by James Duthie
Now, look over here behind my house. This is where the younger kids hang. Hey! There's my next-door neighbour, Cameron. He plays Atom AA and can Al MacInnis a tennis ball top shelf. He almost Van Goghed my ear last spring. And those are the twins, Reid and Connor. Don't ask me which is which, but they're both relentless on the forecheck. Oh, and the kid playing with my son is Calvin, the prodigy. I never saw Sidney Crosby at four, but I reckon he was a lot like Calvin. Can you be considered a legitimate prospect when you still wear Gymboree?
You see, our back lane is street-hockey heaven. It's a new development, so the pavement is fresh and there's almost no traffic. You could play three hours without yelling “Car!” once. We had one game last year with 14 kids, all in different NHL jerseys. It was like a freakin' Starter ad.
But here's the thing, Bob and Gary. Look at what they're doing now! They're playing basketball. And they're skateboarding. And they're. . . dismembering their sister's Dora the Explorer doll with a golf club. . . “HEY, CUT THAT OUT!” (Sorry, my boy has issues.)
Point is, there's not a stick in sight. I haven't seen one all spring.
“Hmm, I think we played once,” Chris Hilliard says after careful thought. “I think.”
“We're just not into it,” adds brother Mark. “When there's no playoffs on TV, you just don't feel like playing. So we shoot hoops. Or play poker” (which is a whole other column).
I try to go all Mike Wallace on Cameron, the eight-year-old next door, as he launches brick after gleeful brick at the basket above his garage.
“C'mon, Cam, you love hockey? Why don't I ever see you play out here anymore?”
“Don't feel like it,” he offers.
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
And so his net sits leaned up against his back fence. In the exact spot we left it last fall. I think there's a nest in it.
Strange, isn't it, Gary and Bob? Sure, minor hockey did just fine this year without the NHL. It always will. But now that the seasons are over, now that the schedules have been ripped off the fridge, now that they have a choice what to do after school and on Saturday afternoon, they are leaving the sticks in the garage.
My boy, for one, doesn't get it. He's way too young to understand this lockout concept. I tried to explain it once and he responded (quoting word for word): “Can't somebody just give them a key?”
I don't even know if he realizes there wasn't a season. Still, from time to time, he asks me, “Why doesn't anyone want to play street hockey anymore?”
Maybe you'd like to answer him, Gary and Bob.
(Pause)
Didn't think so. Anyway, good luck with your meetings. Please, drop by anytime.
We'll shoot some hoops.
• • •
Postscript: The lockout ended two months later. Bob Goodenow stepped down soon after. The kids in my neighbourhood started playing street hockey again the next fall when the NHL came back, but never to the extent they did before. Give a child an excuse to find something else to do, and they will. I'm not sure Bob or Gary ever got that part.
Chapter 46
Half Goaltender, Half Zoolander
March 2007
I am standing in Ray Emery's closet, trying to figure out which of the dozen or so ridiculously expensive designer sunglasses he has spread meticulously across a shelf go best with the $4,000 suit he is letting me try on. (For the record, I usually buy my sunglasses at gas stations, and I wouldn't buy a $4,000 suit if it came with superpowers, so this is all a little foreign to me.)
It is a Senators' off-day long before Emery became one of THE stories of 2007 playoffs, both for his terrific play on the ice and for his poor alarm-clock-management and driving issues off it.
As he gives me a crash-course on his favourite colours and designers, I'm starting to feel like that fashion critic freak Cojo on Entertainment Tonight. (Editorial Note: Cojo is not to be confused with Cujo. Hmm. I wonder if that's ever happened? You know, some kid asks for an autographed Cujo jersey for Christmas, and his Mom gets confused and he ends up with a pink frilly man-blouse signed “Stay fabulous darling, luv, and wet kisses, Cojo.” That could scar a kid for life.)
Emery is sick with a cold, and clearly dying to go to bed. He goes on at length about his love for the afternoon nap (which became abundantly clear last week when he slept in and missed his flight). Still, he patiently shows off every item in his wild wardrobe.
