By luck of the draw, Goulet had taken Keenan’s Blackhawks team credit card. When Keenan got the credit card statement, he didn’t want to get the team’s bean counters mad by submitting the large bill. Instead, he paid it out of his own fucking pocket. Many guys didn’t like Keenan, but they did like him on the night that he unknowingly took his team out for dinner and drinks. I recall that he was toasted with Jägermeister many times that night.
As I tell all of these Keenan stories, I hope my readers don’t get the impression that I didn’t like Keenan. I love the man for moulding me into the player I became. He was Dr. Frankenstein, and I was his creation. He was a father figure for me, and he nurtured my game through a tough-love approach. We fought regularly in my years in Chicago. More than once, I screamed, “Go fuck yourself, Mike.”
Even though my emotions would boil over, I understood that Keenan was always simply trying to find a way to help me become the best player I could be. But when I needed guidance early in my career, it was Keenan who often provided it. I remember Tracy and I were going through a rough patch in our relationship. We were young people entering adulthood differently from our peers. I was a teenage professional athlete who had money and growing fame. In retrospect, it was one of the most difficult periods in our lives, and it was Mike Keenan who sat us down and helped us work through the issue. Neither of us has forgotten that kindness.
Keenan never complimented me about my performance on the ice, because that was not his style. But after games, he would tell Tracy that no matter what he said to me, she should know that he felt that “Jeremy was going to be a great player someday.”
It wasn’t as if Keenan was the only tough coach in his era, nor was he the only coach to attempt to unify his team by making them all mad at him. That was a tactic that famous coach Herb Brooks used to bring together the Americans before they took down the Soviets at the 1980 Olympics. But many of those who played for Keenan would probably argue that he took coaching meanness to a new level. Keenan’s toughness never bothered me, because I was accustomed to that approach. My father often yelled at me to get his point across, and Thayer coach Arthur Valicenti wasn’t peaches and cream in his approach to prep school hockey. Alain Vigneault also had a hard edge to his coaching style. I wouldn’t say I liked being criticized or yelled at, but I got used to it.
Maybe the Blackhawks’ dressing room would have been better off with less friction. But you always knew where you stood with Keenan. I don’t believe there was any aspect of his coaching style that players truly enjoyed, other than the fact that we were improving as a team. He wasn’t there to make friends. He was there to win hockey games. And the way he viewed it was that his players’ flaws were in the way of his attempts to win games. He did whatever he felt was necessary to correct your imperfections, and he didn’t care what you thought about his methods. Either you did what he wanted you to do, or you were in his doghouse and every day at the rink was going to be a day in hell. Yelling was part of the culture in a Keenan dressing room. Either you could live with that or you couldn’t. There was no middle ground.
In my rookie season in the NHL, it felt as if I was a character in the soap opera Days of our Lives. Every day there was anger, passion, bad behaviour, subplots and drama in the Chicago dressing room.
It was during my second season in Chicago, when I was just 19, that I grew comfortable enough to hold my ground with Keenan. He would yell at me, and I yelled back. That was the way it worked in Chicago. Mike had the power but allowed us to vent our frustration through anger at him. If you didn’t respond to him with anger, he viewed it as a sign of weakness. In Keenan’s dressing room, it was acceptable, maybe even encouraged, for players to confront each other about how we were playing. Mike wanted the fires always burning in his dressing room. He wanted everyone always mad at him, and he liked it when players held each other accountable. There were some fistfights in the dressing room as players fought, not like sworn enemies but like brothers who would still love each other when the scrap was over.
Today’s NHL dressing rooms are tame by comparison to what Chicago’s dressing room was like back then. Today’s players don’t confront each other the way we did. In my opinion, today’s players are too touchy about criticism. When you came into our dressing room under Mike Keenan, it was like joining a house of gladiators. There would be pain and suffering. But in that environment, I matured into a very good player, and the Blackhawks became a quality team.
4. Finding My Bluster in the Windy City
The late Chicago Blackhawks owner Bill Wirtz once promised me that I would never be traded. In Chicago Stadium, he told me not to worry about my upcoming contract negotiations because a deal would be reached.
