The Day I (Almost) Killed Two Gretzkys Read online

  “He came to me last year after I'd shown a couple of the other guys how to defend themselves properly in a fight. He wanted to learn. I was showing him some stuff and we were going at it, and I couldn't move him, he's so strong. He'd be really tough to fight.”

  So, did you pop him one, Georges? “Are you nuts? I value my career.”

  No. 3: Sid is superstitious. OK, this one you may have heard. But the extent of his superstition is as extreme as his skill. For instance, when he walks through the Mellon Arena, he has a specific route that defies logic.

  “He will walk 20 yards out of the way to go around a certain pole or go through a specific door. And it never, ever varies,” says one Penguins staffer, who showed me the route. It was baffling.

  He also won't wear proper shoes in the dressing room. If he's showered and fully dressed, and has to go back into the room, he'll take his dress shoes off at the door, as if it were some traditional Japanese restaurant. When he eats, Maxime Talbot must sit on his left, Pascal Dupuis on his right. At a recent team breakfast in Detroit, a Penguins staffer sat down to eat, and was met with shocked stares from the players sitting around him.

  “That's Sid's seat!” they said.

  “He wouldn't have gotten mad or anything, he's too nice for that,” says the seat-stealer. “But if I would have stayed there, he just would have hovered around quietly until I left.”

  Oh, and he raises his legs and touches the window when driving over railway crossings, but who doesn't do that?

  No. 4: Sid might be moving. After three years living in Mario Lemieux's house, Crosby has started looking for his own place. Good thing, as I was about to give him another nickname: Kato Kaelin.

  No. 5: Sid is not a health-food freak. The other day after practice, we chatted while he ate an ugly, white bread, mystery-meat, mayo-laden sandwich.

  “You sure that's good for you?” I asked.

  “You must have me mixed up with Robs (Gary Roberts),” he said, laughing. “I'm not picky. When I'm hungry, I eat.”

  “I'm working on him,” says Roberts. “He came to my house last summer for a few days to train, and one night I made him this granola, flax-oil, yogurt snack before bed. The next morning, he looked like hell. He'd been in the bathroom all night. Didn't go down so well.”

  No. 6: Sid understands the media better than Marshall McLuhan.

  “It's crazy how smart and savvy he is,” says Penguins defenseman Hal Gill. “Sometimes he'll say to us, ‘The media is trying to write a certain story, so when they ask you this question, answer it this way.’”

  Hey, wait a second! Maybe he's doing that to me right now. Evil genius, that Crosby.

  No. 7: Sid is not always the “quiet” leader.

  “When we lost that one game to the Rangers, he spoke to us about it,” says another Penguins teammate. “He let us know we hadn't played our game. He did the same after Game 1 of the final. He just told us to relax. He doesn't do long speeches, but he knows when to speak up.”

  No. 8: Sid loves to kill bad guys. Sorry, I should clarify. I mean in video games. Last season, eight of the Penguins got PSPs so they could play a shoot-′em-up army game called SOCOM against each other. The guys were supposed to play only on planes, but it soon became clear that Sid was practising at home.

  “Of course he had to beat all of us,” says Laraque. “He's so competitive.”

  They've now moved on to “Call of Duty” on Xbox.

  “He plays like a girl,” says Talbot. “He's always hiding in the corner. Anything to win.”

  No. 9: Sid does anything to win because he hates losing. At Sunday dinner at a friend's house, he lost a game of Bingo to the friend's nine-year-old son. His instant reaction was to slam his first on the board, sending tiny bingo markers flying in all directions. He then blushed and laughed. But make no mistake, the reaction was genuine.

  No. 10: This is the most important game of Sid's life.

  Oh, wait, that part you knew.

  • • •

  Postscript: The morning the column was published (the day of Game 6 of the final), Sid spotted me in the hallway outside the Penguins dressing room and smiled. “You dug up some dirt on me, eh?” he said with a laugh. “Pretty accurate, I gotta admit.”

