by Ron MacLean
In 2000, I got a call from Preston Manning, founder and leader of the Reform Party. His chief policy advisor was Stephen Harper. Manning was scheduled to host the morning show on radio station CFRA in Ottawa for a week and wanted to know about the art of the sound bite. Manning asked, “How do you manage to summarize Coach’s Corner in ten seconds?” A politician’s goal is to come up with an expression that people will remember. I told him that puns were a very effective method of doing that. They had the ability to be moralistic, funny and specific. You can pack a lot into one line.
15
PETER MANSFRED
Don and I were good on air, in a bad way for me. He would bully me, and I’d use the puns to soften the blow and break the tension. In the fall of 1988, I was twenty-eight years old and was in my third year. We were just at the point where we were starting to build a chemistry off air.
Wayne Gretzky had been traded to the Los Angeles Kings that summer—August 9, 1988. And his first game back in Edmonton was October 9. It was a Wednesday night, but HNIC decided we had to cover it. They felt Gretzky’s homecoming was the biggest thing in television. So off we all went to Edmonton. The only problem was that the game started at 7:30 Mountain time, which meant 9:30 Eastern. We had edited a beautiful feature about Gretzky’s glorious run in Edmonton, but there was no sense running it in the second intermission because that would be close to midnight in Ontario and Quebec—and even later in the Maritimes. So for this one time they decided to bump Coach’s Corner to the second intermission. Gretzky’s feature would get the prime-time slot.
We got the countdown for Coach’s Corner, and Grapes started out by saying, “What time is it?” I said, “It’s 9:30. Why do you ask?” He said, “That means it’s almost midnight in the east. That’s stupid. What are we doing here, anyway? Watching Gretzky in a Kings uniform is like watching Secretariat at a state fair. This is a brutal game, brutal team. He’s going nowhere. I’ll tell ya something, Ron, if he scores fifty without Jari Kurri, I will kiss your … hand.”
After the show, the producers, Ron Harrison and Arthur Smith, cornered me. “Ron? What’s with Grapes lighting into the Kings tonight?” The truth of the matter was that we’d bumped Coach’s Corner and Don was mad. But I just shrugged. “What? I didn’t notice anything particularly unusual.”
I got back to my room and phoned Cari. I told her about Harrison and Smith. She said, “Oh, Grapes was great! He was hilarious!” So I phoned Don in his room and said, “Arthur and Ronny weren’t too happy with you ripping the game tonight, but Cari said you were fantastic, and you were. Why don’t you and I go for a couple of beers?” And we did.
The next morning, the Edmonton Sun had a review of the telecast, and the headline read, “CBC Offers Up Mundane Fare with the Exception of Vintage Grapes.” And it went on to say how great he was and how brutal the rest of us were.
We loaded back onto the plane that morning, and as he passed by Arthur and Ronny in business class, Grapes dropped a paper on their laps. “There you go, Arthur, me boy. Just a little light reading for you. And Ronny, you might want to look at this.” My call to his room was formative in our relationship.
In the spring of 1989, Montreal was playing Boston in the second round of the playoffs, the Adams Division final. Montreal and Boston have a great rivalry. By game five, Montreal had three close ones in the bag, so it was do or die. Our guest in the second intermission was Cam Neely of the Bruins. Don was standing over in the corner of the studio, gazing lovingly at Neely as he sat down beside me. Neely was sweating from exertion, and the crew brought over a towel and a glass of water for him as they pinned the microphone on his sweater.
Cam and I sat making small talk while a sixty-second CBC News update was running. Peter Mansbridge was talking about the Exxon Valdez oil spill, which at the time was the worst environmental disaster ever. On March 24, 1989, the oil tanker, on its way to California, struck a reef near Alaska and spilled between 260,000 and 750,000 barrels of crude oil. Then Peter talked about Lech Walesa, leader of Poland’s Solidarity movement, being released from jail. Finally, he wrapped with a kicker about Mustangs. The gist of it was that a 1965 model in mint condition was worth a fortune. Suddenly, Grapes piped up. “When are you doing the interview?”
