Nathan MacKinnon’s Intensity Is Uncomfortable. So Is Greatness

There are easier ways to lead a hockey team than being Nathan MacKinnon.

You can be warm. You can be endlessly patient. You can be the teammate who always has a smile ready, who knows exactly when to crack a joke and when to put an arm around somebody’s shoulder. You can be Sidney Crosby, who somehow manages to pair the obsessive competitive instincts of an all-time great with the demeanor of someone who would apologize for taking the last seat on the bus.

MacKinnon is different.

He has never seemed particularly interested in being easy to play with. He is interested in winning.

That distinction is important. 

Because whenever MacKinnon’s intensity becomes a topic of conversation, it is tempting to treat it as a character flaw. The Colorado Avalanche superstar can be demanding. He can be visibly frustrated. He can bark at teammates on the bench, challenge them on the ice and make it abundantly clear when he believes someone is not meeting the standard he has established for himself.

But there is an uncomfortable truth attached to all of that: Nathan MacKinnon is Nathan MacKinnon in large part because he is almost pathologically committed to being the best version of himself.

And that kind of personality is not always pleasant.

It is, however, often incredibly effective.

The Avalanche just completed a regular season that would have been considered extraordinary by almost any standard. Colorado went 55-16-11, accumulated 121 points and finished with the NHL’s best record, earning the Presidents’ Trophy. MacKinnon added another major personal accomplishment to the résumé, capturing his first Maurice “Rocket” Richard Trophy after leading the league in goals.

Then came the part that actually matters to MacKinnon.

The playoffs.

The Avalanche were swept by the Vegas Golden Knights in the Western Conference Final, bringing another championship-caliber season to a painfully abrupt conclusion.

For a player wired like MacKinnon, that kind of ending does not simply disappear when the season is over. It lingers. Every missed opportunity becomes another reason to push harder, demand more and question whether everyone around him is doing the same.

NHL insider Jimmy Murphy recently suggested that MacKinnon’s approach has not always been easy for his teammates to absorb.

“After this season came out, it was a lot of times during the playoffs and during games, we would see Nathan MacKinnon really reeling into his teammates, whether it’s on the ice or on the bench,” Murphy noted.

“Everybody respects the fact that he is one of, if not the most passionate players and most dedicated players in the NHL; I’d say it’s between him and Sidney Crosby, in my opinion,” he added.

That is where the conversation gets interesting.

Because there is a difference between being a difficult teammate and being a demanding one. Sometimes, that line is almost impossible to see from the outside.

Murphy went on to explain that superstar players can sometimes expect the people around them to operate with the same level of urgency and commitment they bring themselves.

“Sometimes what happens is superstars expect a little too much from their teammates. I’ve been told by people within the organization that is the case with Nathan MacKinnon. And at times it’s rubbed some of the teammates the wrong way.”

That should not be particularly shocking.

MacKinnon has spent his entire career operating at a temperature most people could not maintain for five minutes, let alone 84 games and four rounds of playoff hockey.

The real question is whether Colorado should want him to be any different.

Tom Brady was unforgivingly intense.

He could be obsessive, demanding and brutally hard on himself and the people around him. He wasn't necessarily interested in making football comfortable for everyone in the building.

He wanted to win.

Seven Super Bowl championships. Five Super Bowl MVPs. A legitimate argument as the greatest quarterback who ever lived.

It becomes considerably harder to criticize the personality that helped produce those results.

NASCAR offers another example.

The late Kyle Busch was famously intense and, at times, could be difficult to watch when his emotions boiled over. Busch won 234 races across NASCAR's three premier national series, making him one of the most successful drivers in the history of the sport.

Busch was never particularly concerned with whether everyone liked him, either. When discussing his reputation, he made essentially the point that nice guys don't win races and that he knew plenty of nice people who weren't winning.

There is something to that.

Great competitors are not always comfortable people.

Sometimes they are demanding because they understand exactly how difficult it is to reach the top. Sometimes they are frustrated because they can see a standard that others either cannot see or are unwilling to reach. Sometimes the traits that make somebody exhausting in a locker room are the same traits that make them extraordinary when the stakes are highest.

MacKinnon belongs somewhere in that conversation.

He is not Crosby.

That is not an insult. In fact, it may be one of the most important distinctions to make when discussing him.

Crosby possesses a rare ability to be relentlessly competitive while simultaneously projecting an almost universally agreeable personality. He can be the consummate gentleman and one of the most ruthless competitors of his generation without either side seeming contradictory.

MacKinnon doesn't always have that switch.

He can be incredibly personable. He can be funny. He can laugh and joke around. He can also make it abundantly clear when he is not interested in wasting time.

I've experienced both sides of it.

I've made MacKinnon laugh. I've also probably irritated him enough that he was seconds away from telling me to take a hike.

And honestly?

I get it.

He's there to win.