I have said for years that I’ve felt fortunate to have played with some of the Sutter brothers. I respected the Sutters individually and as a family. I admired the way the Sutter family honoured the game. They played the game with grit and fire. They played the game the way it was supposed to be played. Frankly, I hope fans believe that I played the game with Sutter-like passion. I certainly tried to play the game like that.
Brent and Duane also had a good sense of humour. In my early years with the Blackhawks, Brent and Duane always nailed me with practical jokes. Baby powder in the hair dryer. Pants tied in knots. Socks cut in half. Bengay on the toothbrush. Bengay on the jock strap. Shaving cream where it didn’t belong. Furniture moved out of your room. I always knew when I had been punked by a Sutter.
One time, our captain, Dirk Graham, had a trainer tell me that Bob Pulford wanted to see me. Not knowing that Pulford had made no such request, I hustled into his office and sat down in front of him.
“What the fuck do you want?” he grumbled.
“I was told you wanted to see me,” I said.
“Why the fuck would I want to see you?” Pulford said. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Graham received extra credit for using Pulford as an unwitting participant in a prank, because Pulford never seemed like he was having a good day. He was always mumbling and complaining under his breath. Pully was a stubborn cuss, but he was mostly good to me. I viewed him as a loveable curmudgeon. But it could be painful to talk to him.
Today, players sleep on team planes. But I never slept on a team plane because it was guaranteed that if you did, you would have your tie cut in half, or worse.
One night, I went to bed, and as soon as my head hit the pillow I was overwhelmed by a smell that seemed like someone had taken a dump in my pillowcase. When I got up and turned on the lights, I realized that was exactly what had happened. Later that season, I climbed into bed one night and stretched out my legs until my feet hit something cold and squishy. Upon further investigation, I realized someone had dropped a deuce under my covers. Never did uncover the culprit of those smelly pranks.
When it came to practical jokes, I was both a giver and a receiver. One night, Brent Sutter decided not to go out with the boys. He decided to stay in the room and have room service. With many of my teammates listening on a speakerphone, I called Brent in his room and pretended I was a reporter doing an interview. Each question got a little nuttier. It was a hoot. In retaliation, Sutter emptied my room and moved all of my furniture into the hallway by the elevator. He even plugged in the clock and set it for the right time.
Shaving-cream pies in the face. Stealing teammates’ clothes. Fake messages. I saw it all in my career, and I enjoyed every fucking minute of it. Although it may seem like it is all sophomoric nonsense, there is some value to it. Teams often bond through practical jokes. Younger players feel like they belong when they are victimized by veterans.
I liked all of the Sutters, but Brent was my favourite. I thought he was the most talented of the Sutter brothers. He had a different personality; he was a bit more laid-back, more polished than his brothers.
What I liked about Darryl Sutter as a coach is that he was similar in style to Keenan. He was tough, demanding and unwavering. It is true that our personalities sometimes clashed. About 18 months into Sutter’s tenure as coach, my relationship with Sutter was the primary topic of conversation at the 1994 All-Star Game in New York.
The local newspaper headline read, “Sutter-Roenick row has league talking.” But it wasn’t a feud as much as it was a disagreement. And Keenan and I had disagreements every day. My big mouth was guilty of contributory negligence in making our squabble seem more hostile. With all of the media gathered in one spot, I aired all of my grievances. Sutter wanted to exclusively play dump-and-chase, and I thought it was limiting us offensively.
“It’s hard when I try to be creative on the ice and get chastised for it,” I told the media. “When he browbeat me and Joe Murphy after we won a game in Boston for not playing good enough defence, that’s when I had to sit down and think about things the most.”
The ridiculous aspect of my gab session with the media was that one of my complaints about Sutter was that he was only communicating with me through the newspapers and not directly.
“Roenick probably says things he shouldn’t, but no one is perfect,” Pulford told the media. “He basically only says them when he’s frustrated. There’s nothing wrong with the kid. He’s a good person.”