I said, “We still have ninety seconds of commercials left.”
Grapes crossed his arms in disgust. “That’s ridiculous, Ron! You can’t keep a guy in the studio for all this time, a big game like this.”
I said, “Well, unfortunately, there is nothing I can do.” He said, “Can’t you tape it?”
At this point, we had only one more minute left on the commercial break. I said, “Not really, because we would barely have time to rewind the tape.”
I did the interview with Neely, who seemed okay with it all, and immediately afterward Don hustled over with a poster for Neely to sign. He wanted to make copies for his Don Cherry restaurants. He and Neely left the studio. A couple of minutes later, our producer said, “Ron, you have to find Don! We’ve got a problem with the Zamboni, so you guys are going to fill for a little bit.”
I hollered down the hall at Don, who had almost reached the Boston dressing room. “Don, come back!”
He said, “What?”
I said, “You and I have to go on and fill a little here. The Zamboni’s broken. We have to go on for a couple of minutes.”
He said, “What are you, nuts? I’m not going on again. Coach’s Corner, I was sensational, that’s it. You know I don’t like to try to top a topper. No way. I’m not going on.”
I pleaded with him. “You gotta help me.”
He said, “Well, what’ll we talk about?”
I said, “We’ll talk about the game.”
He said, “Awww, it’s a nothing game.”
I was getting kind of flustered. I said, “Look, I need you. It’s game five of the Adams final!”
He said, “Okay, if you give me something.”
I said, “I’ll ask you how you felt about Cam Neely having to sit here and wait to do an interview.”
We made it to air, and I said, “You know, Don, I know you were a little concerned that Cam Neely was in our studio for close to five and a half minutes when all was said and done because he had to wait for the commercials and the news. When you coached stars such as Phil Esposito and Bobby Orr, what was your policy on doing interviews in the second intermission of important games like tonight?” I don’t know why I used the word “policy,” but I did.
Don paused for a second and said, “What was my policy? What was my policy? Well, I’ll tell you what it was, Ron, and that is that you took advantage, and you people in the [production] truck.” Then he started to ratchet up the intensity. “You took advantage! And you people at CBC, you took advantage! We’ve got to sit here and listen to some Peter Mansfred talk some schluck about Sloberderity … and ‘65 Mustangs, while Cam Neely of the Boston Bruins is waiting to be interviewed. It’s absolutely ridiculous!”
I knew right away the CBC would be unhappy, because he’d brought the news into it. Although I was half chuckling to myself, I also realized I had to figure out how to get out of it. I don’t recall coming out overly smoothly, but I threw it upstairs to Dick Irvin and Scotty Bowman, who had just joined us on the show.
As soon as we were done on camera, I looked over at Don, who was looking a little downcast. I thought, “Gee, he knows he crossed that politically correct line with the CBC by ripping the news division.” I said, “Don, you look upset.”
He said, “I am upset. You see what happens when you put me on and I wasn’t prepared? There’s no way, there’s no way I would have said that.”
I thought, “Good, he knows he shouldn’t have said something negative about the news.”
But he continued, “There is no way in the world I would have ever said a thing like that if I would have had time. I love ‘65 Mustangs.”
16
STUARTT
Cari and I bought our first home in 1989,
one we could afford in Ancaster, Ontario. The locals call the area “the Mountain.” We paid $219,000. I remember that because we sold it for $189,000 three years later. It was a tiny little split-level, a really nice place, very modest. It is one of my favourite homes ever. The previous owners had done a lovely job of landscaping the property. When you stood in the kitchen, you’d look out over the Dundas Valley. In the fall, with the leaves turning, the view was spectacular. We didn’t have a dishwasher. We washed our dishes in the sink, but we didn’t mind because standing there, looking out—just Cari and me—was the most therapeutic time of the day.
We were trying to have a family at the time, and we considered that house a good starter home. We bought it in December, and Cari found out she was pregnant a month later. We were in the back bedroom of our new home and she said, “What do you think? Would this be a good room for our baby?” I took her hand, and together we slid down the wall beside the big dresser and sat together on the floor, smiling at each other. I felt such excitement. It was time. We discussed prenatal classes and how we’d set up the bedroom—
what colour to paint it, because neither of us wanted to know the gender. If it was a boy, would we call him Ron? Or John, after her dad? “How about Ron John?” I laughed.
