SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. -- Step after clunky step, Bob Francis arrives for his morning workout.
He grits his teeth. He jerks his walker forward, followed by an awkward swing of the leg.
His body has atrophied. His balance and equilibrium are gone.
The former Phoenix Coyotes coach can no longer stand on his own two feet.
Onlookers at a Scottsdale health club try not to stare. But his determination is both inspiring and heartbreaking. Especially for those who recognize the face, the mustache, the man who was once named best coach in the NHL.
"People here, they're all curious," said Francis, 53. "They don't want to ask, but they want to know: Were you in a serious car accident? Do you have MS (multiple sclerosis)? Do you have brain function problems?
"It's a long process trying to explain everything. No, I wasn't in a serious car accident. No, I'm not dying. I wish I had an explanation."
Looking at the withered coach, it's easy to believe in cursed hockey franchises. Francis is a recovering alcoholic who lost his first wife and his career. As a player, he suffered too many concussions to count, likely triggering his current condition.
Now, he is searching for answers, struggling to regain some quality of life, pushing that walker down the jagged path of life.
"As many times as I've cursed this walker out, the truth is, I need it," Francis said. "If I'm not leaning on something, I'm down."
Under pressure
Maybe all of his issues run together, converging like powerful currents.
Francis is the son of New York Rangers' legend Emile Francis, a hockey Hall of Famer. His dream was to score a goal in Madison Square Garden, where his father was revered. Clearly, he felt pressure to follow in the massive paternal footsteps.
"I only scored two (goals) in my career, but the last one was for Detroit in Madison Square Garden," he said. "I went back to the bench and couldn't believe what just happened. The moral of the story: There's nothing wrong with dreaming, but don't limit your dreams. Because once you acquire it, where do you go from there?"
To even get a taste of the NHL, Francis had to play like a pit bull. He was undersized (5-9) in stature, and cursed by an oversized heart. It led him into corners and battles he had no business fighting.
He is paying for that today.
"As a player, I remember being knocked out cold when I separated my shoulder," Francis said. "When I came to, I was on a gurney in the hospital, and they were trying to jam my shoulder back into place. Another time, I was hit into the boards and swallowed my tongue. I was unconscious at that point, too."
After just 14 NHL games, Francis was done. He reset his goals to be a head coach by the age of 40. He missed by one year, but made an instant impact with the Coyotes.
He led the team to the playoffs twice in his first three years, but dealt with the same organizational instability that exists today.
Was pressure a tipping point? Was it the alcohol? Did one precede the other?
The physical decline began in Francis' final season with the Coyotes. He started to feel a loss of balance. He became wobbly on his skates. He was self-medicating by then, and rumors of alcohol abuse were following in his wake. His life was spinning out of control.
When he was fired in February 2004, his 165 wins were most in franchise history. Yet he never received another offer from an NHL club. In 2006, he went to coach in Helsinki, and didn't last the season.
"Yeah, I was drinking too much," he said.
Like most alcoholics, he just hid it very well.
Francis says he has been sober for one year now. He says he has a "great sponsor" who knows every dark alley in Francis' soul. But much damage was done along the way.
"I am not proud of it," Francis said. "But I have addressed it and eliminated it. And to me, it's given me a whole different list of priorities in life.
"Where I was getting out of control with the alcohol was the isolation. My three kids were up and gone, and my (first) wife worked long hours. I had too much time on my hands, and wasn't occupying that time in a better manner."
Today, Francis is happily remarried. He lives with his 20-year-old son, a former hockey player who retired following his own history with concussion and shoulder problems. His daughters are 25 and 24, living and working together in Los Angeles.
They are all part of his life, part of his support group, and part of what keeps him moving forward.
"I didn't realize the damage I was doing to them," Francis said. "The thing that hurt most going through the process was the regret they felt for not doing more for me in my bleakest, darkest moments. That hits home. They resent themselves for something they didn't do to help? You couldn't do any more damage to your own kids than making them feel that way."
No relief
Unfortunately, there is no 12-step fix for his medical troubles. Francis has had three back surgeries. He has two plates in his back. He has had MRIs on "every inch of my body."
He has undergone CAT scans, blood tests and neurological tests that required 35 different needles. He had to install rails in his old house. Then he had to sell that house and move to a place without stairs.Slowly, he is beginning to believe that part of his brain has been damaged irreparably.
"Unless you experience it yourself, it's mind-blowing," Francis said. "I was living a physical, normal life, working out every day, hiking three times a week. You take those simple things for granted, things like just getting up and down, going to the bathroom in the middle of the night or getting the mail in the morning.
"I mean, just taking a shower, closing your eyes and trying to shampoo your hair ... you're all disoriented."
The uncertainty is even worse. He doesn't know if he can get better or if it's all downhill from here. His goal is to walk again on his own, but he is also a hard-nosed realist.
"I was very fortunate with the run I had, and I had everything," Francis said. "But I wasn't happy. Why, I didn't know. Now, I do have that happiness. It starts with being able to live with yourself and your conscience.
"That doesn't come in the form of a paycheck, trophies or a bank account. That comes with being comfortable in your own skin. I have that right now. I just want to get some quality of life back."
This is all so sad. Ten years ago, I sat in his office after Francis, then 43, was named Coach of the Year. He was giddy with achievement, but filled with superstitious anxiety. He worried about the curse of the Jack Adams Award, about some rash of bad luck that seemed to follow the winners.
"Kind of came to fruition, didn't it?" he said, smiling.
Forging ahead
Today, Francis has been stripped of pride and ego. He is a cautionary tale for all hockey players, a story that is really no different from thousands of football players dealing with early on-set dementia.
His former players think of him only in the highest terms.
"Anyone who ever played for Bobby knows he cared more about them as a person than he did as a player," Coyotes captain Shane Doan said. "He was a really good coach. You don't win Coach of the Year by accident. He read his room as well as anybody."
If the Coyotes' ownership situation ever gets settled, it would be a heartfelt gesture to find some level of employment for Francis, if only to provide him with a sense of purpose. There must be something he could add to the mix.
But Francis isn't worried about employment these days. He just wants to stay clean, sober, positive and working toward a solution. He just wants a little hope, and he'll keep that walker moving, step after clunky step.
"I used to pray for everyone but myself," Francis said. "I thought it was hypocritical to ask for anything yourself. But I'll admit it: I pray for myself nowadays."
