I’ve always believed that if you are going to dance, you have to pay the band. If I wasn’t right, I always prided myself on digging deeper to find my competitive best. To be honest, I always thought I played better if I was feeling a bit guilty for drinking the night before. But in the game against the Panthers, I just couldn’t seem to escape the slow lane. It seemed like I was skating in mud or sand, and Corkum and Janney seemed stuck in that lane with me. Meanwhile, fellow reveller Tkachuk was skating around the ice like he was Superman. He was unstoppable, scoring three goals in our win against the Panthers.
Burned into my memory bank is the image of Big Walt strolling into the team bus after the game, singing the Semisonic tune “Closing Time” as he shuffled past Schoenfeld’s seat. When Tkachuk arrived at the back of the bus with the rest of us, he said loudly, “Okay, boys, I did my part. The rest of the road trip is up to you.”
As captain, he had also delivered a message: having fun at night doesn’t excuse you from being at your best at work the next day.
Although general managers and coaches loved Tkachuk as a general rule, it doesn’t mean that he didn’t find himself in trouble now and then. One time, the team was in the midst of a losing streak, and we had a game on Long Island, followed by two off-days and then a game in Manhattan against the New York Rangers. We were all looking forward to going into New York City after the game against the Islanders. One of the social highlights of the season was the opportunity to party in New York City.
The problem was that we played poorly again and lost to the Islanders. Our general manager, Bobby Smith, was boiling with anger, and he burst into the dressing room and scalded us with criticism. Schoenfeld quickly piled on, blaming us for defensive lapses, lack of effort and probably unrest in the Middle East.
Then Schoenfeld handed down the player equivalent of the death penalty.
“Curfew tonight,” Schoenfeld announced loudly. “I want you in the hotel, in your room, by 11:30.”
That got our attention. Now everyone in the dressing room was seething with anger, particularly our captain.
Smith then announced that there would be a meeting at 10 o’clock the next morning in his room. He wrote his room number, 241, on the chalkboard and told everyone there would be consequences if anyone was late. That made us madder, because we knew we were going to be screamed at again in the morning.
We looked to Tkachuk to make the call about what we were going to do, and he said we would all go out to eat and then gather in trainer Stan Wilson’s room to drink. When we got back to the hotel, it was one o’clock in the morning, and Tkachuk said he would pick up some beer and meet us in Stan’s room. As only Tkachuk can do, he cut a deal with someone at the hotel, and he now possessed two cases of beer he was bringing up to Stan’s room. The problem was that Tkachuk’s memory was fuzzy about Wilson’s room number. The number that popped up in his head was 241. He was convinced it had to be the right number. Why else would that number be in his head? He rapped on the door, heard a commotion inside, and when the door swung open, Tkachuk found himself staring at his bleary-eyed general manager, standing there in his bathrobe.
If you are a GM of a struggling NHL team, the last person you want to see at your door, at 1:30 in the morning, is your captain, particularly if he’s holding two cases of beer.
Truthfully, your body will tell you if you are overdoing the nightlife before a coach or GM ever will. Most athletes have competitive personalities, and if you feel your effort is shortchanged because you are out too late, you will correct that yourself. But sometimes athletes—maybe less today than in my era—need a jolt from management. In this season, Smith eventually decided we needed to be reminded that we were NHL players, not frat boys. He decided to call us out with a meeting in his office. It was like getting called into the principal’s office.
The members of the Massachusetts Mafia were hauled in together, and Smith, in a 45-minute meeting, told us we should have been ashamed of ourselves. He said we were spending too much time at the bar and we were staying out too late.
Smith said I was acting like an overpaid, spoiled brat. As I recall, he said Janney was out of shape. He might have even called him “fat.” I think he told Tkachuk he should be embarrassed to call himself a captain. He sprayed all of us with .50-calibre criticism.
In some respects, it was comical because we were almost always the best players on the ice whether we won or we lost. Even if we stayed out late, we were still scoring goals. It wasn’t as if we were playing poorly, or that we were getting drunk every night.
