The Day I (Almost) Killed Two Gretzkys

by James Duthie

  Our Hill was pure perfection. Maybe six storeys high, a three-point shot wide, trees lining either side, with an incline steep enough to scare you on an icy day, and send you halfway across the open field at the bottom on a hard-packed track.

  My buddy Syl's backyard rink was lit, so it could wait until after dinner. After school, we lived on the hill.

  It wasn't a sport. It was a bunch of them.

  - Races down.

  - Races back up.

  - Individual time trials.

  - Carefully judged freestyling off the jumps.

  - Distance events (who would slide furthest out onto the field at the bottom—“And no pushing off the snow for a few extra feet at the end, ya cheater!”).

  - Full-contact suicide runs (“Last guy still on wins!”).

  It was the Ironman, on a cheap piece of purple plastic.

  Has Mankind (the species, not the wrestler) ever come up with anything better than the Krazy Karpet? The way it would perpetually roll itself up into that easy-carrying cylinder, except for the ride down when it was as flat as you could lie, for as long as you could hold on.

  On a Karpet, you felt every inch of the hill. Each little bump was a legitimate threat to future procreation. To this day, when I look at my son and daughter in wonder, I give thanks for the extra padding in my snow pants.

  Of course, there were advantages. By Grade 7 or so, when the occasional girl would tag along, we'd go doubles on the Karpet. If you sat at the back, and hit a bump just right, you made second base instantly.

  I've always loved the Karpet better than those big metal battleship toboggans. Likely because once, under a sea of snowsuits and humanity, my face somehow got lodged under the front end, where it remained for the duration of the run over hard crusty snow (insert your mandatory “That explains a lot” thought here).

  When we all got up at the bottom, my friends gave me the patented “Jennifer Love Hewitt When She Sees the Psycho Killer with the Giant Fishhook Behind Her in the Mirror” look.

  Seems I was a dead ringer for Leatherface. My mug had been slashed all over in these bizarre inch-long lines, reminiscent of Gerry Cheevers's old goalie mask. The following month is still referred to as my awkward mutant phase.

  One year, Dad bought me a pair of old wooden cross-country skis at the annual Winter Exchange. Since I felt cross-country skiing was only for Norwegians and sadists, particularly Norwegian sadists, we mostly used them on the hill.

  We'd build a jump two-thirds down, and then take off from the top, make-believing we were Horst Bulau (I'm guessing there aren't many kids today pretending they're Horst Bulau). We'd get about a second of hang time, and then thrust both arms in the air when we nailed the landing.

  We won more Olympic medals on that hill than the Cuban boxing team.

  Of course, more often than not, we landed like the “Agony of Defeat” guy on the opening of Wide World of Sports.

  I once knocked myself out after we built the ramp too steep. The skis just stopped, catapulting me skyward like the Monty Python cow. I now believe it was a grade 3 concussion. And I was in Grade 4. Figures. I was always behind a grade.

  These were the winters of my content.

  Up and down my hill. Sliding, screaming, scrapping, leaping, tumbling, laughing. And finally, when it got too dark to see the bottom, and dinner was ready an hour ago, and one mitt was lost somewhere under the snow. . .

  We'd do 10 more runs.

  Then we'd head home, trying to step in the same Cougar bootprints we'd made on the way there, our faces and toes so numb we couldn't feel anything.

  Except pure bliss.

  • • •

  Postscript: A couple of years back, we were looking at houses in the town we were planning on moving to. On one street, the real estate agent says, “Your kids might like this. Just behind the trees over there is the biggest toboggan hill in town.” Sold. I'm not saying it was the reason we bought there. But it clinched the deal.

  Chapter 54

  The Monkey Prophecies

  May 2003

  Before we start, let's make one thing clear. I didn't want to write about the monkey.

  The monkey is my nemesis. I now spend several hours a day answering emails about the monkey. Colleagues address me as “Monkey-Boy.” My three-year-old son told his nursery school class that his Dad works at a zoo (actually, that's pretty much accurate). Beautiful women stop me in the street, only to ask me what the monkey is like.