  His Penguins lost the game and the Stanley Cup that night. They would get their revenge one spring later, beating the Red Wings in seven games. Crosby hurt his knee in the second period of Game 7 and came back only for one shift. I interviewed him after the game and I have never seen a face so happy and eyes so glassy. The combination of joy, painkillers and champagne had turned Sid into one delirious mess.

  Chapter 3

  The Final Toll

  September 15, 2001 (four days after the terrorist attacks on New York City)

  • • •

  We, in sports, seem determined to attach a number to everything, and the nightmare of September 11 is no different. The “Sports World,” this imaginary bubble we supposedly live in, lost LA Kings scouts Ace Bailey and Mark Bavis.

  Two.

  A neat, tidy death toll, perfect for the tickers at the bottom of the screen. But wrong.

  We also lost:

  Soccer moms, and Little League dads, and big sisters who became corporate bigwigs, but could still whip you at 21 when they came home for Thanksgiving.

  We lost star shortstops from the corporate softball league, and secretaries who didn't play, but always brought the oranges, and cheered like you were Derek Jeter.

  We lost 11-year-old boys who could have been the next Jordan or Gretzky, and four-year-old girls who could have been the next Mia Hamm or Serena Williams, not to mention who they could have become in the real world.

  We lost fans.

  We lost Mets fans and Yankees fans, and fans who couldn't stand either, which was a damn brave stance in New York.

  We lost Jets fans who'd always go to the game with the same three buddies, each shirtless with a big green painted letter stretching from navel to neck. And no matter how cold, they'd remain skin to the wind, screaming: “J-E-T-S, Jets!” Even when it was 21-3 Colts.

  We lost bosses you couldn't stand, until they invited you to the box at the Rangers game and you both wore your Messier shirts, and forever bonded.

  We lost girlfriends who left you alone on Sunday afternoons in the fall, or better yet, sat right next to you and cursed like a convict when Kerry Collins threw a pick.

  We lost guys from the mailroom who'd spend a couple days' wages to sit in the nosebleeds with their girl at a Knicks game, and stockbrokers in Boss suits who'd spend a couple grand to impress a model with courtsides. But they'd cheer just as wildly. New York has great fans.

  We also lost Red Sox fans, Bruins fans, Patriots fans, Capitals fans, Redskins fans, Wizards fans, and probably at least a fan or two for every team out there. Even the Bengals.

  We lost fathers who'd take you to Mini-Putt and blow a six-inch gimme on 18 every time to lose by one, so he'd have to take you for ice cream yet again.

  We lost mothers who somehow found time to run households with a bunch of kids, corporate divisions with hundreds of employees, and marathons in under four hours.

  We lost Grampas who took you out for your first round on a real course, and pretended they didn't see when you teed it up on the fair way.

  We lost coaches who'd work 60-hour weeks, and then spend their Saturdays trying to teach six-year-olds to stay in position, and not all chase the same ball.

  We lost entire lines from the Firefighters Shinny League.

  And you know what the saddest part of all is? Sport was just a tiny part of who these people were.

  We lost all of them.

  • • •

  Postscript: I was hosting TSN SportsCenter the day the planes hit the towers. We debated all day whether we should do a sports highlight show on a day when sports could not have mattered less in our world. We ended up doing a very sombre half-hour, mostly reaction to the tragedy from prominent athletes, and reports on h
ow the various sports leagues would be cancelling games. I struggled for days to figure out how, and if, sports mattered in all this madness. Out of that, came this column.

  Chapter 4

  The Loneliest Guy in the Rink

  October 2006

  I looked up and you were there, just sitting there all alone At the lonely end of the rink, the lonely end of the rink.

  —The Tragically Hip

  Quick, kids. Name the most useless, irrelevant position in sports.

  Point After Holder for the Buffalo Bills? Valid, but no. Post-Season Ticket Co-ordinator, Toronto Blue Jays? Close. Personal trainer John Daly? Sorry.

  Try NHL Goal Judge.

  Oh sure, once upon a time he was Da Man! Any goal the referee didn't see clearly, he would have the final say. His thumb, and that little red-light button, would decide the outcome of many a game.