We didn’t hate Smith for yelling at us, because we all understood he was just trying to fire us up. It’s a general manager’s duty to inspire his players to play at their highest level. The team was sputtering at the time, and Smith was looking for someone to pick up the team. It wasn’t fun being verbally flogged. But all he was really doing was asking his top players to give more. I respected Smith for trying to see if we had more to give. The four of us didn’t quit drinking, and we still continued to have some fun. But we started to be more mindful of our schedule when we were out on the town. We wanted to win as much as Smith did, and if he thought cutting back on alcohol intake might help, we were willing to give it a try.
That meeting didn’t change our relationship with Smith. Actually, I think general managers don’t challenge their players enough in the modern game. When Smith hammered on us, the real message was that he cared greatly about his team. As a player, you want to know that your general manager is passionate about what’s happening on the ice.
We had a fun group in Phoenix. Dallas Drake was a dependable, hard-working player and one of the funniest. He was one of the best trash-talkers I ever heard. Once, when we were playing the Detroit Red Wings, Darren McCarty skated by our bench and Drake yelled, “Hey Darren, get off the ice because your face is scaring the kids in the front row.”
Rick Tocchet and Jim McKenzie are both Canadians, but they probably could be called honorary members of the Massachusetts Mafia. Still today, Tocchet remains a close friend. The Coyotes had plenty of guys who would have your back when the situation turned ugly on the ice, but Tocchet, McKenzie and Tkachuk would always be at the front of the line.
When I talk about Tkachuk, most people figure we played on the same line in Phoenix. But it didn’t happen as much as I would have liked. In five-on-five situations, Keith played with Janney more often than he played with me. Maybe that’s why the media believed we didn’t get along. It bothered me when I would see that written, because it wasn’t close to being the truth. Certainly, we had our spats, but it was mostly about how we were playing or what was best for the team. You argue with your wife, but that doesn’t mean you don’t love her. We both had to adjust our thinking to coexist because we are both similar and dissimilar at the same time. In our own ways, we liked being the centre of attention. But Tkachuk wanted to be the centre of attention on the team, and my desire was to be the centre of attention everywhere.
“Would you just stay out of the newspapers?” Big Walt would ask me. It never bothered me when he said that, because I knew he was always trying to look after the team’s best interests. He was always telling me to focus more on what was happening in the dressing room, although over time I believe he figured out that I put my heart into everything I did. I never had any issue accepting that Tkachuk was the Coyotes’ captain. To me, he was always the boss.
I have never played with a captain who took care of people like Tkachuk did. He looked after his teammates, trainers, equipment guys, clubhouse attendants and anyone else who made his life better. He always carried a wad of cash, and he dispensed tips more freely than any man I’ve met. For example, he would ask the visiting clubhouse attendant to place a cold case of beer on the back of the bus. Once the attendant accomplished that task, Tkachuk would hand him a hundred-dollar bill.
Tkachuk was always buying dinners for our trainers and support staff. He demanded that rookies tip well. Woe upon any younger
player who didn’t take care of Keith’s guys.
“Our lives would be so much more difficult without these guys,” Keith would say.
There is no question that Tkachuk was the most caring teammate that I’ve ever known. When we were on the road, Tkachuk would meet people down on their luck, and he would check on their well-being when he came to town. In Alberta, Keith knew an old-time hockey guy named Red. When Tkachuk was in town, Red knew he had a job as our dressing-room attendant.
Current Toronto Maple Leafs coach Randy Carlyle introduced Big Walt to Red when Carlyle and Tkachuk played together in Winnipeg. Carlyle took care of Red back then, and Carlyle made Tkachuk promise he would take care of Red after Carlyle retired. Frankly, Red was a mess, but one time Tkachuk took him on the team charter from Edmonton to Calgary. Tkachuk would park Red in front of our dressing room door and would tell everyone he would look after our stuff. After the game, he would ask every player for twenty dollars, and then he would kick in a couple of hundred dollars and give Red the entire wad of cash.
