether I’ve said it before or not, I hope he knows that I value his friendship and am glad to be here helping this blog, adding some new takes and perspectives on life.  

That being said; Where do I begin?  

I was born and raised on Long Island, NY. I grew up extremely poor and my family, particularly my dad, did an amazing job of shielding me from it. When I say we were poor, I mean I was in a single-parent household, in one of the most expensive places in the country with my dad on fixed disability income, in a 550 square foot, 2-bedroom house. Yes, you read that right. A house the size of a studio apartment. Ten steps and you’re in the front door and out the back. We used to have our food donated from the local church pantry, and my dad was resourceful enough to allocate meat from a close friend that owned a butcher shop. He always found a way to make fun out of the simplest things. We would go to the local river and watch people canoe and kayak while eating PBJ sandwiches. We would go for walks at the local nature preserve. Hell, even for Halloween he would make a meatloaf shaped in the form of a body with tomato paste on top, and a small potato wedge out of the middle– He called it “Dead Man’s Meatloaf.” 

Simply put, no matter what it was, my dad found a way to disguise our struggle with something fun. After he got custody of me from my mom, he pushed me to excel in school. I went from a failing and undisciplined student to an honor roll student, who finished in the top 20 in my graduating class. When it came to hockey, he pushed me to be the best I could be. He wouldn’t let mediocre stand, whether it was training on or off the ice. In fact, he believed in my abilities so much, that we came within a few hours of being evicted from our house because he used mortgage payments to pay for hockey. This was information I wasn’t privy to until I was nearly out of high school.  

As I said, I never had any clue how dire our financial burden was. I have to thank him for that. Not only for disguising that but also for showing me what pulling yourself up by the bootstraps looks like. He was a soldier in the US Army, serving in the 1st Infantry Division. I received plenty of tough love. But upon arriving home, he took whatever job he could get. He is known as Smokey, and one of my favorite “Smokeyisms” was him telling me “I don’t care if I have to sit on the street corner selling pencils for 10 cents apiece, I will always make sure my family is provided for.” And sure as hell, he did. He started as a warehouse worker and worked his way up to an executive position before being hit at 60 MPH in the rear at a dead stop, rendering him disabled.  

When we moved to Charleston, SC in April 2004, it was the first time I ever knew what it was like to be middle class. I felt RICH. Like, stupid rich. We sold our home in New York; bought the South Carolina one in cash. His disability income was well above the cost of living in SC at the time and I started to notice how underprivileged I was in NY. We went to the local ice rink and I got fitted for all-new hockey gear. No more using equipment that we bought second-hand when I was 9 – I was 13 when we moved. We could afford to go out to dinner. We could afford to go to museums, the aquarium. I finally was able to get the shoes and clothes I always wanted. It was eye-opening.  

I’ll skip over all the political struggles with hockey in Charleston, as I feel that would make a great column one day. But needless to say, I was finally able to play a competitive level of travel hockey. I continued to the junior ranks, which for those who are unfamiliar, is for players under 20. It’s easy enough to equate it to semi-professional, but more as a purgatory from youth hockey to college and professional. At 19, I was invited to a professional tryout with the Richmond Renegades of the Southern Professional Hockey League. I played in 3 games and secured a contract to play in the second highest level in Slovakia for the 2011-2012 season.  

At this point, my life changed forever. I won’t go into details because, again, it would make for an amazing story. However, in June of 2011 I was arrested, charged, and ultimately convicted of a crime that I did not commit and was covered up by the system where I was living and training in Minnesota. Having these pending charges, I had no choice but to withdraw from my contract. My life started to spiral downwards. The year 2011 saw the loss of the captain of my junior team, several aunts, uncles, and my grandfather whom I was close to. These family members were all on my father’s side and I saw him, the strongest man I’ve ever known, nosedive into a deep depression.  

At this point, I took a hobby of mine, music production and audio engineering, very seriously. Over the course of the next several years, I would throw shows across the country. I would end up becoming a booking agent for DJ Paul from 3-6 Mafia. I would party alongside Ryan Lewis, DJ/Producer for Macklemore. I’d fornicate with strippers in dingy motels in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, and have club owners try to kill me with free alcohol. I’d make some of the best friends of my life, and then get stabbed in the back by others.  

In 2015, yet another story that deserves its own submission: I moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I lost one hundred pounds in one year. I was discharged from probation early. I made phone calls and signed a contract to play professionally in the Netherlands. I continued to play in Idaho, followed by two seasons in Bucharest, Romania. I became engaged. I had a kid, and that kid was kept from me until he was 3 months old after numerous family court appearances. The custody battle is still ongoing.  

In 2020, I made some very savvy investments and saw insane returns as the stock market rebounded from the crash due to COVID-19. That enabled me to purchase land in New Mexico, and I’ve since returned and currently reside here. And that’s the Reader’s Digest version of my story.  

I still have many blank pages left. As much shit as I’ve been through, it’s crazy to think there’s still so much more left. So much to see, so much to do, so much to accomplish.  

So who am I? I’m a father. I’m a fighter. I’m a lover. I’m kind. I’m generous. I’m caring. I’m intelligent. I’m ambitious. I’m a go-getter. I’m stubborn. I’m motivated. All that aside, I’m still a mystery, an enigma. The essence of who I am can and does change as I tackle each of life’s obstacles.  

The real question is this: 

Who will I be? 

And that remains to be seen.