“You will be a Blackhawk forever,” he said emphatically.
I believed him. Maybe I should have been skeptical of the commitment, because a year or two before that meeting, Mr. Wirtz didn’t recognize me when I bumped into him at a grocery store on the north side of Chicago. It was an awkward moment for both of us. I approached him and said, “Hello, Mr. Wirtz.” He nodded, and I could tell immediately that he thought I was a fan, or some stranger, who had recognized him.
“I’m Jeremy Roenick, sir,” I said.
He was clearly embarrassed, but we ended up having a pleasant conversation. Although Mr. Wirtz didn’t recognize me without a helmet, I think he liked me, or at least he liked how I played on the ice. He probably meant it when he said that I would spend my entire career with the Blackhawks.
Unquestionably, that was my plan. In 1991, I signed a five-year contract with the Blackhawks for just over $5 million. The deal started with a yearly salary of $750,000 in the first season and ended with a salary of $1.4 million in the fifth year. My decision to accept a long-term deal was questioned around the league because I was viewed as a rising star that might be best served by taking a short-term deal and then waiting to see how the market would escalate. When Bob Goodenow became executive director of the NHL Players’ Association the year before, he had introduced salary disclosure as a tool to raise salaries. By making sure that agents knew what every player was earning, league salaries could be used as a basis for comparison during negotiations. When no one knew what everyone else was making, agents relied on guesswork to determine their players’ salary demands.
My agent, Neil Abbott, and I discussed the pros and cons of a short deal versus a longer deal until we were weary of the debate. You have to remember that hockey salaries hadn’t yet spiked when I signed that contract. By averaging just over a million dollars a season, I was being paid more than Boston standout Cam Neely or Edmonton sniper Jari Kurri. Both of those players were earning less than a million dollars per season in 1991–92. Detroit’s Steve Yzerman was only making $1.4 million that season, and he was coming off four consecutive seasons of scoring 50 or more goals.
The important issue, according to Neil, was that $5 million would set me up for life, and when the contract expired I would still only be 26 years old. His concern was that my aggressive playing style left me vulnerable to a catastrophic injury. This deal would protect me from that risk, and when the contract was up, I would still be young enough to land a “home run” deal.
At the time, the Blackhawks even fought the idea of making me a millionaire player. Fortunately for me, negotiations were ongoing during the 1991 Canada Cup, and I was having a strong tournament. Blackhawks general manager Bob Pulford was co-general manager of Team USA, and his fellow team executives were razzing him about how my price tag was rising with every shift I took.
Sports Illustrated published an article on October 7, 1991, in which writer E.M. Swift offered that, after I had scored a pretty goal, Pulford, in response to the needling he was taking, jokingly yelled, “Will you get that kid off the ice?”
A day or two later, Pulford agreed to the contract that would make me a million-dollar player.
I trusted Neil’s instincts because it was clear from the beginning that he only had my best
interests in mind when he ventured an opinion. What I can say about Neil without fear of contradiction is that he treats his clients like they are family. Besides, by the 1991–92 season, I felt like there was no better National Hockey League city than Chicago. Keenan had scared me into becoming a 50-goal scorer, and he had bullied the Blackhawks into becoming a quality hockey team. Defenceman Chris Chelios and I were the centrepieces of the team. I had replaced the great Denis Savard as the team’s offensive catalyst, and Chelios was the defensive star. The Blackhawks were an Original Six team led by two American stars. Who would have thought that possible even 15 years before?
That was starting to become a theme around the NHL in the early 1990s. Brian Leetch, whom I had battled with in high school, was the New York Rangers’ best weapon. My archrival Mike Modano was becoming a star with the Minnesota North Stars. There were certainly indications around the NHL that the American program was beginning to produce premium NHL talent.
