by James Duthie
How did it feel? Pretty freakin' fantastic, would be my educated guess.
“How'd you do it, Tom?”
We'd all memorized this part long ago. He was a draft afterthought, a sixth rounder who, if he made the roster at all, would likely stand on the sidelines in an embarrassingly clean uniform, wearing a ball cap for the next five years. But he worked his way up from 4th string, and then suddenly, 1st string was in the hospital with a collapsed lung.
Opportunity knocked, and Tommy Boy bust down the door. Brady never bothered to try to figure out how to do it. Too complicated. He just did it.
“Weren't you nervous, Tom?”
About as much as Tiger in a two-dollar Nassau. In those final few pre-game minutes in the locker room, somewhere between Paul McCartney and Mariah Carey, while some players vomited, and others head-butted, Brady napped.
“What's next, Tom?”
Well, let's see. An all-night party, followed by an 8:30 a.m. MVP news conference, followed by a jet to Disney World, followed by a parade with Mickey, followed by a flight to Boston, followed by a parade with the Patriots, followed by a flight to Hawaii, followed by a Pro Bowl practice.
And that was just the first 48 hours. Over the next few months, Brady would:
Turn down Tara Reid (who needs a slice of American Pie, when you can have the whole thing?).
Pose for the cover of SI shirtless (and take a ribbing about it for the next four months and counting).
Get on the Donald Trump jet and fly to Miss USA 2002 where apparently every contestant's mother would beg him to date her daughter.
Hang with Hef and the girls at the Playboy Mansion.
Break up with his girlfriend (no official confirmation of the connection between this and the preceding two events, but you figure it out).
Sign a bunch of endorsement deals (including Dunkin' Donuts, which should really get the O-line jealous).
Spawn about a million Brady-worshipping websites featuring proclamations like the following from “absolutebrady.com”
“. . . I finally believe again, the whole fairytale story and it has a lot to do with a man named Brady. . . Tom is the modern version of the knight in shining armor, the prince charming of the 21st century. He brought back what was once thought to be extinct.”
Ah, Tom. I think she might like you.
So, basically, his summer was one long Nelly video. And this from a guy who couldn't get into a fitness club last year because they didn't believe he was really an NFL player.
“Will this change you, Tom?”
“Oh yeah, he's changed all right,” says Patriots fullback Marc Edwards, the morning after the champs' opening night destruction of the Steelers.
“His wallet's a lot thicker. Oh, and he's a little more confident, not that it was a problem before. But besides that, he's exactly the same guy.”
• • •
I try to answer these questions now, seven months later, because I never got to ask them that Super Sunday in Louisiana.
As Brady turned to come towards me, the giant mosh pit of PR people and press and posse swept him up and carried him right on by. The new American Idol glanced back over his shoulder and gave me a smile and a “Sorry, it's out of my hands” shrug as the horde whisked him into the tunnel, and on to a new life that neither he, nor we, could possibly imagine.
• • •
Postscript: Whatever he did imagine back then, reality probably surpassed it. In the nine years since this column was written, Brady has added two more Super Bowl rings, married supermodel Gisele Bundchen, made more than $100 million in salary and endorsements, and become one of the greatest quarterbacks in football history.
Chapter 31
The Real Hockeytown
December 2003
Peter and Markus meet me at the airport.
How cool is that? Two steps off the plane and there they are! The two best players in the world last year, waving and smiling like I was their homey. (How do you say homey in Swedish? These things keep me up at night.) Makes a guy feel special to get that kind of greeting.
By the way, they are cardboard.
The real Forsberg and Naslund left their hometown weeks ago. Back to North America to start chasing Stanleys and Harts. So their life-size cardboard cut-outs are left to greet every visitor (and trust me, there aren't many) who lands at the tiny strip of concrete passed off as an airport. (You know an airport is small when the pilot, the baggage handler, and the rent-a-car dude, are the same guy.)
Welcome to Ornskoldsvik, Sweden, where they make pulp and paper, and hockey players. If Detroit is Hockeytown USA, then O-vik (please don't make me type the whole thing again) is Hockeytown, EARTH. No place on the planet produces more NHLers per capita than this little port on the Baltic Sea, 500 kilometres north of Stockholm.