  Then along came two referees, overhead cameras, side-angle cameras, net cameras and video review judges. Suddenly, the guy behind the glass was forgotten. Yes, video killed the Radio Star. And the Goal Judge.

  He is way-old technology. He's a Commodore 64. He's a Walkman. He's VHS. No wait, worse! He's Beta.

  “Oh yeah, we're obsolete. I mean they have 87 different angles on replay! They aren't going to ask us!”

  His name is Bill. He has been an NHL Goal Judge for a dozen seasons. He didn't want his last name to be used. (OK, truth is he happily gave me his last name. It just sounds way more investigative when they don't let you use their last name.)

  Bill Bedsworth takes his job as judge seriously. So seriously, in fact, that he actually is a judge. That's right, by day he's the Honorable Justice William W. Bedsworth, of the California Court of Appeal, one level below the Supreme Court. And by night, he's the Honorable Goal Judge William W. Bedsworth, of the Anaheim Ducks.

  He prefers you just use his nickname: Beds. (You gotta love a high-level judge who wants to be called Beds. If I ever go to trial in California. . . like for. . . say. . . I dunno. . . stalking Scarlett Johansson. . . I want Beds as my judge.)

  Beds is a lifelong hockey fan who has been a Ducks goal judge since the team's first game 14 seasons ago. Now he sits in the stands like some jilted lover, waiting, hopelessly, by the phone.

  “They (the referees) used to call you back when they weren't sure if a puck went in. They never call anymore.”

  And this year, it will get even worse for goal judges. Most teams have moved them out of their little glass boxes behind the net, and banished them to Bob Uecker territory.

  I was at a pre-season game in Vancouver last week, and the goal judge was higher than any human in the building, right under the catwalk. Binoculars will soon be mandatory equipment.

  Beds has also been displaced. But he is hardly bitter. In fact, he's downright giddy he's gotten away with doing this dream gig this long.

  “Even before, I was never in the right position to make a call! You should be positioned over the goal line. You know that. I know that. Tennis knows that, but hockey never did!”

  Over the years, that bad angle caused him to light the lamp early a handful of times. Premature Illumination. Always embarrassing.

  “Sometimes the puck would pop up, hit the side of the net, but you see puck hitting twine, you hit the light, and then it bounces off into the corner, and you go ‘Oh God No!’

  “But you try seeing past JS Giguere! I long for the days of goalies the size of Darren Pang.”

  Gretzky gave him nightmares. When The Great One was in his “office,” the goal judge could see nothing from his. Grant Fuhr once chucked a water bottle at him when he disagreed with a decision. But nobody gets angry with the goal judge anymore. Heck, most have forgotten he even exists.

  “I had a guy ask me if I was the security guard for the camera behind the net,” Beds says with a chuckle.

  He now sits in a regular seat, passing beers and popcorn down the row.

  “Hey, dude with the phone, could you order me some nachos and two Bud!”

  And yet Beds still feels he has a crucial role.

  “I make the game more fun for the crowd,” he pleads. “When a goal goes in, maybe 1,000 see it, and 16,000 don't.” (Canadian fans may insert snicker here.) “Most fans have to wait to see that red light on before they can celebrate or want to commit suicide. They depend on us.”

  Amen, Beds. You're right. We still need you. That red light is a vital part of our hockey culture. (And in Dan Cloutier's case, a very regular part of it.)

  So all rise for The Judge! Then sit back down. You're probably blocking his view.

  • • •

  Postscript: Beds has officially retired from goal judging, but still presides in his California courtroom. At the time of publishing, only three NHL teams still have goal judges behind both nets or in the Zamboni area (Boston, Ottawa, Florida). Three have one judge still in the Zamboni area (Edmonton, Vancouver, Nashville). The other 24 teams have their goal judges spread all over their arenas. They are usually high in the nosebleeds, squinting to see if the puck crossed the line so they can hit their button and turn on the red light, knowing full well the Video God in the sky will have the last word anyway.

  Chapter 5

  Canada Days

  March 2010

  If you went to Vancouver for the Olympics, you probably get asked the same question I do, every single day. “What will you remember most?”

  I know what they're expecting to hear.