He had another guy in Vancouver that I called “Crazy, Wacko Joe,” and Big Walt followed the same plan with him. When Tkachuk was in town, he made sure they had a good meal and a high-paying job for one night. They always had money in their pockets when Tkachuk came to town.
“My parents always taught me to take care of people,” Tkachuk would say. “You should show respect for everyone in your life.”
No matter which city we were in, Tkachuk knew the guys who worked in the visitors’ dressing room.
While Tkachuk was busy tending his flock, I tried to do my best to take care of Tkachuk when he needed it. It bothered Big Walt to use his celebrity status to his benefit. He didn’t like to say, “I’m Keith Tkachuk, an NHL player, can you give me special consideration?” I had no such problem. When he needed a special hotel, airline or restaurant reservation at a trendy place, he would call me and I would make sure the red carpet was rolled out for him. The funny aspect of this story is that I would sometimes merely present myself as “Keith Tkachuk’s personal assistant” to accomplish what Tkachuk needed done. I’ve never told Big Walt that story because it would drive him bonkers to be perceived as having a personal assistant.
Tkachuk and I had many memorable times together, like the time that he and I and Tocchet planned to go to Las Vegas over the All-Star break. Our flight was scheduled for midnight, giving us time to make it unless our scheduled game that night went into overtime. Naturally, the game did go to the extra period, threatening our travel plans. Plus, the game had too many stoppages. We were pressed for time. Big Walt was livid on the bench. Within the first minute of overtime, he scored the game-winner on an exceptional individual effort. Thanks to a police escort that I arranged, we arrived at the airport in time to make the flight.
It was Tkachuk who stuck me with the nickname of Styles because of my interest in expensive clothes, fine cars and trendy restaurants or nightspots. He gave me the name, and I embraced it. Then he had the audacity to harass me daily when I purchased Arizona vanity licence plates with the word STYLES on them.
One issue that Keith and I did disagree on was coach Jim Schoenfeld. Keith considers him one of his favourite NHL coaches, but Schoenfeld and I didn’t see eye to eye. I liked Schoeny as a person, but we clashed in our coach–player relationship.
My experiences with coaches in my five years in Phoenix ranged from terrible to exceptional. My first Phoenix coach was Don Hay, and he is the only coach I ever played for that I didn’t respect. He had gone from junior hockey to assistant coach in Calgary to head coach in Phoenix, and as far as I could tell, he didn’t have the tools or the confidence for that leap. As I’ve stated, I prefer tough, straight-shooting coaches, and Hay was neither. He avoided making decisions. While he was telling us what to do, he would look to the team leaders to see how his words were playing with them.
Members of the Phoenix organization told me that Hay wanted to trade me for a couple of “hard-working Canadians.” However, he never had the courage to tell me that to my face. He talked behind my back, which is always a coward’s route. Considering how much my mouth has gotten me in trouble, I think people around the hockey world know that I will tell you to your face how I really feel.
My third coach in Phoenix was Bob Francis, and I loved playing for him. He was a fiery guy whose style reminds me of the New York Rangers’ John Tortorella. He was an energetic person, and his energy trickled down to the team.
During my NHL career, several coaches probably wanted to take a swing at me, but Schoenfeld was the only one who came close.
Schoenfeld was my second coach in Phoenix, and he is a big, likeable man whose greatest claim to fame as an NHL coach is hurling the now-famous insult “Have another doughnut” at referee Don Koharski during the 1988 Wales Conference final. Schoenfeld, who was then coaching New Jersey, confronted Koharski after the Devils had lost 6–1 to the Boston Bruins. Schoeny, as he was known to everyone, didn’t like a penalty call Koharski made late in the third period that left the Devils a man short for four minutes. In the runway, Schoenfeld began yelling at Koharski, and he seemed to stumble. Koharski immediately accused Schoenfeld of pushing him. Koharski yelled, “You’ll never coach another game in this league.”
“You’re crazy, you fell, you fat pig, have another doughnut,” Schoenfeld screamed.
The whole scene is available for viewing on YouTube.
