Although other leagues have started to loosen up, the NHL remains conservative in terms of how it expects athletes to conduct their business. We still want our athletes to be careful on how we celebrate goals, and we still don’t appreciate athletes whose personality doesn’t fit into the sport’s definition of what is considered normal. Throughout my career, my antics always played to mixed reviews. Some of my teammates considered me a sideshow, while others understood that I believed we would play better if we had an entertaining, fun-filled work environment. Between the whistles, I always played with the intensity of a gladiator. But before the game, or after, I didn’t need to walk around with a scowl on my face to prove that I cared about winning.
The truth is that only one team wins the Stanley Cup, and the other 29 are left to come up with an answer for why they didn’t win. No one wants to say we weren’t deep enough, or we had bad luck, or our goaltending sucked, so the conclusion that is usually reached is that the team wasn’t on the same page, or they weren’t fully committed to winning.
That’s all bullshit. When my teams were winning, I was always considered entertaining, fun-loving and good for the game. When we were losing, I was considered a distraction or self-absorbed. When we were winning, I was selling the game by doing 10 or 12 radio interviews per week. When we were losing, I was self-promoting when I did those same interviews.
The truth is that I cared as much about winning as everyone else. I just didn’t believe that having a winning attitude meant you couldn’t have some non-hockey-related fun two hours before game time. If Wayne Gretzky had boogied to the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” two hours before every game in 1983–84, I’m reasonably fucking confident he still would have registered 205 points and helped the Edmonton Oilers win their first Stanley Cup. Maybe if he had purchased himself a disco ball, he might have put up 230 points that season.
But when I arrived in Philadelphia, the Flyers seemed like a team in need of levity. The Clarke–Lindros feud had stained the organization, and I saw it as my mission to be the stain remover on and off the ice. Lindros’s rights were traded the summer I arrived. My arrival seemed to signal a new beginning for the organization.
“Exactly the breath of fresh air we needed,” goalie Brian Boucher told Sports Illustrated during my first season in Philadelphia. “For years it seemed like everybody on this team was the same type of quiet, serious guy. Almost like we were robots, clones. Now J.R. comes in, the room’s loose, happy. We’re feeding off it.”
This was a quality group of teammates. John LeClair certainly makes my list of all-time favourite teammates, and Boucher is certainly among the funniest players I’ve known. He does a vocal impression of Dominik Hasek that is spot-on and priceless.
The Flyers started the 2001–02 NHL season with great promise, but it didn’t go the way any of us expected. From mid-December until the 2002 Olympic break, we went on an 18–5–2–1 run to claim first place in the Eastern Conference, but then we won only nine of our last 26 games and were ousted by the Ottawa Senators in the first round of the playoffs. We only scored two goals in those five games.
During the season, Barber’s wife, Jenny, passed away after battling lung cancer. He kept working through the illness, never missing a game. None of that mattered when the season was over and we were cast as an underachieving team. Our late-season collapse cost Barber his job.
Barber had played for legendary Flyers coach Fred Shero, who apparently didn’t believe in regularly practising five-on-four play. Billy took that approach with us, and our power play struggled all season.
“We had the worst power play in the league—why are we not practising it?” our captain Keith Primeau said about Barber. “All season long, we said if someone makes a mistake, they’re getting yelled at. We say when we come to the bench, make that adjustment. He wants the player to make the adjustment. Our job is to play.”
Personally, I felt bad that Billy was fired because we didn’t play well. I was disappointed, even though most of the players were happy he was gone. Barber was the kind of coach I was used to dealing with. His style didn’t bother me.
Hitchcock was hired on May 15, 2002. He was the only person the Flyers interviewed for the job, because they were worried he would end up with the New York Rangers. My two seasons with Hitchcock were what you would expect if you were to place a rigid conformist in charge of a rebel with a cause—the cause being to have a good time while trying to win a Stanley Cup.