  Alexandre Bilodeau hugging his brother after winning Canada's first gold ever at home. Or Jon Montgomery strolling through Whistler after winning his gold, parting a sea of screaming fans like he was Moses (though I don't believe Moses wore a toque and swigged from a pitcher of beer). Or Joannie Rochette's courageous bronze, days after her mother's sudden death. Or wait, Sid! C'mon, surely he'll say Sid's goal!

  All great answers. None right.

  What I'll forever remember about Vancouver begins with a woman named Sylvie, who works behind the meat counter at a Robson street grocery store. She gave me the first clue this might be a very special time in this city. In this country.

  The day I arrived, exactly a week before the Opening Ceremony, I went for a run in Stanley Park. This is my own Vancouver tradition—something I did every day when I lived there in the late 90's, and still do every time I come back. The Seawall in Stanley Park has to be in the top ten places to run on the planet.

  So I get about 50 minutes in when I realize:

  a. I haven't run for 50 minutes in two years and am about to require paramedics.

  b. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and am prepared to bite the head off a chipmunk if one crosses my path.

  So I limp back towards my hotel, stopping at a grocery store/deli called Capers, which my wife and I used to frequent when we lived in Van.

  Just to paint you a complete picture, I am wearing long black shorts (an early sign these would be very unusual “Winter” Olympics), a ripped long sleeve grey sweatshirt, and a ball cap on backwards. Put it this way, if any crimes had been committed in the area recently, I would likely be picked up for questioning.

  I order a giant burrito, a smoothie, and a scone from their deli, and am well into all three by the time I get to the cash to pay. I had stuffed a 20 inside my sock before I left (I know—gross—hey, I'm a guy—what do you want?) But sure enough, I reach down, and it's gone.

  So there I stand, sweaty and broke, with a half-eaten burrito in one hand, a half-empty smoothie in the other, and the scone and a couple of power bars sitting on the cash. Total: $18.70. Which is, according to my brilliant mathematical mind, $18.70 more than I have.

  “Umm . . . Uhh . . . Geez . . . I have no money. And . . . no credit cards . . . and no ID to leave you . . . and I'm here for the Olympics . . . and wow . . . I'm really sorry,” is about all I can offer the cashier.

  An awkward 5 seconds or so passes until the woman behind me in line says, “I'll pay for him.”

  Hello, Saint Sylvie.

 
She works at the meat counter in the same store, and is buying a snack on her break. No, she doesn't recognize me from TV. I'm just a dude who looks like a really old skateboarder, with salsa dripping off his chin, in a bit of a pickle.

  “You're here for the Olympics. . . we have to take care of our guests,” she says, handing the cashier a twenty. “If you have time, come pay me back. If not, don't worry.”

  A Guardian Angel in a bloodstained apron. That small gesture began a month of pure wonder in Vancouver. I will never again in my lifetime see a city so darn. . . happy.

  I grew up in Ottawa, where on Canada Day, the whole city comes downtown for a party. Well, the Vancouver Olympics was that same scene, with patriotism multiplied exponentially, 17 days in a row. Canada Days. Canada Daze.

  Tens upon tens of thousands, filling the streets 18 hours a day. Every one, it seemed, in red and white, like they were on their way to form some giant human flag for a Coke commercial. (There was an occasional sprinkle of Dutch orange in the crowds. It didn't clash.)

  As we strolled the jammed streets on the first Saturday night of the Games, one of my colleagues said, “This is going to get out of hand. People are going to get killed.”

  But somehow, it never got out of hand. These may have been the giddiest mobs in the history of mobbery (I don't care if it that's not a word).

  We took the Skytrain to Alex Bilodeau's gold medal ceremony. On the 7-minute ride back, three separate renditions of “Oh Canada” broke out. For the entire Games, you couldn't walk three blocks without hearing it.

  I had the night off when Rochette skated her long program, so we went to a bar to watch with a couple of friends. We were walking along Robson as the final flight of skaters started. About every fifth store or restaurant had a TV that was visible from the sidewalk. And in front of each of them, people stopped and watched, en masse.