Sutter is also a good person, and there was nothing wrong with us disagreeing on how we should play. The mistake we made was fighting through the media. We should have just yelled at each other, like Keenan and I did. I fed off the passion of the fights I had with Keenan, and he knew that. Keenan believed we all played better when we were on edge. His style wasn’t conducive to a happy dressing room, but we were all spitting fire when we got on the ice.
Newspapers speculated about Sutter possibly getting fired because he and I were having some issues. But that certainly wasn’t what I was hoping would happen. I liked his coaching style, and I proved that years later, when I came very close to signing with him when he was with the Calgary Flames.
* * *
Despite what Pulford said, I wonder today whether the Blackhawks were growing weary of my personality. Certainly, I was no troublemaker, but I’m guessing they wished that I would keep my mouth shut more often. That wasn’t going to happen. They knew that. Maybe that played a role in why I ended up getting traded.
When it was time to negotiate my third contract with the Blackhawks, the NHL salary landscape had changed dramatically. When Eric Lindros forced the Quebec Nordiques to trade him to Philadelphia and then received a salary of three-and-a-half million dollars per year in his first NHL season in 1992–93, salaries in the NHL were redefined. Two years into my deal, I was underpaid by the standards of the marketplace. But renegotiation wasn’t in my makeup. I figure if you shake hands on a deal, you live with it regardless of how it works out. I took the long-term deal because I wanted security, and I got that. But as my contract was in its final months, Neil told the Blackhawks we would be looking for a new deal in the vicinity of $5 million per season.
On May 5, 1996, Mr. Wirtz told Chicago Tribune columnist Bob Verdi that he planned to make sure I remained a Blackhawk.
“Jeremy is an integral part of this franchise,” Mr. Wirtz said. “We intend to keep it like that for a long time. It’s going to take a lot, but that’s all I do anymore, anyway. Sign checks.”
When Verdi approached me to tell me what Mr. Wirtz had said, I was overjoyed. “All I’ve wanted from the beginning,” I told Verdi, “is to stay a Blackhawk.”
As soon as we began negotiating with general manager Bob Pulford, Neil and I quickly discovered that Wirtz was far less willing to sign that cheque than he was willing to admit publicly.
At that point in my career, I had already scored 50 or more goals twice in a season, and I had also netted 41 goals and 46 goals in two other seasons. I had registered at least 100 points three times. Beaten up by injuries in 1995–96, I had still netted 32 goals and produced 67 points in 66 games, and added 7 goals and 5 assists in the playoffs. Just as important, in my opinion, was the fact that they could count on me to produce 100 penalty minutes. I took pride in the truth that I was a pest on the ice.
But when my agent, Neil Abbott, told Pulford we were looking for a deal in the $4 million to $5 million range depending upon the length of the deal, Pulford acted as if we had asked for ownership of the team.
“You will never get $4 million to play in this league,” Pulford scoffed.
Mr. Wirtz told me I “wasn’t worth” the kind of money I was seeking. His words stung me because I always felt Mr. Wirtz liked the way I played. I felt like I had served the Blackhawks well. To this day, I’m one of only three 50-goal scorers in Chicago history.
The Blackhawks thought my value was closer to $3 million per season. Neil told them
I would be looking to leave if they didn’t pay me what we believed to be my market value. At the time, Gretzky was making more than $6 million. Mark Messier was right at $6 million. Steve Yzerman was at $3.7 million. Mike Modano was at $2.9 million. Salaries were rising daily, and the Blackhawks didn’t seem to want to admit that.
As a rising star in my prime, I was highly desirable in the marketplace. My problem was that I was a restricted free agent, meaning that a team that paid me the kind of money I wanted would have to give the Blackhawks five first-round draft picks. At the time, general managers viewed acquiring a player this way as the hockey equivalent of buying a baby on the black market. The St. Louis Blues were the only team ever to give up five first-round picks to sign a restricted free agent, when they signed Scott Stevens in 1990.
