by Ron MacLean
“The Calgary Flames are coming off a year—and Jim Peplinski is my first guest this intermission—which, Jim, maybe you could attest, is a big one to the finish. The semifinals against the Edmonton Oilers led everybody to believe that 1984–85 just might be your year. Do you feel the pressure of a hot finish?”
Peplinski was smooth and we continued on.
Next, I had an ad-lib to camera. I needed to hit the two-minute mark. And suddenly my radio training kicked in. On every song, there’s an intro or music bed for seven to twenty-seven seconds, and then the vocals start. The DJ talks over it. We called it “hitting the post” or “hitting the fade.” Little did I know that learning to work with the clock was a great skill for TV. I managed to nail my ad-lib to the second. “All right, my name is Ron MacLean. For many of you, you may be getting a chance to familiarize yourself with me, as I am you. It’s a great privilege and an honour to have the opportunity to work with a very competent and professional crew at Channels 2 & 7 CFAC and Canadian Sports Network, and that may sound patronizing, but as you sit in and watch the contest tonight, for me it’s kind of a thrill to be part of the game action. We will look forward to the 1984–85 season and, I think, what are going to be some very high moments, particularly from a Calgary perspective. I’ve had an opportunity to work for CKRD radio and television in Red Deer the last seven years. And having monitored first the Atlanta Flames franchise and their start-up down south and then the eventual move to Calgary, where they aspired to put a team into the Corral, did very well with it and now, after a big season last year, the finish against the Edmonton Oilers, things are looking very hot. I might also mention, in terms of respect, Jim Van Horne, my predecessor, who has left to return to his hometown, Toronto. Should be a fun season; we’re glad to have you aboard. We look very much forward to it. Eddie Whalen will be my guest when our hockey action continues in a moment.”
The legend himself, Ed Whalen, dressed in a Saturday Night Fever–inspired white suit, except for the striped brown and beige tie, took the seat beside me. He was easygoing and reassuring as the floor director counted us in.
We chatted about the Flames and Oilers, and I threw out there, “What do you think about Reggie Lemelin? Goaltending is a big issue in this division, obviously, because of the Oilers. Do you think this is going to hurt him?”
Ed said, “I don’t know how much action he’ll get due to the fact that Glen Sather sleeps with Grant Fuhr.” What did he just say? Ed chuckled, “He’s certainly in love with the guy.”
I looked down at the papers in my hand. How should I respond? “Well, Ed, I know you have a lot of fans in Calgary who are glad to see you back and ready to go. Danny Gallivan retired.” (Danny had just retired that year, after thirty-two years on Hockey Night in Canada.) “I heard you touch on that earlier this summer. He was a big man in your life, had a big influence. Now, maybe you’re the man. Good luck with this year. Ed Whalen with the Calgary Flames. It’s one–nothing Calgary after twenty minutes. Stand by for play-by-play we have more action for you in the third period.”
Ed gave me a pat on the leg and said, “Good work, son.”
I got back in my car and hit the highway, switching on the radio. The first song that came on was Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May.” That song was my all-time favourite song, so I thought, “Good, that’s a lucky sign.”
Two days later, I got a phone call from John Shannon. He was driving to Red Deer to meet with me. And my mom and dad said, “Oh Ronnie, you must have the job! He wouldn’t drive all the way up to Red Deer to tell you if you didn’t get the job.” I told them I was doubtful. I wasn’t going to jump to conclusions a second time.
I met John at the Capri, a hotel on the South Hill in Red Deer, right on the main drag. I pulled up in my 1983 Thunderbird. John is kind of gruff, not sentimental at all. He said, “You used to spice up the weather with little drawings of the Oilers and the Flames. David Letterman got his start doing weather, too.”
I nodded, thinking I was pretty sure that was a good thing.
He said, “Okay, you got the job and you’re going to meet with Ted Arnold on September 3, and you’re going to ask for $40,000 a year.” John says he got into trouble with station management for telling me that. They thought they could get me for twenty-five to thirty thousand. He got a phone call from Noel Wagner, the general manager at the time, who said, “Shannon, what are you doing telling my guys how much money to make?”
I was making about $22,000 at the time, so I just nodded. And he gave me my first instruction about the job. “For you, mister, no words bigger than ‘marmalade.’ We’re selling beer here.”