  You want to know what the monkey is like? The first time I met her, she peed on my shoe. The dry cleaner is having trouble getting the monkey-smell out of my suits. And in all likelihood, the monkey will be hosting the show next year, and I will be doing The Seniors' Shuffleboard Tournament on community cable.

  Insecure, fragile, jealous TV ego-heads like myself can't handle this kind of threat. I now have poaching dreams.

  If you don't know Maggie the Monkey, she is, with apologies to the wonderful Jennifer Hedger, the hottest thing on the network.

  She was brought in just before the start of the playoffs in the name of science. . . and cheap ratings ploys.

  We wanted to prove once and for all that so-called “expert” predictions are a farce in the always-unpredictable Stanley Cup Playoffs. So in comes Maggie, a crab-eating macaque from the Bowmanville Zoo east of Toronto. (By the way, if you're ever bored, just say “macaque” over and over with a Boston accent. . . it's endless hours of fun.)

  Anyway, the monkey spins a wheel and picks the Ducks to upset the Wings, and we all say “How cute!” And then the Ducks win, and she picks them again over the Stars, and the Ducks win again, and she picks them again over the Wild, and the Ducks keep winning, and suddenly the Prophet Monkey is a cult hero.

  And thus, I've been reduced to the position of monkey-publicist, taking calls from reporters as far away as California, and being deluged with questions from you like:

  “What's the monkey's record?”

  “Does the monkey handicap the NBA, too?

  “Is the monkey single?”

  Cute. Real cute. But since you won't leave me alone, I am here to answer your monkey questions. Actually, I had a better idea. With the help of groundbreaking monkey sign language developed by Matthew Broderick and his team of scientists in Project X, I interviewed the monkey myself.

  JD: “Tell me about your background.”

  MM: (angrily) “Please end your questions with ‘O Great One,’ as my agent stipulated when I agreed to this.”

  JD: “Fine. Tell me about your background, O Great One.”

  MM: “That's better. Well, I lived in the jungle until I was captured by a man with a big yellow hat.” (laughs) “My Curious George material is pure gold.”

  JD: “Okaaay. How do you explain your stunning success in predicting those Anaheim upsets?”

  MM: (waits)

  JD: “O Great One.”

  MM: “Hockey is in my blood. I was up for the lead in that MVP movie about the hockey-playing monkey. It was bull$*#@ I didn't get it. That chimp slept with somebody.”

  JD: “That's sick.”

  MM: “It's a dirty business, pal.”

  JD: “But really, why the Ducks, O Great One? Had you been charting Giguere's consistent statistical improvement over the last three years? Did you, like Kariya, buy into the defence-first mentality? Or is it the fact their PIMs per game is a paltry 7.8?”

  MM: “Actually, there's a duck that sneaks me cigarettes at the zoo. So I figured I owed the species.”

  JD: “Is there any connection between you and the Rally Monkey that led the Anaheim Angels to the World Series title?”

  MM: “Don't compare me to some stuffed toy people wave around at a game. I'm a God.”

  JD: “Do you have a mentor, or anyone you look up to?”

  MM: “Marcel, Ross's monkey from Friends. He really broke down the barriers for macaques. Before Marcel, it was all about chimps and orangutans. Marcel opened a lot of doors in the business.”

/>   JD: “What's next for you?”

  MM: “You name it. Endorsements. Psychic hotlines. Movies. I'm talking with Sigourney Weaver about remaking Gorillas in the Mist.”

  JD: “But. . . you're. . . not a. . . gorilla.”

  MM: “I've spoken to De Niro about how he put on the weight for the end of Raging Bull. Gorilla is not that tough. I can do gorilla.”

  JD: “Will the Ducks win it all?”

  MM: “Sorry, kid. You'll have to wait like anyone else. We're in negotiations with the networks for a prime-time “Monkey-Prophet Picks the Cup Winner” special. We might do it live from Times Square. Dick Clark's involved.”

  JD: “But. . . TSN discovered you!”

  MM: “C'mon, kid, be realistic. You're Canadian cable. The Monkey Prophet has outgrown you. I'll talk to my people. We'll get you a goat or something.”

  JD: “Gee, thanks.”