But Neil was convinced that a team would give up the draft picks to sign me. When my contract expired on July 1, we heard from 15 teams. None of them were initially willing to give me an offer sheet, but all were willing to talk contract in hopes of working out a deal with Chicago. New York Islanders general manager Mike Milbury seemed closest to handing out an offer sheet, but his people were concerned about giving up five first-rounders while the team was rebuilding. He has said that he carried around an offer sheet in his briefcase for weeks but never sent it. He told us he thought I could do for the Islanders what Bobby Clarke had done for the Philadelphia Flyers in the early 1970s. The Washington Capitals, St. Louis Blues and New Jersey Devils were also interested.
Meanwhile, every day seemed to bring a new rumour about where I might be traded. One day, I was going to Winnipeg for Teemu Selanne; the next, I was going to St. Louis for Brett Hull. Mike Keenan was the Blues’ general manager and coach at the time, but the Blues had traded away one of their first-round picks, meaning they weren’t in a position to put forward an offer sheet. Keenan would have to swing a trade to get me. We were essentially close to agreeing to terms on a contract, but Keenan couldn’t work out the deal with the Blackhawks, despite four hours of negotiations.
While all this was happening, I kept hoping that the Blackhawks would up their offer and begin serious negotiations. But the Blackhawks never budged. Assistant general manager Bob Murray kept telling the media it wasn’t about the money, and perhaps that statement was partially true. If you look at the Chicago Blackhawks organization in that era, it was a totalitarian regime led by Mr. Wirtz. It was as if most of the NHL teams were in the free world, and the Blackhawks were behind the Iron Curtain. Mr. Wirtz wanted to be in complete control. Remember, this was a man who didn’t believe in televising home games. I’m sure Mr. Wirtz and Pulford viewed me as a radical. While they didn’t always say so directly, I sensed that they wanted to muzzle me. When Mike Keenan had wanted too much power, they fired him. Maybe my spirit of independence didn’t fit with their idea of what an athlete should be. I don’t know that for sure.
On August 16, 1996, the Blackhawks announced that I had been traded to the Phoenix Coyotes for Alexei Zhamnov and Craig Mills. Neil’s first thought was that Chicago had turned down better offers than they received from Phoenix.
Even though I knew a trade was likely coming, it was still shocking to the system. I had been in Chicago for eight seasons. I was in Chicago longer than I was in Boston. As unhappy as I was about leaving Chicago, I tried not to say anything bad about Mr. Wirtz. To him, this was a business decision, and I believe that a person who owns a business has the right to run it the way he or she wants to run it. Although I didn’t always understand or appreciate some of Mr. Wirtz’s decisions, I always respected him. Today, I believe that Mr. Wirtz’s son Rocky has done a fantastic job of transforming that franchise into one of the league’s best.
After my trade to Phoenix, I was still technically without a team, still a restricted free agent. The Coyotes owned my rights, but I had no contract and was still eligible to receive an offer sheet. And the Islanders, among other teams, called the Coyotes with the hope of working out a deal, but Phoenix said they wanted to keep me. The team had just moved from Winnipeg, and they were hoping I could be a fan draw. The negotiations didn’t immediately go smoothly. But Massachusetts native Sean Coady was a scout with the Coyotes then, and we were friends. Coyotes executive vice-president Bobby Smith asked him to call me directly and see if there was a way to bridge the gap.
Frankly, there were teams willing to pay me more than $4 million per season. The Islanders and Blues were chief among them. But now they would have to complete a trade with the Coyotes, and we had no idea whether that was possible.
I didn’t want to be in limbo into October. Coady and I talked about what I wanted, and I explained to him that there was a principle at stake in my mind because Pulford had told me no team would pay me $4 million to play hockey.
“What’s it going to take to get you to Phoenix?” Coady asked me.
“Tell Bobby Smith if he will give me five years, $20 million, I will sign today,” I replied.
Smith agreed to my asking price, and I climbed on a jet to Phoenix.
I never wanted to leave Chicago. But once I agreed to be a Coyote, I committed myself fully to the idea of being both a player and ambassador in Phoenix. The idea of trying to sell hockey in the desert excited me. I’ve always liked to challenge myself. This would be a major challenge.
6. Selling Ice in the Desert
On my first day with the Phoenix Coyotes, team captain Keith Tkachuk sat me down to explain how our relationship would work.
“I have two rules for you,” Tkachuk said. “The first rule is that you have to get me the puck. The second rule is don’t forget the first rule.”