I nodded again.
He got up to leave, and I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, John, but could we possibly delay my start date in Calgary from the first week of September for a week or so?”
“Why?” he growled.
“Because I’m getting married on the first and I have to be there. We have 350 people coming.”
10
IF I CAN MAKE IT HERE, SO CAN YOU
Cari and I had been married seven days when we moved to Calgary. Noel Wagner arranged to put us up at the International Hotel downtown while we looked for a place. Cari and I had never seen such luxury. I stood at the window on the thirty-third floor, listening to the silent streets. Calgary’s a funny place in that the downtown empties out in the evening. All I could hear was the wind whistling through the giant skyscrapers, a haunting sound.
The first night there, Cari and I went for dinner at the Owl’s Nest, and we were served one of those little sorbet palette cleansers between courses. I looked at it and thought, “What the hell is this? A little salad and then dessert already? Boy, that Noel is a cheap prick.”
The next night, we went for dinner with Steve Lansky, who was John Shannon’s producer. Lansky took us to an upscale steak house called Caesar’s. I was so green, twenty-four years old and just chosen as the new Flames guy, and I didn’t know what was what, but I was in this fancy place, so instead of a regular beer I was determined to have a cocktail. The waitress came by, and I said, “I’ll have a Heineken, please.” That was my version of a cocktail. Lansky looked at me and said, “We work for Molson. If you ever make that mistake again, it will mean your job.” And that’s when it hit me—I was in over my head.
We rented a townhouse in Woodbine, in Calgary’s southwest corner. Our house was next door to a 7-Eleven. I still loved junk food. I’d go in around 9 in the morning, stop and pick up breakfast on the way—a 7-Eleven coffee and a packaged Vachon chocolate square, topped with a little dab of caramel. Absolutely delicious.
Mom and Dad gave us what furniture they could—stuff they had in their basement, including coffee tables, end tables and a couch. Our only luxury item was a waterbed Cari’s parents had given her for Christmas. By the time we bought all the staples you need to live, we were broke. It was neat. We didn’t have much money that first Christmas, so we limited ourselves to $75 apiece. I splurged on two little plush Christmas mice by Gund. They were $20 each, which was way too much money when you only have $150 between the two of you. We still have them, and every Christmas I feel good when we bring them out.
I was lucky enough to do the Flames’ broadcasts for two seasons, 1984–85 and 1985–86. Badger Bob Johnson was the coach. I got to interview some great players—Jamie Macoun, Joel Otto, Tim Hunter, Colin Patterson, Doug Risebrough, Perry Berezan and Al MacInnis. All the guys were just phenomenal interviews, but Lanny McDonald was the guy who took me under his wing.
On my first day, in 1984 at the Saddledome, before I had done a Flames telecast, I was walking down the hallway outside the Flames’ dressing room, and there he stood with that big, red handlebar moustache. He was dressed like a hero from a Hollywood western—cowboy hat, blue jeans and a long leather coat that looked like it might be concealing a long gun. I was trying to decide what to say, but before I spoke, Lanny said, “Hey, you’re the kid from Red Deer. I’ve heard many good things about you. W
elcome.” He reached out and shook my hand. “Remember this. I’m from the little town of Hanna, up the road. If I can make it here, so can you.”
I’ve always loved Lanny for those words. I’d watched him from afar for many years. Edmonton had joined the NHL in 1979–80 as part of the WHA merger, and the Flames moved to Calgary the following year. By 1984 the Oilers had a beloved superstar in Wayne Gretzky, and the Flames had a terrific player in Kent Nilsson, but they didn’t have what Edmonton had, which was a player that everybody in the city absolutely loved. Until, that is, Lanny McDonald got traded from the Colorado Rockies to Calgary in November 1981, and then the Flames had their guy.
Lanny grew up in Alberta and played junior hockey in Medicine Hat. After playing for the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Colorado Rockies for a number of years, he joined the Flames. In 1982–83 he had a remarkable 66 goals and 32 assists. It seemed like every time he shot the puck it went in the net. The fans loved him. He could have been elected mayor, premier, whatever. He was huge. In 1988, he was near the end of his career. It would turn out to be his last year, and most people thought before the season started that he should hang them up, it was over. But he had some unfinished business to take care of—to reach 500 goals and 1,000 points and win a Stanley Cup. Those three targets seemed impossible, but by the end of the year he had accomplished them all.