My time with Hitchcock wasn’t nearly as contentious as the media made it out to be, but we had our challenging moments. In October of 2003, we met for over an hour to hammer out the difference of opinion we had about how I should be playing. The headline in the next day’s Philadelphia Inquirer was “Roenick and Hitchcock giving peace a chance.”
Afterward, I told the media that Hitchcock and I “were at each other’s throats,” but I actually came away feeling like it was a positive meeting. Hitchcock always seemed to like the energy I brought to the ice, but he just wanted more out of me in terms of being a leader and setting an example by being the best at playing his system. He was always preaching that I could become a “great player” if I would simply follow his program. Whenever Hitchcock needed to criticize a player to get a point across to the team, I was his favourite target.
His methods were not always to my liking, but I always believed he knew what he was doing. He just wanted me to be all that I could be. All that I wanted from him was to loosen up a bit. I was always poking at him verbally in the hope that he might lose it one day in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Never happened. The best I could get out of him was a shake of his head or a roll of his eyes. Pulled jokes on him regularly, too, like filling up his shoes with shaving cream, and other such nonsense. None of it worked.
It was as if Hitchcock was addicted to winning, and when he wasn’t winning he was cranky, grumpy. He could be unbearable. In January 2004, we were playing poorly, and then we lost a 3–0 game to the Edmonton Oilers and Hitchcock called us out in the media. We were a good team, and when we didn’t play well, I didn’t mind Hitchcock slapping us around. Mike Keenan would have done the same thing if he was coaching a team that played as poorly as we’d played against Edmonton.
When I was asked about it, I said about Hitchcock: “He’s a son of a bitch right now. He’s no fun right now. He’s a pain in the ass. But anybody in their right mind who is coaching a team that is sputtering like we are right now would be a pain in the ass.’’
I said Hitchcock was treating us like dogs because we were playing like dogs.
12. The Gambler
It’s fair to say that coaches didn’t like it very much when I was gambling in the offensive zone, and general managers didn’t like it very much when I was gambling in casinos.
Although I never found myself in any legal trouble through gambling, my life was put under a microscope twice because I liked to bet on NFL and NBA games.
My gambling problem probably was most out of control when I was playing in Philadelphia. When I got a new deal worth an average of $7.5 million per year, I purchased a new $150,000 Porsche. But what the deal really meant to me was that I could bet more money. My $500 bets became $2,000 wagers, and I was betting on more games.
The most distressing gambling situation I had involved my relationship with Rick Tocchet, who was then an assistant coach in Phoenix. In 2005–06, when I was playing for the Los Angeles Kings, the story broke that he was being investigated by the New Jersey state police for financing a sports gambling operation. That was a difficult time, because I’ve said for many years that Tocchet was among the best teammates I’ve ever had. He epitomized what a good NHL player should be about. He had leadership, grit, tenacity and skill. He knew when to open his mouth and when to keep it shut. Tocchet always stood up for his teammates, and he was very proud to be an NHL player.
The investigation involved some betting I had done when I was playing with the Flyers. Initially, I assumed the investig
ation was misguided; my impression was that Tocchet was simply placing bets, just like I was. Knowing I like to bet on sporting events, Tocchet had hooked me up with a way to lay bets over the phone. I liked to bet on football games, and I would regularly bet a thousand dollars or so on three or four games a week. Occasionally, I would bet on some college and NBA basketball, but I preferred to bet on the NFL. Tocchet introduced me to New Jersey state trooper James Harney. He was the betting connection, as far as I knew. There was another man involved, named James Ulmer, whom I didn’t know. But the state police painted a different picture. The media reported that Tocchet had to answer charges of promoting gambling, money laundering and conspiracy. They called it a New Jersey–based betting ring and said their investigation showed that at least a thousand people had placed bets, worth a total of more than $1.7 million, on professional and college sports. State police colonel Rick Fuentes called it a “highly organized sport betting system.”