Ladies and gentlemen, introducing your O-vik starting lineup: Forsberg, Naslund, Henrik Sedin, Daniel Sedin, Niklas Sundstrom, Sammy Pahlsson, Mattias Timander, Hans Jonsson, Anders Ericksson, Andreas Salomonsson, Per Svartvadet.
OK, so they aren't all Hart Trophy candidates, but that's 11 guys who played in The Show last year from a town smaller than Moose Jaw.
In O-vik, either you are, you are related to, your Dad coached, your sister dated, or the guy who gave you a wedgie back in Grade 6 is, an NHL player. I tried to play Six Degrees of Marcus Naslund with the locals, and never got beyond one.
“Marcus? I used to cut his hair!”
“I delivered his paper!”
“I had his love-child!”
(Coming from a drunken elderly man at the local pub, I suspect the latter may not have been accurate.)
This whole town has a Hockey Mojo. Or make that Modo. That's O-vik's professional club, the one that graduated Naslund, Forsberg, the Sedins and the rest to the NHL.
But it's more than the team. It's the system. Kids can join Modo at six. They get top-level training all the way up, and the best of them will get to attend. . . get this. . . Hockey High School.
Hockey High School??? Do detentions last two or five minutes depending on the severity of the offense?
I tag along with Oscar Hedman, one of the best 17-year-old defencemen in Sweden as he heads to class: math, then computers, then. . . well. . . hockey. First to the rink for 90 minutes of practice, then another half-hour in the weight room, all during school hours. He'll be graded just like every other class.
“Hey, Oscar, how'd you do on your penalty-killing mid-term?”
O-vik's HHS is one of only two in Sweden, and another reason the town is an NHL breeding ground.
But it's more than that. Heck, it has to be! Two Hart finalists?!? Six first-rounders?!? In O-vik, babies aren't just born with a stick in their hands, they cut the cord with a wicked backhand. The first phone number a teenage boy gets is an agent's. Even the grandmas have mullets. Must be the water.
“No, the food!” shouts Danno Sternad, as he shows me around his Italian restaurant, Momma Mia's (which I believe is one of only 18 million Italian restaurants in the world named Momma Mia's. Whoever Momma Mia is, I hope she gets a cut).
Danno's place doubles as a shrine to O-vik hockey. His walls are lined with autographed jerseys from all the hometown heroes, most of whom still drop by every couple of weeks in the off-season.
“I even make a special dish for them, Hockey Pasta!” he yells gleefully.
For the record, it's gnocchi mixed with veggies, ox meat and Gorgonzola cheese. And it works! I wolfed down a plate, and on the way home, deked out a lady with a baby carriage and hip-checked a guy with a cane.
Yes in O-vik, you are literally fed hockey. And they eat it up.
And just wait 'til next year! If the NHL shuts down, they are all talking about playing for Modo. Forsberg, Naslund, the Sedins. All of them.
So lockout or not, there will be NHL hockey to watch next year. It'll just be a helluva commute.
• • •
Postscript: That teenager I followed around in O-vik, Oscar Hedma
n, has turned into a very good professional player in Sweden. When I was there, he kept saying, “You should see my little brother play.” That little brother turned out to be Victor Hedman, the second overall pick in the 2009 NHL Draft, and possible future Norris Trophy winner for the Tampa Bay Lightning.
Chapter 32
No Shame in a Strange Name
March 2000
Sports fans beware. A dangerous precedent has been set which could severely hamper our enjoyment of the games we love. The disturbing news comes out of Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where the National Electoral Tribunal is attempting to. . . brace yourself. . . ban wacky names!
Who in the Stubby Clapp do they think they are?!? Who died and made them God Shammgod?!?
Apparently, the Hondurans are worried about an outbreak of “extravagant or offensive” names being registered of late. They cite examples like Bujia (Spark Plug) and Llanta de Milagro (Miracle Tire).
“Look at the little fella, honey! He looks just like the front-left rubber on my '73 Pinto! I shall call him Miracle Tire.”
