"The eighteen-year-old ice-hockey player Matthew Schaefer, the No. 1 pick in the 2025 N.H.L. draft and a rookie defenseman for the New York Islanders, skated around the team's practice rink in East Meadow, on Long Island, the other day, pursued by a cameraman in a rolling office chair. Schaefer, who is six feet two, with a childlike face and fluffy brown hair, was shooting his first major TV commercial, for Nobull, an activewear brand; the objective was to show him training like a champ."
"Schaefer was drafted in June, at age seventeen. He grew up in Stoney Creek, Ontario, in a close-knit family: his father, Todd; his mother, Jennifer; and his big brother, Johnny. In an old video, Jennifer dances with joy at a rink. She died, of breast cancer, when Matthew was sixteen. Onstage at the draft, Gary Bettman, the N.H.L.'s commissioner, presented Schaefer with an Islanders jersey embroidered with a lavender memorial ribbon and Jennifer's initials. (All three Schaefers cried.)"
"He was feeling good despite a loss the night before, in Florida, to the Panthers-and despite having gotten a rare penalty, following a subtle trip-like collision and a dramatic fall by the beloved and beloathed "rat" Brad Marchand. Had Marchand taken a dive? "No comment!" Schaefer said, laughing. He added, "I always try to give the baby face to the refs-it never works.""
Matthew Schaefer is an eighteen-year-old rookie defenseman for the New York Islanders and the No. 1 pick in the 2025 NHL draft. He filmed his first major TV commercial at the Islanders' practice rink, performing skating drills and slap shots while a small crew watched. He grew up in Stoney Creek, Ontario, in a close-knit family with father Todd, mother Jennifer, and brother Johnny. His mother died of breast cancer when he was sixteen. At the draft he received an Islanders jersey embroidered with a lavender memorial ribbon and Jennifer's initials. He regularly meets grieving and sick children, offering hugs and encouragement. He kept a light demeanor after a loss and a rare penalty.
Read at The New Yorker
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