On April 3, when Cari was three months along, I was in St. Louis to do the opening night of the 1990 playoffs, the Blues against the Leafs. I was at the desk in my hotel room, preparing for game one. Cari called to say she had cramping and spotting and was afraid there was a big problem. She was going to the hospital. As I spoke with her, I stared at myself in the mirror, but I wasn’t there. My entire being was in the phone, trying to reach through it to be with her.
I couldn’t get a direct flight back to Toronto. I got as far as Pittsburgh and had to overnight there. I told myself that as long as I didn’t sleep, Cari and the baby would be okay. I arrived at Oakville-Trafalgar Hospital, where Cari had been admitted. The baby hadn’t made it, and she was crushed. I tried to console her in my clumsy way.
I missed one game and then went back to work. Cari said there was nothing I could do.
We wanted kids. Cari’s parents inspired us that way. Cari’s mom, Bev, was young and hip. She used to buy cigarettes with coloured filters and tobacco sleeves that matched her lipstick or her outfit. She was always very kind to me. The Vaselenak home was full of music, laughs, food and drink. Bev was always hinting that while she loved John and the life she’d led, she wanted Cari’s husband to be the kind of supporter who’d provide well for her. She wanted so much for Cari to be happy. One night, while John was barbecuing in the backyard, I was sitting back with a beer, basking in their companionship, when Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” came on the radio. John smiled at me and said, “Never forget it, Ron.”
We tried again, and after a couple more failed pregnancies, followed by fertility treatments, we sort of wore ourselves out. Finally, we just gave up on the idea of thinking it might happen. We hadn’t applied to adopt, but by then we were in our early forties, so it was too late. Obviously, it was, and maybe still is, a hole, wondering how you would have evolved as a person, and what the joy of a child might have brought.
For Cari, who was very accomplished and orderly, getting her undergraduate degree and then her master’s degree to set up a life for herself, it was very tough. She is my business manager, and she’s great at it. Everybody loves her, but her job is handling “Ron’s life.”
Cari runs marathons, plays hockey and is very involved in several charities. She sits on the board of directors for SOS Children’s Villages Canada, an organization that rescues orphaned and abandoned children around the world, so she does have her own thing going. But I wonder if that is rewarding enough for her. It doesn’t help that I live by the credo that we should love all of mankind equally. I do not distinguish between different types of love. Love is love. Love for the human race, love for your fellow man, love for your wife. Cari and I have had conversations where I try to explain that I love my dad, my friends and her all the same. Grapes once told me that when you are on board a big ship, you can’t trust and depend on four hundred guys. Instead, you must always make sure you find one mate. He said, “Every guy has to have someone who’s gonna notice if he goes overboard.” Grapes was talking about the buddy system. I struggle with that.
Although I am not a Buddhist, I keep coming back to the philosophy that each of us is only one in six billion. We are all interconnected and, consequently, deserving of equal love and compassion. Whether you’re my wife or best friend or a person I just met, I feel I should treat you the same. That bothers most of my friends, and it’s not a quality you look for in a husband. I’ve had a few breakables and shoes fired at my head for reminding Cari about it on the wrong day. But it doesn’t mean she’s not my girl, because she’s the one.
I sometimes feel that without children to sort of rein me in and give me responsibility, I’ve never really grown up. I’ve been able to play hockey, go out with my buddies and become obsessive about work. I’m selfish in a way that children don’t allow you to be. I’m not saying that is a good thing or a bad thing. It’s just the way it is.
On the plus side, Cari says it has made her a strong, independent individual, but it has come at the expense of some intimacy. She says she can’t imagine spending twenty-three hours a day with anybody else. I guess somewhere along the line, she has accepted the way I feel about love. In any case, we’ve somehow made it work.