Sure his parents have issues, but the Honduran government need not worry about little Miracle Tire. He'll be fine, probably score a six-figure Goodyear endorsement deal by the time he's three.
Kids with funny names might get teased a little on the playground, might take a couple of extra shots to the head in dodgeball, but when they grow up and play college or pro, they make us giggle like Tickle Me Elmo.
Good names create good characters at a time when good characters (and good character for that matter) are hard to come by.
Would this really be a free world without World B. Free? An original name can put an ordinary athlete on the (Scientific) Mapp (basketball). Even if a name sounds Ickey (Woods, football), it's still Cool (Papa Bell, baseball) and (Xree) Hipp (basketball).
There are names for the Beavis and Butthead crowd: Dick Trickle (auto racing), Woodie Held (baseball), Harry Colon (football).
“Heh, heh. You said colon. Heh, heh.”
There are names that just belong together: “Fair Hooker (football), meet Bimbo Coles (baseball).”
There are names where you better be good: Fabulous Flournoy (basketball), Peerless Price (football), Majestic Mapp (brother of Scientific, also basketball). Wonderful Monds (football) and son Wonderful Terrific Monds (baseball). And there are names where you're good in spite of yourself: Gene Krapp (baseball), Pooh Richardson (basketball), Eddie Stanky (baseball).
The best names are the ones that just roll off the (Reggie) Tongue (football). Repeat after me: Ford Frick (baseball). Hakan Loob (hockey). Minnie Minoso (baseball). Baskerville Holmes (basketball). Kwaku Boateng (high jumper). Pardee Abadee (basketball). Carlester Crumpler (football). Guppy Troup (bowling).
It's fun for the whole family! You could make an all-name board game. Let's call Milton Bradley (baseball)!
Of course, originality isn't for everyone. Just ask George Foreman's sons: George, George, George, George and George. Must be confusing opening gifts on Christmas morning. Then again, he probably gives them all a grill anyway.
George is no less egomaniacal than Roger Clemens, who gave his four boys names starting with “K” (Kory, Koby, Kacy and Kody) in honor of all his strikeouts. After his two losses in the AL Division Series, perhaps Larry, Lenny, Leo and Ludwig would have been more appropriate.
I always wanted to name my first child after an athlete. So as we played the name-game last year awaiting the birth of our son, and my wife was pondering the Zacharys and Joshuas, I was after something with attitude. Maybe Latrell.
“Honey, the baby's choking the dog again!”
She wouldn't go for it.
“What about Mookie?” I pleaded. “No Mookie ever choked anybody. Everybody loves a Mookie!”
Didn't fly.
“Mookie is a name for a Muppet,” she said, “not a man.”
Sure, tell that to Mrs. Blaylock and Mrs. Wilson.
We did eventually settle on something, but it's not important. What is important is for all sports fans to stand up and quash this Honduran proposal before it spreads. It's a (Gus) Krock (baseball). They seem to have their (Ed) Head (baseball) stuck between their (Maurice) Cheeks (basketball).
Oops. Sorry. Gotta go. My baby is crying again. Cute little fella never shuts up.
“Coming, Keyshawn!”
• • •
Postscript: If I had to update this column, I'd probably change the last line to “Coming, Terrell!” By the way, the Hondurans were apparently ahead of their time in calling for a lame-name ban. In 2009, the Dominican Republic followed suit, after parents started naming their kids things like “Rambo Weed,” “Dear Pineapple,” and “Iloveyou Lover.” Whatever hap pened to “Steve”?
Chapter 33
The Jeter Meter
October 2001
No offense to John Malkovich, who is right up there with Christopher Walken and the guy who played Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs on my all-time favourite psycho list, but if you were to find a porthole into someone's brain, would there be anything better right now than “Being Derek Jeter”?
Methinks not. (Being Heidi Klum would be interesting, too, but in an entirely different context.)
It's male nature to fantasize about being someone else. We've all wished we were the superstar shortstop, or part of a dynasty, or rich beyond comprehension or dating Miss Universe. But heck, none of us are bold enough to dream of having all of that.