I tell you this story to explain that Schoeny could get worked up. He was a passionate coach, full of energy. We didn’t always see the game the same way. I couldn’t say whether he did or didn’t like me, but I would probably guess I wasn’t one of his favourites. He liked to dig at me, and he seemed to find fault with me too often for my taste. But I didn’t see it going the way it did.
That season, I was playing with Dallas Drake and Greg Adams. We played pretty well as a line, particularly defensively. One night, we were matched up against Eric Lindros’s line in Philadelphia and we shut them down. Then we had a string of seven or eight strong defensive games. And the big thing was, the team was winning. Then a story appeared in the newspaper suggesting I might win the Selke Trophy for best defensive forward. And then other writers saw that story and wrote their own versions.
A local newspaper also did a story on my candidacy, and Schoenfeld was even quoted as confirming that I would probably be a candidate if I continued to play well.
The guys started needling me in the dressing room by calling me “Frank Selke.” It was good fun to a point, as long as everyone realized that I viewed myself as more of a goal scorer than a defensive zealot. My attitude was that I didn’t want, or need, to be a Selke Trophy candidate. No hockey player sits around saying, “I want to win the Selke or Lady Byng Trophy.” You want to score the goals that win the hockey games.
Then my luck changed and I had a couple of bad games. In one of the losses, I made a brain-dead play and allowed my guy to score. The next day, we were watching the game film in the dressing room, and my poor decision-making was on display for all to see. Schoeny rewound the play and showed it again. I was shaking my head in an affirmative manner—Yep. I get it. I screwed that up, and I can’t let that happen again. Every athlete goes through the indignity of being called out for a poor play.
But my acknowledgement of guilt wasn’t enough for Schoeny. He rewound it again and replayed the moment. And then again. Now it was becoming embarrassing for me and every player in the room. Watching myself make the same mistake over and over, my patience reached its limit. Schoeny played it one last time and said, “And J.R., if I hear any more of this Selke Trophy bullshit, I’m going to sit you on the bench. Do you understand me?”
That sent me over the edge. “Schoeny, you can go shove a fist up your ass,” I screamed. “You are the one who started the Selke bullshit.”
“Excuse me?” he says.
“You heard me. Go shove a fist up your ass,” I said
Schoeny got up and told everyone to leave
the room.
“What’s with you?” he asked.
I looked at him and said: “I’m not one of your young kids that you can embarrass in front of my team. If you’re going to embarrass me, then I’m going to embarrass you.”
As everyone filed out of the room, he was kicking off his flip-flops, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves as if we were going to brawl right in the Coyotes’ dressing room.
I sat there, trying to act cool. But inside, I was nervous because Schoeny is strong as an ox. He would destroy me in a fight. My mind was racing at full speed, trying to come up with a scenario that didn’t finish with me lying bloodied on the floor.
And I swear that the only tactic that occurred to me was to bite him in the balls. I swear it’s true. That was my battle plan. And I intended to keep biting him. I always laugh at that memory. But I was quite serious when I developed that plan.
Later, the players told me they were all listening on the other side of the door because they believed they would have to come in and break up the fight before Schoeny killed me. Tkachuk told me later that he asked Phoenix assistant coach John Tortorella to stand by the door in case my life needed saving. “I would like Jim Schoenfeld’s chances in that fight,” he said.
About the time we were reaching the point of no return, I embraced the idea of trying to talk my way out of trouble. It wasn’t the first time I had embraced that strategy.
“If you don’t want me on your team, just say the word, and I will go tell Bobby Smith or [owner] Richard Burke that I don’t want to play for you anymore,” I said. “They can decide whether it’s you or me who goes.”
I could sense Schoenfeld starting to realize that kicking my rear end wasn’t going to be in his best interest. Whether I deserved the beating or not, it wasn’t going to look good for him in the newspapers. I wanted to drive home that point.
“We don’t have to have a peaceful coexistence,” I said. “I can ask for a trade today.”
J.R.: My Life as the Most Outspoken, Fearless, and Hard-Hitting Man in Hockey Page 10