Cliff Fletcher and the original group of six owners—Norm Green, Harley Hotchkiss, Norman Kwong, Ralph Scurfield, B.J. Seaman and Doc Seaman—were grateful for what Lanny contributed, just as the current owners are with Jarome Iginla. Had it not been for Lanny, Calgary would have been second fiddle in the province. He gave the Flames a chance to be the talk of Alberta. I always believed that Lanny should have been part of the organization in a management or advisory role on hockey matters, and that his hockey acumen was undervalued. But I thought there was a feeling that maybe this guy was so much bigger than the organization, they wouldn’t be able to call the shots with him around, so they kept him sort of at arm’s length. Some were uncomfortable with how big he had become.
It wasn’t just the players who were good to me. My co-workers were all supportive in a way that made me feel that I belonged. Our sports guys, Ed Whalen, Grant Pollock and Mike Lownsbrough; our weatherman, Jimmy Hughes; and our anchors, Larry Day, Steve Abrams, Debra Lamb and Brenda Finley, treated me with kindness and respect. I felt if I could fit in with Larry and Ed and that gang, I wasn’t in over my head professionally. I was in over my head socially, of course. I was clearly a hayseed when it came to that part of the equation.
One Saturday night, Brenda Finley, who anchored and also worked as an actress, rushed in after performing in Chicago to read the 10 o’clock news. We were about five minutes from air. We were making small talk and I said, “It’s been a long week. I can’t wait to finish my shift and go for a couple of brewskis.” And she looked shocked. She said, “Do you drink?” I said, “Yes, of course.” And she said, “God, I thought you were a Mormon.”
11
THE ROYAL VISIT
My first-ever home broadcast was my third show with 2 & 7, on November 7, 1984. Our broadcast team had just come home from games on the road in Washington and Detroit, and then we rolled into the Calgary Saddledome to cover the Flames versus the Blackhawks. I was nervous. In the second intermission, I was going to get the chance to interview Harold Ballard. He was in Calgary to promote the upcoming allstar game. I knew if I could just do a good interview with Mr. Ballard, I’d be on my way. The kid from Red River would have a chance. Whenever Ballard and his friend and confidant King Clancy—or the Canadiens’ play-by-play and colour team of Danny Gallivan and Dick Irvin—came into town, it was like a royal visit.
Ballard was brought into the studio to be interviewed just before the puck dropped in the third period. He strolled into the room, bigger than life. The Leafs had a huge entourage. Jim Gregory was hanging around; Gerry McNamara, the GM at the time, was there; and Bob Stellick, who was the public relations director, came along, and of course there was Clancy. The whole thing, to me, was just surreal. Ballard sat down in the chair beside me, and I started the interview. I got the countdown and, straight to camera, I said, “Welcome back to the Calgary Saddledome. We are pleased to be joined by the owner of the Toronto Maple Leafs, Mr. Harold Ballard. Mr. Ballard, it’s just wonderful to have you out here in Calgary. Of course, we’re all wondering—while you’re out west, who’s running the country?” It was a really, really lame, wise-ass remark. I don’t know what I was trying to prove. I was trying to be funny.
Mr. Ballard didn’t even acknowledge it. He just said, “Here, I’ve got a letter I’d like you to read,” and he handed me the letter. I glanced at it and saw a lot of writing. So I said, “Well, gee, Mr. Ballard, we’re a little tight for time. Maybe you could give us the gist of the letter.”
He said, “It’s very simple, young man. I’ve written a letter to the president of the National Hockey League, Mr. John A. Ziegler Jr. It is regarding Marcel Aubut, president, CEO and co-owner of the Quebec Nordiques, who has come up with a cockamamie, hare-brained idea of bringing the frickin’ Russians over here to play in the all-star weekend. Now, there is no way I’m letting the Toronto Maple Leafs participate. If you read the letter, it tells you how come.”
I had lost control of the interview, and I realized that, after my stupid monologue, we were out of time. I said “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ballard, we’re just really tight for time. They’re about to drop the puck for the third period, but maybe you could just tell us your concerns.”