  MM: (waits)

  JD: “. . . O Great One.”

  • • •

  Postscript: I really did hate that monkey. That is, until one year when they decided to liven things up by bringing in a lemur. We called it “Jacques Le-mur,” another fine example of our highbrow comedy. The lemur sat on my head and dug its claws into my skull. We were live on TV, so I had to smile and keep talking, but I could feel this slow trickle of blood running down the back of my neck. I got the lemur fired. And gained a new appreciation for the monkey. Maggie the Macaque retired from NHL on TSN after the 2009 Stanley Cup Playoffs. She was getting old, and could barely spin the wheel. She never recaptured the magic of her 2003 Anaheim prophecies, finishing with a career prediction record well under .500. Typical, isn't it? She has a great rookie season, signs the big contract and then under-performs the rest of her career.

  Chapter 55

  Duchene and Hodgson:

  Boyhood Pals Now a World Apart

  October 2009

  You'd be hard pressed to find two better young men than Matt Duchene and Cody Hodgson. They are like genetic lab-creations of what Canada wants its hockey players to be: ridiculously talented, passionate, hard-working, team-first guys. And for the Hockey Moms out there, they are also polite, modest, well spoken and I can pretty much guarantee they'll have your daughter home on time.

  You'd also be hard pressed to find two hockey lives so intertwined. Two careers, twinned since tyke.

  Until now, that is.

  Over the last month, their parallel paths took hard turns in different directions. One is skating on clouds, playing big minutes on the NHL's surprise team. The other is at home, off skates until a doctor says otherwise, thinking next year can't come soon enough.

  First, the back-story.

  Duchene and Hodgson both grew up in the small town of Haliburton, Ontario. There was only one tyke rep team there, so both were on it—six-year-old Cody at centre, five-year-old Matt on his wing. The weak-ankled beginnings of a lifelong friendship, built on a shared dream.

  “We talked about it all the time playing mini sticks as kids—going to the NHL some day,” says Hodgson. “But I guess you never really believe it would happen to both of us.”

  Hodgson would move south to Markham after those tyke years, but the two would play against each other all winter, then team up again in the summer on a travelling team coached by Duchene's father. The team was called “Kids Love Hockey,” after the sponsor. Appropriate name.

  “Those were great times,” Hodgson says. “We had a ton of fun.”

  “We won just about everything,” adds Duchene. “It was awesome.”

  Hodgson was drafted by the OHL's Brampton Battalion in 2006. Sure enough, Brampton also called Duchene's name one year later.

  Through junior, they were teammates in the winter, and training partners in the summer—two kids/one obsession/365 days a year.

  “At our cottage near Haliburton, I'd ride my bike down in the summer, work out, and then shoot pucks at Matt's place,” says Hodgson. “He had a great set-up. . . a goalie he built in shop class that has all the same holes a goalie in the butterfly has. It was amazing.”

  Duchene even had special headgear—mosquito nets to fight off those pesky cottage-country predators.

  Those endless summer days fighting bugs and firing pucks paid off, big time. Hodgson was drafted 10th overall by Vancouver in 2008. Duchene went third overall to Colorado one June later.

  The perfect ending would have been for both to make their NHL teams this season—live the dream together. It was Hodgson, most believed, who had the best shot to stick. He already had one pro camp under his belt, and had been sensational at the World Juniors. Duchene was still just a pup at 18.

  But that's when things went askew.

  Hodgson hurt his back training in the summer. At camp, he was diagnosed with a herniated disc, but cleared to play. Yet, he never felt right. All the power seemed to have bled from his legs.

  The Canucks sent him back to Brampton. He was crushed.

  A second opinion from the Cleveland Clinic confirmed the herniated disc. But doctors there recommended he stay off skates indefinitely.

  Then it got worse. Canucks coach Alain Vigneault inferred Hodgson was using the injury as an excuse for a poor camp, trying to “roll the [blame] in a different direction.” It was an odd thing to say about your franchise's number one prospect. Some twisted motivational technique, perhaps.

  The words stung the kid. But he refuses to fire back—saying something negative about the organization that drafted him is not in Hodgson's DNA.