The speech was Tkachuk’s version of an icebreaker, a way to bond with his new teammate. It must have worked with me, because Tkachuk and I became instant friends. What I discovered later is that Tkachuk had the same introductory conversation with every new player who joined the Coyotes.
It always sounds odd when I hear someone refer to Tkachuk as Keith, because no one on our team ever called him by his given name. To us, he was Walt or Big Walt. He received that nickname early in his career because there had been a Walt Tkaczuk who played for the New York Rangers from 1967 until 1981. There is no relation between Keith Tkachuk and Walt Tkaczuk. Their last names are not even spelled the same. But that didn’t matter to Tkachuk’s teammates in Winnipeg, who started calling him Big Walt. They liked the nickname. So it stuck. Today, Tkachuk seems to prefer being called Big Walt over Keith.
There was frequently an impression in the hockey world that Tkachuk and I didn’t get along, even though the truth was that we were the best of friends. We were a couple of Boston guys. We ate together on the road. We partied together. We drank together. We played golf together. We gambled together. We enjoyed each other’s company, and we still do today.
The first time I ever talked to Tkachuk was in 1990, after I had already played two NHL seasons. Tkachuk was two years younger than me, and the Hull Olympiques were trying to recruit him to come up and play in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League. Hull general manager Charlie Henry asked me to call Tkachuk and tell him how much I enjoyed playing in the QMJHL. Henry figured a sales pitch coming from another Boston-area player would mean more to Tkachuk than Henry calling him again.
Although I didn’t know Tkachuk at the time, I felt comfortable calling him. I was an NHL player, and I figured if an NHL player had called me when I was deciding what to do, I would have appreciated it. When Tkachuk answered the phone, I quickly told him who I was and that I wanted to talk to him about playing in Hull.
“No thanks, bro,” he said. “Going to BU.” Then he hung up the phone on me.
It always makes me laugh today when I tell that story. But that was Tkachuk. He has always been headstrong and confident in his own decisions.
In my first couple of seasons in Phoenix, we had our own Boston gang. We were called the “Massachusetts Mafia.” Tkachuk had played at Malden Catholic High School and then attended Boston University. He looks a
nd talks like a Boston longshoreman; he’s big, beefy and gruff at times, and he has a thick Boston accent. His father was a U.S. Marine and a Boston firefighter. If Tkachuk hadn’t been a talented hockey player, I could have seen him being a firefighter; Bob Corkum was from Salisbury, Massachusetts, and played at Triton Regional High School before playing college hockey at Maine. Craig Janney played at Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts and then went to Boston College. Janney was three years older than me, and he was already in the NHL when I spent my 15 minutes as a Boston College student.
Corkum was an old-school player, a 220-pound forward who could hit, fight, kill penalties, block shots, win a key faceoff and score an occasional big goal. He’s the style of player that coaches always love because he’s versatile. What I also remember about him is that he could drain a bottle of beer faster than anyone I have ever seen. The contents of a Budweiser longneck could disappear down Corkum’s gullet in under two seconds flat. It was a breathtaking feat.
I would see Corkum and Janney pedalling like madmen, side by side, on the stationary bikes, and then 45 minutes later I would see them at the corner of the bar, side by side, drinking just as aggressively.
Janney never received enough credit for his talent. He might have been one of the most skilful setup men the league has ever seen; it’s certainly not a coincidence that he ended up centring Brett Hull, Cam Neely and Tkachuk. You don’t centre those players unless you can thread a pass through a mail slot.
The four of us were inseparable. We ate together, and we liked to spend time at the bar together.
One story I will always remember, during a road trip to Florida, was the Massachusetts Mafia’s late-night escapade to Miami’s South Beach. When we were finished howling at the moon at the Highlander, we had obliterated Jim Schoenfeld’s 11:30 curfew by a few hours. I believe we crawled back to the hotel about four o’clock in the morning. All of us could have had the swine flu and been in better condition to play than we were the next day.
J.R.: My Life as the Most Outspoken, Fearless, and Hard-Hitting Man in Hockey Page 9