Our dog Stuartt helped us through tough times. We got her in 1987, the year before we bought the house. Cari has always had dogs. Her family had a nice dog when we were going together. Her name was Tasha, short for Natasha. She was a mutt, some kind of poodle–terrier cross. Cari’s mom, Bev, was the main caregiver for Tasha. She boiled stewing beef or liver for her every night. She also gave the dog Almond Roca at Christmastime.
I picked Stuartt out at a pet store in Oakville’s Hopedale Mall. We had nice neighbours who owned the store. I used to pop in to say hello and look at the animals. This one time they had a schnauzer, and I melted. They explained that the original owner could not keep the puppy, so the store had taken her to sell on consignment. I couldn’t pull out my wallet fast enough. I bought the dog, a kennel, a blanket and two toys. Then, leaving her at the store, I took the other items home and set them up in the back bedroom. Cari worked for the Town of Oakville Parks and Recreation department. She walked in the door just after 5 p.m., and I was waiting for her. I said, “You know how Mom and Dad are coming down here at Christmastime? You should see what I got to surprise them. Go have look in the back bedroom and tell me what you think.”
Money was scarce and we were trying to save for a house. I knew Cari was a little tired of me spending what we had. I was always coming through the door with stuff—bathrobes, Hudson Bay blankets, wine, chocolates, you name it. Cari rolled her eyes and trekked back to see the “surprise.” We had been thinking about getting a dog. Neither of us wanted a small dog. We didn’t want a mastiff, either. We had talked about a Scottie or Westie, for no real reason except that we were both crazy about the little beards on those breeds. Schnauzers have them too.
Thankfully, Cari was tickled about my surprise. We went to Hopedale and retrieved our miniature schnauzer. We loved the name Stuartt. We added an extra “t,” and gave her the middle name Louise to make it more girly. We leashed her up and proudly led her away. She had never been on a leash, and she decided to lie down on her side. So unbeknownst to us we were dragging her behind us. She weighed maybe three pounds at the time.
To celebrate what would be her new “birthday,” we picked up some Gino’s Pepperoni Pizza and Molson Export on the way home. Buying Export made it an occasion. Export cost more than regular beer and had more kick in the taste. We poured it into frosty mugs and toasted our new addition. I decided to give Stuartt a swig out of my glass so that she could properly share in our celebration. Within minutes, she was acting strange. She curled up on the floor and sta
rted whimpering. We rushed her to the vet. X-rays showed she had a gas bubble. A hundred and fifty bucks to solve the problem when a burp would have sufficed. Stuartt went on the wagon after that.
Stuartt was terrified of bubble gum. Maybe dogs have an inventory of fears based on traumatic sights and scents. She’d had her ears and tail bobbed. Maybe the vet or assistant was chewing gum at the time. Even the smell of it got her shaking. The sight of a bubble sent her cowering. I don’t usually chew gum anymore, but when I was in my late twenties I still loved it, so this was a problem. Thank God she never met Ed Whalen.
Schnauzers are either chewers or zoomers. Stuartt was a chewer. In the days before computers, I kept back issues of The Hockey News, sports sections of newspapers, magazine articles and anything and everything written about hockey. It was all stacked neatly beside the desk in our bedroom. One evening, Cari and I came home from a movie and Stuartt had shredded about five years’ worth of research material. There were bits of newsprint covering our entire bedroom. I grabbed a magazine off the desk, rolled it up and started to whack the floor next to Stuartt. I was yelling about her misbehaviour. Lord knows it had probably been hours since the crime, so the connection for her would have been sketchy at best. But she never touched a thing near my desk after that.
Stuartt Louise grew to thirteen pounds. Every day for her was a bad hair day, and like Fiver in Watership Down, she was brilliant. However, she did have a bad leg-humping compulsion. When Todd Swanson, the best man at our wedding, was visiting us in Oakville, we had a great party at the house. We were all gathered in the TV room, and Stuartt started wooing my shin. Before I could shoo her off, Todd took a picture. A little while later, I was booked to give a speech in Red Deer, and when the emcee introduced me he mentioned that I was a dog lover. At the same time, that very photo appeared up on the screen behind me. Todd had sent it to one of the organizers.