What no one seems to understand is that I believe Marleau is a special talent. He’s an amazing player, with great skating ability. I am in awe of how he can play the game, but I’m totally frustrated by the lack of desire he shows. I see him as a player who should dominate. He could be like Sidney Crosby or Steven Stamkos. Marleau frustrated me when I played with him because I wanted more from him. He was earning $6.9 million per season, and I just didn’t believe he brought the superstar effort that you would expect from that calibre of player.
I tried to tell him that that night, but I could tell 10 minutes into our conversation that I was wasting my time. He considered my arrival at his house as an intrusion. He listened to me, but he never did anything to change the way he was.
Probably, I will never understand Marleau. He will always boast good offensive numbers, but he could be so much more than numbers.
When Marleau lost his captaincy on August 17, 2009, it certainly wasn’t a surprise to those of us who played with him. No matter how big the game was, Marleau’s face was always the same. We just didn’t see any true passion from him. Win or lose, he was the same.
I wasn’t the first, nor will I be the last, analyst to call out Marleau. In 2008, Mike Milbury, now my NBC colleague, said Marleau did a “double flamingo” to get out of the way of a shot from Mike Modano in a playoff game against Dallas. If you are going to be a leader in the NHL, you have to block a shot and you have to show emotion. When I was playing for the Blackhawks in a game at St. Louis years ago, we gave up two goals in the last minute and I fucking snapped. I destroyed three electric fans with my hockey stick. The Blues made me pay a few hundred dollars for the fans. But it was worth every penny, because I sent a message to my teammates that playing that poorly in the final minutes was inexcusable. We never saw Marleau in one of those moments when I was in San Jose. What we got from him was the same temperament. It was like he was punching a time clock every day—punch in, punch out, like he had an ordinary job.
On the night that I ripped Marleau on Versus, I received calls from three Sharks players upset over Marleau’s lack of effort on that play.
“You obviously have not heard what I said about Marleau,” I said to them.
People ask me whether I have spoken to Marleau about my criticism. As of the writing of this book, I have not. Frankly, I don’t give a shit whether he likes me or not. There was a sign that Marleau didn’t like me before I blasted him on the air. After I retired, I came back for San Jose’s first game. After the game, Tracy and I were downstairs waiting for the guys to come out of the locker room. Marleau and his wife walked right past us without even acknowledging that we were there. But the bottom line is this: NBC doesn’t pay me to be polite. They pay me to analyze hockey games, and it’s part of my job to say on live television whether a player is performing well or not. When the game was on the line, Marleau was dreadful.
You can like Marleau because he’s a good father, or because he’s polite and soft-spoken. You can like him because he’s good-looking. I’m not analyzing those aspects of his life. But being good-looking doesn’t earn you a Stanley Cup championship.
During my playing career, I ran into some people who accepted mediocrity. That was okay for them; it’s not okay for me. One reason our society is messed up these days is the acceptance of mediocrity. We haven’t demanded greatness from ourselves.
NBC didn’t hire me to spoon-feed sugar-coated analysis to the viewers. I was hired to bring passion to the broadcast. Sometimes, my passion boils over into outrage or confrontation, like what happened on February 29, 2012, when fellow NBC analyst Mike Milbury and I became involved in a heated argument over Dallas forward Eric Nystrom’s hit on Pittsburgh defenceman Kris Letang. What viewers saw on television was the PG version of an R-rated argument that Milbury and I had had earlier that evening.
I wasn’t scheduled to be involved in the post-game coverage, but I was watching that game in the green room as I prepared for my time on the air later that night. I saw the hit and loved the hit live and on the replay. When I watched Milbury and Keith Jones analyze the hit during the intermission, I was stunned when they agreed it was a dirty hit and that Nystrom should be suspended.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I screamed at my television.
When they were off the air, I marched into the studio. “Mike, are you fucking nuts?” I asked. “Jonesy . . . What’s wrong with you? Are you going fucking soft on me? It was a great hit, a beautiful hit.”
Milbury told me to fuck off. “It was a brutal hit, a chickenshit hit,” Milbury said.
“You’re calling this a chickenshit hit, the same guy who went into the stands and beat a guy with a shoe?” I said.
In 1979, Milbury picked up the nickname “Mad Mike” Milbury after he climbed into the stands to help teammates Terry O’Reilly and Peter McNab, who were battling with fans at Madison Square Garden. In the heat of the battle, Milbury grabbed a fan’s leg and the fan’s shoe came off. Milbury then whacked the fan with the shoe before throwing it on the ice.
Now Mad Mike is going all Greenpeace on me because he believes Nystrom nicked Letang’s jaw. “Look at his head snap back,” Milbury yelled.
“Your head would snap back if I hit you in the chest, too,” I said.
“It’s a new game, J.R. This is exactly what we are trying to get rid of,” Milbury said.
“Fuck that,” I said.
Jones sat out the argument, but I dragged him in. “Why don’t you be controversial for one time in your fucking TV life?” I said.
“Get out of here. You’re fucking crazy,” Milbury said.
NBC producer Sam Flood immediately stepped into the studio and told me to get out of there. He then informed me that he wanted me on the post-game show to continue this debate.