Chelios was born and raised in the Chicago area, and Blackhawks fans loved him for that and because he played hockey as if it were mortal combat. Even though I was from Boston, Chicago fans also embraced me as if I were one of their own. Everyone in Chicago knew us, and everyone seemed to want to know us better. Chelios and I were treated like royalty everywhere we went. As a general rule, the Blackhawks always had a good time away from the rink. Chelios and I had a better time than most. Both of us liked to prowl in the celebrity world. We met many of them, none nicer than the late Canadian actor John Candy. He grew up in Toronto and seemed to like spending time with the NHL community. He was also friends with then-Kings owner Bruce McNall and Wayne Gretzky. The three of them became partners in the purchase of the Canadian Football League’s Toronto Argonauts.
When Candy’s 1991 movie Only the Lonely was filmed in Chicago, scenes were shot at Comiskey Park, as well as the famous Emmitt’s Pub and the Ambassador East Hotel. Candy invited Chelios, my wife, Tracy, and me to visit him on the set. After we knocked on the door of his trailer, he appeared at the door and said: “Sorry folks, park’s closed. Moose out front should’ve told you.” Then he shut the door.
It was his famous line, delivered in character, from his role as the Walley World security guard in the 1983 movie National Lampoon’s Vacation. It was a hysterical greeting. Seconds later, Candy reopened the door and we were in his trailer, where we helped him drink the tub of beer he had on ice. While he sat and talked to us, he had ice packs all over his knees and back from the stress he put on his body from a day of shooting. It was like watching an athlete ice down after competition. Candy was a big man, and 14-hour shooting days were clearly stressful on his body. We always wanted to talk about the movie business, but Candy preferred to discuss the Toronto Maple Leafs, the Blackhawks and Wayne Gretzky. He always wanted to talk about hockey. “What is it like,” he would ask, “to play against Mario Lemieux?” Of course, we were more interested to hear tales about Chevy Chase or Hollywood movie sets.
At the time, there were celebrities who wanted to hang with us as much as we wanted to be with them. That was such a strange feeling for me, because I didn’t view myself as a celebrity. I saw myself as the interloper, someone who had been invited into the celebrity world, not someone who belonged there. One time, Charles Barkley was in town to play against the Bulls and decided to take in a Blackhawks game. I don’t remember what happened in the game, but I do remember Barkley bursting into our dressing room, bellowing: “Where’s that Roenick kid? I want to meet that Roenick kid.”
After we were introduced, he said: “Man, you remind me of myself when I was a younger player. You play hockey the way I played basketball as a young man, aggressive!” It was one of the nicest compliments I ever received. A major NBA star had given up his free time to come down to tell me that he liked the passion I showed when I competed. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever met an athlete who is more respectful than Barkley. I mean that sincerely. Some people listen to you only to find an opening to allow themselves to talk again. Barkley is always interested in what you have to say. He treats people with respect. We chatted for 15 or 20 minutes in the dressing room, and I told him some of the Blackhawks were getting together at the nightspot Excalibur to shoot pool after the game. I invited him to join us. I hoped he would show up, but I didn’t expect to see him there. But around one o’clock in the morning, in strolled Barkley. He shot pool and drank with the Blackhawks until the bartender booted us out at closing time.
In 1996, I took my wife to the Olympics in Atlanta and was walking down the street when this giant of a man picked me up from behind and whipped me around. It was Barkley, who was just as friendly and cordial as the night we met. Every time I see him, we pick up our conversation right where we left off; I have man love for Barkley to this day.
I always had time for the NBA players in Chicago. I played some golf with Michael Jordan, and I was friends with Dennis Rodman and Ron Harper after they came to play with the Bulls. Rodman, Harper, Chelios and I used to drink together at the Martini Bar in Chicago. We had our own little area in the bar, and employees would keep us segregated from the other patrons. You had to be on “the list” to come back to our area to see us. Of course, Rodman had told the employees that any attractive blonde was automatically on his list, and Harper ordered employees to send back every good-looking brunette. Chelios and I would laugh at the parade of women coming back to see these two guys.
It was always a wild night when we hung out with the sake-drinking Rodman. He could do some crazy shit. You never knew which Rodman was going to show up. He dressed differently and he acted differently every time we saw him. One night, he invited us to his party and he was dressed like Cleopatra.