  “The Canucks medical staff has been very supportive of everything I've done,” he says. Besides that, he'd rather not talk about it.

  Meanwhile, it was a fall fantasy for Matt Duchene. Joe Sakic had retired, and the Avs were rebuilding. There were jobs to be had. He had a great camp, made the team and quickly left little doubt he would be staying beyond every junior player's magic number of 10 games.

  “I'm just ecstatic about everything,” Duchene says. “I'm living the dream. I remember my second pre-season game against St. Louis, I was taking the faceoff against Keith Tkachuk, and Paul Kariya was on his wing. I have a picture of me with Paul Kariya when I was eight years old at Maple Leaf Gardens. I treasured that growing up. Now I look over and he's on the wing against me. Unreal.”

  And as if he needed more to be pumped about, his team leads the Western Conference.

  So here we are. The boyhood pals from Haliburton—whose careers had matched each other stride for stride—are suddenly in very different places. Literally and emotionally.

  “I know it's been really tough on Cody,” says Duchene. “I gave him his space for a while when he was sent back. But he texted me after we beat Vancouver, and after I scored my first goal, just to say congrats. He's such a character guy, he'll be fine.”

  Hodgson is getting a little closer to “fine” every day. His back is finally starting to feel right again. He hopes to be cleared to skate next week. And the fact his old tyke winger is “living the dream” without him is anything but a downer.

  “I'm thrilled to see Matt doing so well. In fact, watching him and JT (John Tavares) and Del Zotto all have success, it energizes me. Because I played with those guys, so when they do well up there, I know I can, too.”

  • • •

  Postscript: Hodgson missed most of the season with his back injury, but did return to Brampton for the playoffs. He returned healthy the next season and made his NHL debut with the Canucks, scoring his first goal on February 2, 2011. But Hodgson couldn't find a regular roster spot on a deep Vancouver team. He spent most of the year with Manitoba in the AHL. Duchene, meanwhile, scored 27 goals in a brilliant rookie season in Colorado, and followed it up with an equally strong sophomore year. The two remain good friends.

  Chapter 56

  The Gift of Girls

  September 2009

  When my wife and I were starting a family, my Mom would always say, “It doesn't matter if you have boys or girls, as long as they have the right number of fingers an
d toes.”

  Under my breath, I would add: “. . . and powerful thighs and soft hands that will someday be worthy of a full Ivy League hockey scholarship.” (Football, soccer, and track would do, too. I'm not fussy when it comes to free tuition at prestigious schools.)

  Look, I'm a sports guy. So yes, I wanted sports kids. It was shallow, narrow, and selfish, but. . . honest.

  I always figured all my children would be boys. There was no logical rationale for this belief. In fact, I probably should have guessed the opposite. I have two sisters, my father had three, and my mother, one. My wife's side looks even more like The View. She is one of three girls, her Mom is one of four.

  And even if genes are irrelevant, the last time I checked, gender odds were about the same as a pre-game coin-flip. Boy or girl, kick or receive. Only difference is, with the former, you can't defer.

  In retrospect, my boy-only belief stemmed purely from fear. All I knew was boy stuff. Flowered dresses, ballet slippers, the ability to do proper pigtails—these things terrified me.

  Sure, I knew that girls could bend it like Beckham, and go backhand shelf, too. But they are intricate, complicated, creatures. Boys are simple. Run. Eat. Pee. Sleep. Repeat. They just seemed easier.

  It's not that I didn't want a little girl. We thought one of each would be perfect, like that pretend family of models you see in the travel magazines. (I believe my wife wanted one of each, and the male model from the travel magazines, but I digress.)

  I just figured the higher powers that decide these things wouldn't trust a poorly-rounded, sport-obsessed, caveman like me to raise a girl properly. So they'd just make everyone's life easier, and toss us two boys.

  So when the doctors pulled out our first child, I believe I yelled, to no one in particular, “Penis! Told ya!”

  I actually had a blue Nerf mini-football with me at the hospital. Like the boy was going to have his umbilical cord cut, get cleaned up, and immediately want to run a down-out-down for me. I was taking dumb-ass to a whole new level.