It features a rainbow of suits, some 50 pairs of shoes (including a pair of blue and yellow runners he calls his “Alfies”), a dozen watches (he should really set the alarm on every one), a club-hopping shirt for every day of the. . . century, and bling up the ying-ying. (I have no idea what that last part means, but it is extremely enjoyable to say aloud.)
“I used to live with him and I'd have to sleep on the couch because his clothes took up the entire other room,” laughs Jason Spezza.
“He takes about three suitcases for a one-game road trip,” adds road roommate Mike Comrie. “One time, he pulled this zebra blanket out of his suitcase. I didn't even want to ask what that was for.”
C'mon, Mike. You were in the desert too long. Who doesn't accessorize with a zebra blanket these days? Brown is the new black, and zebra blanket is the new. . . uhh. . . scarf? Sweater? Gonch?
Emery does not know, nor care, whether his duds are cutting-edge fashion. He tells me over and over that he just wants “to be different.”
Mission accomplished. His game-day arena arrivals have become the stuff of Sens legend. From the baby-blue suit and matching shoes (“Right out of the seventies” – Chris Kelly), to the black-and-white wide-pinstriped number (“My personal favourite. . . the Jailbird” – Wade Redden), which sometimes comes with a top hat.
The Razor's outlandish attire, and bad-boy behaviour makes some (including, on occasion, teammates) roll their eyes and shake their heads. But perhaps, right here right now, he is exactly the personality the Senators need.
This team has always seemed too serious, too conservative. Their fragile confidence was written on their faces after a loss, and often, before one. When Ray Emery struts into the building in a wild purple suit, wearing that Cheshire-cat grin, it is so un-Ottawa-like, so un-Senator-like, you cannot help but think things have changed.
He is one different dude. This was the first hockey player interview I've done that had to be interrupted to feed a pet python a live mouse. I thought of that moment the other night watching the Senators dust off the Devils like a piece of lint on one of Emery's suits.
These Senators are looking more and more like the snake. And less and less like the mouse.
• • •
Postscript: Emery led the Senators to the Stanley Cup Final that season, where they lost to Anaheim in five games. While his clothes stayed fresh, his act quickly grew old. The next season was a disaster, on and off the ice, for Emery. He showed up late for a practice and was sent home. He scrapped with one teammate, angered many others with his attitude and, worst of all, gave up too many goals. The Senators no longer wanted him, but couldn't trade him. So Emery went to Russia, where he behaved and played very well. He returned to the NHL in 2009 with the Philadelphia Flyers. A serious hip injury looked like it would end his comeback and his career. But Emery made it back to the NHL again, this time with Anaheim in 2011, and was a finalist for the Masterton Trophy for perseverance and dedication to hockey.
Chapter 47
How Canada can Bounce Back
September 2000. (My first column for TSN, written during the Sydney Olympic Games, where Canadian athletes were struggling, except on the new Olympic sport of trampoline.)
• • •
OK, so we can no longer claim to have some of the best sprinters, cyclists, swimmers and rowers on the planet. But, man, can we bounce!
We have more kangaroo in us than the Aussies. We're human pogo sticks. Our team mascot should be Tigger. No wonder Pamela Anderson is a native daughter (who has more bounce than her?).
F
orget the pool. Give up the track. We need to focus all our resources on the tramp. No, not Pam, silly. The tramp-OLINE! What? One obscure event is not enough to restore our damaged Olympic pride you say? Just wait.
If Dick Pound becomes the head of the International Olympic Committee, “The Next Juan,” Canada will have serious IOC pull. We'll just get Dick to add more bouncy events. Like rhythmic trampoline. And synchronized trampoline. (Aside: Do all events now have to be synchronized? And if they do synchronized sprinting, won't there always be an 8-way tie for first?) Why stop there? Platform trampoline. Ballroom trampoline. Equestrian trampoline (“Big Ben with a triple somersault, and still lands on his hooves!”).