He said, “Yes. It’s very simple, young man. No way will I help with bringing the damn communists over here, giving them our money to fill their guns with lead to kill your kids and mine.”
An electric shock went right through me. Did he just say what I heard him say? I nodded and smiled and thanked him for taking the time to join us, and then I threw to Ed Whalen and colour man John Davidson.
Despite Harold’s feelings about Mother Russia, Aubut did go on to organize Rendezvous ‘87, the two-game Canada–Soviet Union hockey series played in February 1987. The Soviet Nationals played a team of NHL All-Stars in Quebec City. The NHL team won the first, 4–3, and the Soviet team won the next, 5–3, giving the Soviets the 8–7 win.
I enjoyed my time on air with Ed Whalen and John Davidson immensely. Ed was magic, and he was humble. He told me how he’d had to chide himself during his first hockey broadcast. He said he’d had to have a good talk with himself during the intermission, after an awkward first-period performance. He’d say, “Come on, Ed, pull it together here. Get mad! You’re doing a horrible job because you’re allowing your nerves and your fear to overcome you.” That was his way of telling me, “Ron, you’re going to go through that. Don’t be discouraged. It happened to me.”
Ed was a godsend as a mentor. He had a Gestetner typewriter from circa 1910, while the rest of us were on electric typewriters. Ed would sit at this old machine, thinking about what to write, and while he did he’d take his chewing gum and stretch it out arm’s length in front of him. Visitors would always want to see the iconic Ed Whalen, the most legendary broadcaster in the west. And there he was, pondering his next verb with chewing gum dangling two feet between his mouth and his fingers.
In the autumn of ‘85, I was covering my first NHL training camp, in Moncton, New Brunswick, because I had been too green to go my rookie year. The Moncton Golden Flames were Calgary’s affiliate from 1984 to 1987, as well as the Boston Bruins’ farm team from 1985 to 1987. Gary Roberts had been Calgary’s first-round draft pick the year before, in 1984. It was his first camp, and he was feisty.
We were treated very well. The front office held a little banquet for us, a little spread at somebody’s home. It was lobster as far as the eye could see, and beer and champagne on ice. Here I was, a kid from Red Deer, in only my second year of broadcasting in the NHL. I was like, “Holy geez.”
Al MacInnis came up to me and asked if I had heard any trade r
umours involving him. Did I know anything? Was he going to be traded? I thought, “Wow! Here’s a guy that couldn’t be more of a star, and that’s how unsure life is for these guys.”
Being around the players in a setting away from Calgary and most of the media was a great opportunity to get to know them on a more personal basis and to understand things from their point of view, especially since there were only about five of us broadcasters on the trip. The main thing I learned was to give these guys their space. The very next year, Don Cherry’s first instruction to me when we went on the road together was, “Don’t go inside the dressing room and don’t stand behind the bench at practices, because that’s the players’ sanctuary.” He told me, “They will tolerate you and they will be cooperative and the whole bit, but they will resent you being around. It’s much better if you’re not up in their faces. Let them come to you.”
One night in Moncton, we were all in a little bar called Ziggy’s. Brian Burke was still a player agent at the time, and he was there as well. This was two years before he was made director of hockey operations for the Vancouver Canucks. A skirmish broke out in the bar, and Burke got up and took care of the troublemaker. It turns out he had worked part time as a bouncer when he was younger. He sat back down for a couple of beers, and he and I started talking about goaltending. I said, “I really find it ridiculous that Pete Peeters wears that long sweater down to his knees. I guess he thinks that will stop the puck from going through his five-hole.”
Burke said, “Well, I appreciate your candour, but Pete Peeters is my client.”
Twenty-five years later, Burke and I are still at it. Burke is now president and general manager of the Leafs. In December 2010, I texted him to invite him onto HNIC, telling him I’d love to have him rebut some of the reports about Phil Kessel, Nazem Kadri and Tomas Kaberle and to assess Dion Phaneuf’s performance. I told him my angle was going to be, “Is Ron Wilson’s attempt to toughen and battle-harden these kids on his team out of date?” I told him he was welcome to argue either way. Nothing mean-spirited, just edifying.