Jeter does.
He's got great glove, great bat, more rings than Liberace, a Monopoly-money contract (I believe he actually does own Park Place), a Rolodex full of supermodels and not a single felony arrest.
The King of New York. At 27.
Dang, I'm jealous.
For purely scientific purposes, let's compare Jeter's ridiculously charmed life to that of an average male Shmoe. Any volunteers?
Fine. I'll be your lab monkey.
Derek Jeter James Duthie
DJ: Gets 200 pieces of fan mail a day. JD: Gets 200 pieces of junk mail a day.
DJ: Dated Mariah Carey, walked out after four months. JD: Took date to Mariah Carey movie Glitter, walked out after 20 minutes.
DJ: Currently seeing Miss Universe Lara Dutta. JD: Once turned down by Miss Bud Light Daytona Beach.
DJ: Has four World Series rings JD: Still has Superfriends decoder ring from old Froot Loops box. Also considered getting eyebrow ring to try to look more “dangerous.” That's about it.
DJ: Presented with key to New York City by Mayor Giuliani. JD: Presented with key to neighbour's apartment to clean cat litter while she was away.
DJ: Has 10-year, $189-million contract. JD: Needs one more stamp on card to get free sub at Subway.
DJ: Makes cover of GQ in Gucci suit. JD: Still waiting for Le Chateau to bring back parachute pants.
DJ: Often called “five-tool player.” JD: Often called “tool.”
DJ: Made one of the great defensive plays of all time to help win 2001 American League Championship Series. JD: Bowled over chubby female catcher to score meaningless run in 1997 Coed Slo-pitch Softball Consolation Final. Made her cry.
Wow, I actually match up pretty well. But it's still clear why Jeter has earned his place as the new standard for male envy. Thus, we proudly introduce the Jeter Meter.
It's a simple scale, designed to help males rate the celebrities, sports or otherwise, who they dream of being. Since Jeter himself is the optimum target on the Jeter Meter, he would rate a 10. Other celebrities whose lives you envy get rated accordingly.
For example, on my Jeter Meter, Kobe Bryant is a solid 8. J-Lo's husband has come from nowhere to grab a 9. P. Diddy, on the other hand, has dropped to a 5. Felony gun charges have that effect. Dustin Diamond is a 2 (he would have been a 1, but in Saved by the Bell: The New Class, his vivid portrayal of Screech's slow descent into Hell was riveting).
Before you create your own Jeter Meter, there's one other detail I neglected to mention. Obviously, it's difficult to
make subjective rankings without a starting point. If Derek Jeter is the maximum (10) on our fantasy trading-places scale, there has to be a celebrity minimum (1).
I'm going with Carrot Top.
• • •
Postscript: When I wrote this column, Jeter had won three World Series titles in his first five big league seasons, and was four wins away from his fourth. The Yankees lost that year to Arizona, and didn't win another title until 2009. Jeter remains a ridiculously talented, classy, rich superstar. Last I heard of Carrot Top, he was headlining at the Luxor in Vegas, and had more plastic surgery than Joan Rivers, Burt Reynolds, and Pamela Anderson combined. The Jeter Meter is still very much intact.
Chapter 34
Remembering Wheels
February 2007
If you could watch one hockey player, past or present, play a game, who would it be? Gretzky at 21? Orr, with knees scar-free? The Rocket, at his angry, eyes-blazing best? Crosby, right now? I'm often asked that question. And I was never sure of the answer. Until now. It is none of the above.
If I could watch one player lace up the skates and play a game, I would choose a skinny left-winger from Guelph, Ontario.
A player who moved so fast, they called him Wheels.
A terrific hockey mind who, by the age of 10, had already patented his own move: carrying the puck swiftly into the opposing zone, then spinning around and sending it back to his point man, leading to countless chances for his team.
A leader, so popular in the room, a former coach says when he walked in for practice, there would be a chorus of “Sit here! Sit next to me!”
A coach's dream, always shining his shoes to make sure he looked proper when he arrived at the rink. And so obsessed with being on time, he wore a digital watch with a face big enough to dwarf his little arms.