The press reported there were six active NHL players who had placed bets with the New Jersey ring, but none had bet on hockey. I was certainly happy to see that fact reported.
Never was I worried that I would be in any trouble, because I knew that placing a bet was not a criminal act. I had checked that out before I ever started betting. As long as you report your earnings to the U.S. Internal Revenue Service, you are not committing an illegal act. I have always been very aware of the legalities of gambling, and very confident of the fact that I was staying legal and following all of the NHL rules.
The other fact I want to make clear is that I never bet on hockey games. I loved the sport too much. To make it clearer, I would have cut off one of my testicles before I would bet on an NHL game.
When I was being deposed in the investigation of Tocchet, they asked me how I felt when I learned that Tocchet was the money man behind the gambling operation. I told my interviewer that I didn’t believe that he was. Then the interviewer informed me that law enforcement officials had tapped Tocchet’s phone and had me listen to several tapes that made it clear that Tocchet was more involved than I knew. I was surprised, to say the least, but it wasn’t as if that revelation made me believe that Tocchet was evil.
“Now, how do you feel now that you know Tocchet was involved?” the interviewer asked me
“To tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit,” I said. “Tocchet is my buddy, my friend.”
I tried to stand by Tocchet the best I could, given the circumstances. I was that blunt about it. I told the interviewer that I would rather give my money to a friend than someone I didn’t know. I’m not condoning what Tocchet did. I’m not advocating that what Tocchet did is acceptable behaviour. All I was saying was that if I was going to lose a bet, I would rather the fucking money end up with Tocchet. And I tried to make it clear that Tocchet was a good man who had apparently made a bad mistake.
Tocchet essentially served a two-year suspension from the NHL and did not return to the Phoenix bench until 2008. He eventually ended up as Tampa’s head coach, although today he is out of the coaching ranks. I still consider him a close friend. I know I’m sorry those events ever happened, and Tocchet is, too.
After the New Jersey investigation, the NHL completed its own investigation and was satisfied that no one involved in the hockey world ever bet on NHL games.
Before all of this happened, I had quit betting for a period of time because Flyers general manager Bob Clarke had asked me to stop. In January 2004, Clarke had confronted me and a couple of other players after hearing gossip around the dressing room that some of us liked to place bets. Clarke asked me to quit because he felt it could be a distraction. At the time, the Flyers weren’t playing very well. And when a pro sports team isn’t playing well, all outside activities are scrutinized. If the team loses a big game, and someone overhears you talking about some extracurricular activity, then you’re called in because you aren’t focused solely on the team. It didn’t have to be my betting. It could have been someone’s golf or girlfriend or hanging out with the wrong people. If the team isn’t playing well, you can certainly count on everyone’s leisure activities being called into question.
I was confident that I didn’t have a problem, but I stopped for a short period of time because I respected Clarke and the Flyers organization. Even when I started up again, I scaled back, deciding not to lay any bets on days when I had a game.
As it turned out, my gambling history was revealed that summer, after law enforcement officers raided Florida-based National Sports Consultants, a gambling ring that also sold betting tips. My name was listed among the company’s clients, and officials said I had spent more than $100,000 for tips on how to bet. Truthfully, I only spent a fraction of that amount. Basically, the way it worked was I would pay about $2,000 for the company’s “experts” to give me tips on games I was betting. What I quickly discovered was that I was an idiot for believing what these assholes told me, because they would recommend that half of their clients bet on one team and their remaining clients bet on the opposing team. The idea was that at least half of their clients would be happy and come back for more tips. Depending upon how lucky the handicappers were, it could take a while before some bettors figured out that the “touts” didn’t know any more than they did. The touts were scam artists.
When the story came out in the newspapers, I admitted that I had bet between $50,000 and $100,000. Even though my name was mentioned, law enforcement officials admitted that I had done nothing illegal and that I had never bet on hockey.