It will be our new national sport. The Walter Gretzkys of the next generation will dedicate their backyards to tramps. And when winter comes? No problem. High ceilings are in, anyway.
Start training your children now. We can no longer afford to bring our young athletes up the “Canadian” way: all soft and sweet. We need to be tough. German tough.
Crash!
“What was that, honey?”
“Oh, Billy just flew the hedge and landed in Mrs. Brown's azaleas.”
“Dad! I need. . . paramedic.”
“No, son. What you need is to GET BACK ON THE #*@!* TRAMPOLINE AND WORK ON YOUR DISMOUNT!”
Oh, and Mr. Pound, sir. While you're at it, we need to add another colour medal. Canadians finish fourth waaaay too often. I'm thinking pewter. Or maybe tin.
Brian Williams: “And so Canada completes its most successful Olympics ever: 1 Gold, 1 Silver, 5 Bronze and 23 Tin!
Tin and trampolines. Now that's a plan that can rally a nation.
Maybe when we're bouncing our way to tin after tin, we'll actually start supporting our athletes for more than two weeks every four years. And who knows? Maybe they'll actually get enough funding to train full-time AND live above the poverty line. (“Honey, wasn't that Curtis Myden working the drive-thru?”)
So, don't get down about our Olympic performance, Canada.
Get up! And down! And up! And down! And up!
• • •
Postscript: Dick Pound lost to Jacques Rogge in his bid to become IOC president, which hurt my trampolining campaign. Still, it has gone from the giggle-worthy novelty it was in 2000 to being one of Canada's best Olympic events. I thought I was joking about synchronized trampoline—until it became an actual sport shortly thereafter. Still waiting on equestrian trampoline—crossing my fingers for London, 2012.
Chapter 48
Mr. Kilrea's Opus
April 2009
Hmm, this is a problem.
How do you write an accurate Brian Kilrea tribute when all the good stories have too many expletives to repeat?
If they ever film “The Brian Kilrea Story,” HBO will be the only option.
“I remember this one game we lost 7-2,” says Brian Patafie, the 67's long-time athletic trainer. “I came home and my wife asked ‘What did Killer say after the game?’ I said, ‘Do you want me to include all the expletives?’ She said ‘No.’ So I said, ‘He didn't say anything.’”
The punchline works because you know it's true. We just interviewed a dozen current and former Kilrea players for an upcoming piece on his retirement, and not one had a good yarn that could be told without editing to the point of distortion.
“There's nothing I can repeat on television,” laughs Doug Wilson. And Michael Peca. And Gary Roberts. And Brian Campbell. And Nick Boynton. And Brendan Bell. And. . . all of them.
So instead, we turn to the serious stuff, the what-Killer-meant-to-me material. And sometimes the words wouldn't come easy here, either. For a different reason.
Take goalie-turned-analyst Darren Pang, one of the most cheerful, chatty characters you'll ever meet. This is a man who frequently makes monkey faces on national television (Panger does a monkey better than. . . most monkeys) just to crack up the host. He has also done his hilarious Kilrea imitation every single time I have worked with him, which is now in triple digits.
And yet, when we asked him to send a message to his old coach on camera, he lost it.
“Killer. . . I just can't say enough. . .” That's as far as Panger got before breaking down. And you know what? No more words were required.
Seeing Panger get that emotional, and hearing the countless other testimonials from Kilrea's former players this week, I keep thinking of Mr. Holland's Opus. I know, Killer isn't quite as warm and fuzzy as Richard Dreyfuss was in that tearjerker, about a music teacher who finally realizes how many lives he has touched.
But as you sit and read the alphabetical list of every player who has come through Killer's dressing room, 500 strong, you realize: they are Mr. Kilrea's Opus.
“I can remember when Steve Payne was with the team, and in his last year, we lost out in the playoffs in Peterborough,” Kilrea remembers, sitting in the 67's empty dressing room.