One of my all-time favourite nights came when the Blackhawks were playing in Toronto and comedic actor Dan Aykroyd invited us to come to his local bar there. Aykroyd had live music at his bar, and he went up on stage and jammed away for our entertainment. When it was time to close for the night, he kept the bar open, and then we all went up on stage and jammed with him. Chelios was leading the pack, and I believe Joe Murphy, Tony Amonte and Bernie Nicholls were there. I remember playing the drums very badly.
On the ice, we were having just as much fun. In 1990–91, with Keenan screaming at us all the way, the Blackhawks led the NHL with 106 points. We then self-destructed in the playoffs, losing in the first round to a Minnesota team that was 12 games below .500. Showing no discipline, we accumulated 46.4 penalty minutes per game, and Minnesota netted 15 power-play goals in the six games. Although Minnesota ended up reaching the Stanley Cup final, we were still embarrassed by the loss to the North Stars.
Going into the 1991–92 season, I thought we had figured out what we needed to do to win. The Minnesota series had taught us some lessons about the fine line between aggressiveness and taking dumb penalties. Personally, I believed I had a better understanding of the sacrifice I needed to make to be successful. I believed I learned that more from opponents than teammates. When I played against Edmonton’s Mark Messier in 1989–90, during the Edmonton Oilers’ march to their fifth Stanley Cup championship, I probably learned everything I needed to know about winning. Messier looked scary. He resembled what a gladiator from centuries ago must have looked like, just before he cut off your fucking head in the arena. I probably could not have looked that scary, but I believed I could replicate Messier’s commitment to winning.
Meanwhile, Keenan had pieced together the kind of team he wanted to coach. We had a roster full of guys who were ready to play the game as if they were medieval warriors. The Blackhawks had traded Dave Manson to Edmonton to land heady defenceman Steve Smith. Hard-nosed Brent Sutter was brought over from the New York Islanders for Steve Thomas and Adam Creighton. Heavy hitter Bryan Marchment was acquired from Winnipeg in a deal that sent Troy Murray to the Jets.
To me, the Smith acquisition seemed the most important, because he had helped the Oilers win Stanley Cup titles in 1987 and 1988 and 1990. He understood how a team
needs to become disciplined as the playoffs progressed.
We weren’t the most skilled team in the NHL in 1991–92, but we were certainly one of the most difficult to play against. Three of our defencemen—Smith, Marchment and Chelios—combined for 717 penalty minutes. Mike Peluso had 404 penalty minutes. I had 98, and I wasn’t even in the top five on our team. By then, Ed Belfour had established himself as a fiery, battling goalkeeper. It took work to score against us. The Montreal Canadiens were the only team to give up fewer goals than we surrendered that season.
On March 7, 1992, I became only the third Blackhawk to score 50 goals in a season when I bounced a shot off Boston Bruins defenceman Raymond Bourque’s knee and into the net for the game-winner in a 2–1 win against the Bruins.
The goal was my league-leading 12th game-winner of the season, breaking Bobby Hull’s team record. As happy as my teammates were for me, Chicago captain Dirk Graham said that he was more impressed that night by a skating dash I made for a puck in the closing minutes of the game than he was my 50th goal. As we were trying to hang on to our one-goal lead, I outraced Boston defenceman Gord Murphy to negate an icing call that would have put the faceoff deep in our zone.
After netting my 50th, I still had 13 games remaining to make a run at Hull’s team record of 57 goals. But a suggestion in the newspaper that I would be trying to pursue that record earned me the wrath of Keenan.
On the night I scored my 48th and 49th, in a 4–4 tie against the New York Rangers, I made what Keenan considered a risky play in an effort to score my 50th in that game. My status as the team’s leading scorer offered me no immunity from Keenan’s persecution. He yelled at me as often as, if not more than, he did in my rookie season. He chewed me out aggressively for trying to make a play that he didn’t believe was in the team’s best interest.
J.R.: My Life as the Most Outspoken, Fearless, and Hard-Hitting Man in Hockey Page 7