When my name came out, I called and apologized to Clarke, assuring him that my association with the company had come before I quit betting at his request. Some of the touts said I was using their service right up until they were raided that spring, but that was not true.
Clarke asked me if I thought it would be better if he traded me. I told him that I wanted to stay with the team.
It’s hard to understand how I fucking let myself dive so deep in the gambling culture. My sports psychologist, Gary Mack, had died of a heart problem in 2002. At the time, I thought I had my life back on course. But clearly, I was mistaken.
The tougher conversation was with my wife. We had worked through our issues with Mack, and we had started to communicate more. We were doing better as a family, but I had slipped back into old habits. When I told her that a newspaper story was coming out that was going to say I had paid for handicappers’ advice on betting, she called me a “fucking idiot.”
“You are an asshole for dragging us into this story,” she said.
I didn’t disagree.
Although I admit to having had a serious gambling problem during my days in Philadelphia, I never sought professional help other than the time spent with the late Gary Mack. Today, I still gamble, but not at the same levels I did years ago. Since I don’t make the big money anymore, I don’t bet big money.
13. Born in the USA
In the 1980s, when most boys in Canada wanted to be Wayne Gretzky when they grew up, I wanted to be Mike Eruzione.
When Eruzione beat Soviet goalkeeper Vladimir Myshkin with his wrist shot on February 22, 1980, he changed his life and mine. As I watched the television broadcast of the Americans celebrating their amazing Olympic triumph on Lake Placid ice, I knew at that moment I wanted to be a hockey player. I wanted to experience the exhilaration and overwhelming joy that the Americans knew as they hugged each other on the ice after recording what has been called the greatest upset in sports history.
As I watched the mob scene on the ice, I was wearing my Richfield (Connecticut) Bruins jersey. I was standing in teammate Matt Heisen’s living room. We had a game scheduled that night, and our equipment went on in front of the television. Our eyes were glued to the screen until we realized that we were in danger of missing our opening faceoff.
The funny aspect of this story is that when we arrived at the arena, it looked like a vacant warehouse. No cars. No people. But right after our car squealed into the parking lot, there was a parade of
vehicles pulling in behind us. Everyone had stayed home to watch the American win. The start of our game was delayed, mostly because everyone was talking about what the Americans had done.
Today, watching Stanley Cup celebrations is probably one of the primary motivators for American children becoming involved in hockey. But if you ask any American player in my generation, the inspiration of their career was that American win over the Soviets. Mike Modano. Keith Tkachuk. Brian Leetch. Bill Guerin. Tony Amonte. All of America’s great players in the 1990s were descendents of that one victory over the Soviets. The American triumph over Canada in the 1996 World Cup came from the seeds of inspiration that were planted on Lake Placid ice. When my American generation started thinking about a career in hockey, it started with the desire to wear a USA jersey, not to win the Stanley Cup.
One of the accomplishments that I’m proudest of is being a member of the generation that made the USA a world power in hockey. When I was growing up, the Americans went to international tournaments hoping to be competitive. When my generation arrived in power, we didn’t hope to win; we expected to win. In the 1990s, the Americans had Pat LaFontaine, Doug Weight, Modano and me at centre ice. That’s plenty of fucking firepower down the middle. Then, on the wing, we had toughness in Tkachuk and Guerin, plus Amonte, who could fucking fly up ice like an F-15 fighter jet. On defence, we had Brian Leetch, who had matured into a dominant puck mover, and Chris Chelios, who played every game like he was engaged in mortal combat.
One of the major changes in American hockey post–Lake Placid was that the sport started to attract better athletes, and we started to seek better competition, and that was usually found in Canada. By the time my generation arrived in the NHL, we were not in awe of our Canadian rivals. We respected the Canadians, but we did not fear them. We did not view them as invincible.
J.R.: My Life as the Most Outspoken, Fearless, and Hard-Hitting Man in Hockey Page 14