Mike and I were slightly more professional on camera, meaning there were no F-bombs and I didn’t call him a “pussy,” as I had in our earlier argument. But our on-air battle was still intense. The news accounts of it said it looked like we almost came to blows. That wasn’t true, but the passion was genuine.
Milbury’s position was that Nystrom had tried to “decapitate” Letang rather than play the puck, and I said Letang had put himself in a vulnerable position. Jones tried to compare the hit to the big hit Raffi Torres of Vancouver had laid on Brent Seabrook of Chicago in the 2011 playoffs. He clearly thought it was a cheap shot.
“We should just take hitting out of the game,” I said sarcastically.
Milbury’s point was that the objective of the new rules “is to change the mindset” from not hurting players when they are in a vulnerable position. To me, if a player puts himself in a vulnerable position, that’s his fault and he may have to pay the consequences. I never expected the rules to protect me when I was on the ice. I learned to keep my head up.
When our debate was winding down, Milbury told me on live television to get out of the studio. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” he said.
My final shot was to say that I was going to order Milbury a Shirley Temple drink.
It was great television. Flood loved the passion and the give-and-take. He used social media to make sure everyone watched our confrontation. Television works best when two analysts have differing opinions, because fan opinions usually vary widely.
Personally, I had nothing against Letang. He is an excellent player. He plays at full speed all of the time. I admire the way he plays. But my analysis of the hit had nothing to do with how I felt about him. I never want to see a player get hurt. I identify with players—especially someone who suffers a concussion, because I had so many in my career. But hockey is a contact sport, and you accept some risk when you decide to play. By lowering his head in an effort to stretch for the puck, Letang made himself more vulnerable. I don’t believe Nystrom was targeting Letang’s head.
Obviously, Brendan Shanahan, the NHL’s director of player safety, agreed with me, because Nystrom was not suspended.
After I
defended the Nystrom hit, Pittsburgh fans came after me viciously on Twitter. As this book is being written, I have more than a hundred thousand Twitter followers, and I enjoy interacting with everyone. But I have to say that there is a small group of sick, twisted Pittsburgh fans whose priorities are seriously fucked up. The shit they say makes me believe that karma is going to fuck these people up someday, and I would like to be there to see it.
I appreciate people with passion, but there are lines that shouldn’t ever be crossed, and some people cross those lines with no remorse. They are pussies, cowards who hide behind the anonymity of a computer screen. I’m not going to say anything on Twitter, or on the television airwaves, that I wouldn’t say to your face. That’s who I am.
About the time the Letang situation was going on, I had flown to Minnesota with Tracy to visit Jack Jablonski, the high school player who was paralyzed by a hit from behind during a game. After reading the story about him, I felt like I wanted to do something to help. He followed me on Twitter, and I felt I wanted to meet him. If he wanted someone to listen, I could do that. If he wanted someone to tell stories to help take his mind off his medical issues for a few hours, I could do that. If he needed someone to help raise awareness for the cause of eliminating hits from behind, I could do that. If he needed help raising money for that cause, I could do that. It was an inspiring four-hour visit with a remarkable young man. We are still in touch today.
But even my tweet about Jablonski couldn’t be left alone by this small group of faceless idiot Pittsburgh fans on Twitter. Still mad over my comments about the Letang hit, some said they were glad Jablonski was paralyzed and hoped I would end up paralyzed as well.
Some of the most disgusting words I’ve ever seen in print came from Pittsburgh fans angry over my take on the Letang hit. There were a couple of comments from two college students from Villanova that made me think that I should go down there and snap photos of them, to expose them as the pussies they really are. Wouldn’t they just shit themselves if I showed up at their door with a camera? These kind of people try to stay faceless and anonymous, but it didn’t take me long to figure out what high school they attended.
Please note that I’m talking about a small group of Pittsburgh fans here. Mostly, I enjoy Twitter because it allows me to connect with fans. I’ve always enjoyed interacting with fans, although I don’t think some fans truly understand what I’m about.
When the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup in 2010, I teared up on the air as I talked about Chicago winning the championship for the first time since 1961. It was emotional for me to see Blackhawks carrying the Stanley Cup. I had worn the Chicago jersey proudly, and the Blackhawks’ triumph reminded me how my teammates and I had reached the Stanley Cup final in 1992, only to fall short against Pittsburgh.
I was happy for the city of Chicago, where I had always been treated well. I was happy for the Wirtz family. Although I’d had my differences with the late Mr. Wirtz over the contract, I still had a soft spot for him, and I was glad the Wirtz name was engraved on the Cup.
Those were the feelings I had. Based on how my Twitter account fucking blew up, you would have thought my emotions were satanic in origin. Philadelphia fans crucified me for being happy for the Blackhawks. The amount of hatred that came my way was staggering.
What people don’t seem to grasp is that I would have been equally teary-eyed had the Flyers won the Cup. I loved my time in Philadelphia. Fans in Philly appreciate gritty players. I was born to play for the Flyers.