“One of our guys came in and said, ‘Steve's Dad wants to see you.’ So I went out and he said, ‘I just wanted to thank you. I gave you a boy and you are giving me back a man.’”
Killer's eyes well up. “That meant a lot.”
And isn't that his true legacy? Sure, we'll all remember the two Memorial Cups and the countless quality NHL players he has developed. But in the end, it is the impact Kilrea has had on so many young lives that deserves the longest, and loudest, round of applause as he exits.
Just ask Lance Galbraith.
You won't see Lance on TSN talking about Killer. It's our nature to go to the big names for the quotes. But you'd be hard pressed to find a player Killer had a greater influence on.
Galbraith was a tough, talented hockey player coming out of bantam, but already had a well-earned rep of being a bad apple. Kilrea took a chance and drafted him anyway. But he almost never made it to Ottawa.
Galbraith had been arrested for stealing a car. Joyriding had overtaken hockey as his favourite hobby. He was likely headed for a juvenile detention centre. So, Kilrea found out who the presiding judge was in the case, and wrote him a letter.
“I guaranteed him that if he gave Lance a second chance, I would take care of him. I promised him the kid would leave here a better person.”
Galbraith received a suspended sentence. He moved to Ottawa, in fact, right into Kilrea's house for a while, and became one of the most popular 67's of his era.
He is now 29, and still playing hockey, for the Alaska Aces of the ECHL. It's a life he loves. And one he is forever grateful for.
“I don't even like to think about what my life would have become if Killer didn't take that chance on me,” says Galbraith. “He turned me around.
“He taught me about respect. Like how he always made us thank the restaurant owner or the cook after a meal. I always remembered that, and do it every time I eat somewhere. It was the little things like that. He made me a better person.”
There you go. A great Killer story without a single expletive.
• • •
Postscript: I just finished writing a book with Killer called They Call Me Killer, available at all reputable bookstores. (Sorry, that was pathetic and shameless.) I have been lucky enough to meet a lot of great characters in my 20-odd years in this business. Killer is my favourite. He is simply one of the funniest, most honest, loyal, tell-it-like-it-is, old-school hockey guys you will ever meet.
Chapter 49
The Boy from the Hood
December 2007
When it comes to hockey, Canada is the largest small town in the world. Chances are you know a guy who dates a girl who works with a dude whose sister-in-law's son played with Claude Giroux. Or Josh Godfrey. Or someone on Team Canada.
That's why I love the World Juniors. We all feel connected to the boys. Remember that movie game “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon”? We get to do the same thing every year with Team Canada. Call it Six Degrees of Steve Mason. And when one of the kids actually comes from your hood, you get to adopt him.
“That's OUR boy!”
I know people in Orleans and Cumberland are doing it with Giroux. In Amherstview, outside of Kingston, the Godfrey family has welcomed several hundred new members.
And in my neck of the woods, everyone is gaga over our own local hero.
We live in Unionville, a community north of Toronto. It's a great little neighbourhood tucked in the middle of Markham, one of the fastest growing cities in Canada.
Not long after we moved here seven years ago, I started hearing stories about a skinny blond kid who was going to be The Next One. Or make that The Next Next One, since Crosby was already being dubbed The Next One back then (seems the shelf life on Next Ones is down to about two seasons).
For years, I couldn't get his name straight. Stavro? Stempo? Stamcoat? But the stories were grand.
By three, he was already a little Unionville celebrity. The families who went public skating every Saturday at the local rink would stare in amazement at the blond blur in the Leafs sweater who would whip around the ice like a squirrel on Red Bull.
At four, he signed up for house league. His first coach was Paul Titanic.
“He was mind-boggling,” Titanic says with a chuckle. “Four years old and he was the best player in a league full of six-year-olds. By five, he had the skills of a 10-year-old. A good 10-year-old.”
A few years and several hundred goals later, the kid came back to his first coach. At nine, he joined Titanic's Markham Waxer Atom AAA team. They would spend the next six years together, winning championships and creating a local legend.