Philly is a lunchpail-and-hardhat town. The Broad Street Bullies, who won back-to-back Stanley Cup championships in 1974 and 1975, are still worshipped like gods in Philadelphia. It’s been 37 years since Philadelphia has had a Stanley Cup parade, and fans deserve another one. I would have been just as thrilled to see players wearing the orange and black hoisting the Stanley Cup.
To be honest, every Stanley Cup on-ice celebration leaves me a little misty. Ever since I watched Eruzione celebrate with his American teammates on Lake Placid ice, I wanted to know the joy that he was feeling at that moment.
Some players don’t like to watch the Stanley Cup final after their team is eliminated, but I always made a point of watching the celebration because I wanted the mob scene on the ice to be another motivation for me.
I remember in 2001 I was at a nice restaurant, Cowboy Ciao’s in Scottsdale, Arizona, with some friends on the night of game seven of the Stanley Cup final between the Colorado Avalanche and the New Jersey Devils. That was the year the Avalanche rallied around 40-year-old Ray Bourque to win a Cup for him. The Colorado team had erased a 3–2 series lead to force a seventh game against the defending Stanley Cup champion Devils.
At that time, I was 31. I was beginning to wonder whether I would ever have another chance at winning the Stanley Cup. It had been nine years since I reached the final, and at that point, I had not won a playoff series in five years. It was important to me to see Bourque win his Stanley Cup. Unfortunately, I had plans that night, and Cowboy Ciao’s is not a big-screen-TV-style restaurant. The closest bar with televisions showing the game was Madison’s Restaurant and Bar, located four blocks away.
I was the only person in my party who had any interest in seeing the game. Three times, I excused myself from the table and hauled my ass down to check on Bourque’s progress. The timing of my last trip was perfect. I arrived at Madison’s not long before the Avalanche had completed a 3–1 triumph and Colorado captain Joe Sakic handed the Cup to Bourque, who had tears streaming down his cheeks.
As I stood in the bar and watched Bourque raise the Cup, I was just as emotional as I was on the air the night when the Blackhawks won in 2010.
Winning a Stanley Cup was the one goal I didn’t achieve in my NHL career. But it doesn’t keep me up at night. That statement will piss off my haters on Twitter because they love to give me shit about my lack of a championship. Pittsburgh fans seem to take particular delight in pointing that out.
“Sidney Crosby has a Cup, and you don’t,” they will write.
It makes me laugh, because I think they believe that reading those words will put me over the edge. It doesn’t, really. It was an awesome experience to wear an NHL uniform, to score 50 goals in a season, to be an All-Star, to hang out in the dressing room with the guys. It’s impossible to describe how close you become with your teammates. I had high moments and low moments in my career, but most of my low moments resulted from my mouth. I have nothing but fond memories about my results on the ice. I feel as if my career was a huge success.
I don’t believe the lack of a championship defines my career, because I know I put my heart and soul into accomplishing that goal. I just wasn’t in the right city at the right time. I believed my Philadelphia teams were good enough to win. In real terms, my best chance came in 1992, when the Blackhawks reached the Stanley Cup final. But history has shown that the Penguins team that beat us was much better than we realized.
However, the true missed opportunity may have come just one month after Bourque won his Stanley Cup, when I was an unrestricted free agent and chose to sign with Philadelphia over Detroit. I believed both teams had an excellent chance to win the championship. As I’ve said, while it was Rick Tocchet who finally convinced me to choose Philadelphia, a major factor in my decision was my belief that the Philadelphia area offered the best possibility for my wife, Tracy, and daughter, Brandi, to pursue their interest in competitive horse riding. For most of my career, I hadn’t paid enough attention to my family concerns; I had realized that I needed better balance in my life. I wanted to think more about my family.
What I didn’t know when I declined Detroit’s offer is that, 11 months later, the Red Wings would win the Stanley Cup championship.
I loved my time with the Flyers; playing in Philadelphia is one of the highlights of my career. But I often think about what might have been had I gone to Detroit.
Because it was the best decision for my family, it would be nice for me to tell you that I w
ould still make the same decision today if I had a do-over. But that wouldn’t do justice to how badly I wanted a championship ring.
The truth is that if I would have known Detroit would win a Stanley Cup in 2002, I would have said, “Fuck the horses.”
Acknowledgements
Book publishing is like hockey: it’s a team sport. This is my book, but creating it was a collaborative effort. Make no mistake about that. It’s funny that most of the same people who were major contributors in my hockey career also gave me a boost in my first literary endeavour. My player agent, Neil Abbott, along with my most important coach, Mike Keenan, and my great teammate Keith Tkachuk, provided considerable insight and stories for the book, as did long-time friends Matt Mallgrave, Justin Duberman and Darcy Walsh. I also have to thank my parents, Wally and Jo, as well as my brother, Trevor, for all the memories, many of which I recall in the first chapter.
Kevin Allen and I spent many hours talking about the book and Kevin spent many more hours than that crafting my story into the book you have in your hand. I thank him for his hard work and for listening to my many stories over the past 18 months. He truly made a difference in bringing this project together.
J.R.: My Life as the Most Outspoken, Fearless, and Hard-Hitting Man in Hockey Page 25
