by Ron MacLean
I’d been to their house a few times when she’d been wearing a wig because of the chemo treatments, and I didn’t even notice. I had sat at the kitchen table across from Rose and I didn’t even pick up on it.
Rose was great. She would get angry with Don if he interrupted me or put me down on the show. He’d go home and she’d say, “You are the most ignorant guy I’ve ever met.” A writer out of Edmonton used the phrase “Bambi eyes” when he described how I looked when I was slighted by Don. I thought that was so funny. Sometimes it did appear as if Don was being rude to me. I loved it, and Grapes delivered the lines with such perfect cruelty. One time, we were in Anaheim for an Oilers–Ducks game, and just before we went on, I told Don that Marty McSorley and I had been discussing how the Ducks were chasing the Oilers behind the net. It’s usually a no-no in hockey to chase a player behind the goal on a fore-check, but the Ducks did it to force players like Jason Smith to move the puck faster than they wanted to. I said to Don, “I’ll say, ‘I have a couple theories,’ and you say, ‘Shut up, I’m sick of your theories!’” Our boss, Richard Stursberg, was watching, and told Grapes he loved how he nailed me good.
A lot of times, I got slapped down when I would try to help Don remember a story. And even though I knew he was completely lost, he’d say, “Will you just shut up? I’m the one telling the story here.” One time, an interviewer questioned him for telling me to shut up, and he said, “I go too far sometimes, but he should know better than to interrupt me when I’m on a roll.” There can be only one wolf with his tail in the air on the show. I understood that going in.
Rose was the greatest. She gave Don his comeuppance at every turn. One time, we were at a Christmas party and I drank way too much and was kind of making an ass of myself. Don kept it going by telling the bartenders to keep running me beers. Rose was furious at Don for having them overserve me. She was protective like that. She was very protective of Don, too, but sensible about it. She wasn’t starstruck at all. She didn’t want this high-profile life. She was a really nice, strong lady.
On Monday, May 26, 1997, Don and I were staying in Windsor, getting ready for the Detroit–Colorado game. The series was three games to two in favour of the Wings (who went on that night to win 3–1 and advance to the Stanley Cup final). Don called me up and told me, “Ron, I have to leave in the morning to be with Rose.” But nobody else knew she was dying.
I went on to the Detroit–Philadelphia series alone. It began Sunday, May 31. A couple of minutes before the show went on the air, Bobby Orr, who had been looking for Don, came up to me at the Zamboni entrance and asked, “Ron, what’s going on?”
I decided to let Bobby know what was actually shaking down. I said, “Here’s the situation. Rose had stem cell surgery and things aren’t working.” As I talked, I started feeling bad. The floor manager called out, “Ten seconds to air.”
Bobby said, “Look at this. Some idiot got mustard all over my pants!”
He was feeling as tough about it as I was, but he made the remark to distract me from the sadness so that I could concentrate on work. It was incredibly unselfish.
On Coach’s Corner that night, I said that Don was away to attend to a family matter and, “As is the Cherry way, he wanted me to say, ‘I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.’”
Rose died the next day, June 1. I flew home and missed game two of the series. I rejoined the crew on June 5. Don did not. Don was done—he was done.
Grapes would be the first to tell you he went a little crazy during the stretch after Rose died, but I thought he held it together remarkably well. Eating became a problem. Rose’s death had broken his heart and his rhythm. Don still lives by a strong circadian rhythm—a twenty-four-hour cycle that’s most prevalent in dogs and the plant kingdom, where everything repeats itself exactly to the minute from day to day. Dogs will come for their food at the exact same time every day, and they like to go for their walk at the same time each day. Don had a morning ritual. Rose and he would sit in the solarium and have coffee. She was his sounding board. He wouldn’t even pick up the papers. (He never reads the paper in front of anybody. He considers it bad manners.) Sitting with Rose kick-started his day. So not having her there ate away at him horribly, and it killed his appetite. He started looking a bit frail.
However, his desire to work remained, and the first show that he did when he came back the following season was a pre-season game out of Japan. Mark Messier and the Canucks played Paul Kariya and the Anaheim Ducks. That first show was a tough one, but he got it back on the rails.
Don had lots of women coming by the house, bringing apple pies and trying to offer comfort. But he didn’t bite. He figured some of them were just gold diggers who were after his money or fame. I wasn’t sure he was right, but he’s like a finely tuned athlete—way too aware of everything. World-class athletes, like Don, get into a bubble where their focus narrows.
Don had gone from pro hockey player to TV personality, yet he’d maintained that same regimented lifestyle. That included his appearance, his diet, his exercise, his preparation. After Rose’s death, he was worried about his performance and how some of the things he was supposed to do to get ready for the show were gone. Most of all, he was sad. Really sad.
In the spring of 1998, I was emceeing a dinner to honour former Leafs Stanley Cup legends, and Don came with me. His daughter, Cindy, and son, Tim, and I were all trying to think of things to do with him. He was still grieving Rose and seemed sort of lost. Don hates dinners. He cherishes the time he spends in his basement, so I kind of forced him to come. But I knew that guys he knew, like Gerry Cheevers, would be there. During the dinner, a nice-looking woman in her forties came up to me and introduced herself as Luba. She said, “Ron, would you sign this card for my brother Ihor?” I did, and she said, “Do you think Don would sign it?”
I said, “Luba, you go over and ask Don. He will be happy to do it for you.” She hesitated a little, and I said, “He won’t bite.”
Later that night, she came back to the table. “I bet you get this all the time, but I just want Don to know that I’ve spent a lot of my career in the hospitality industry, organizing professional dinners, and if Don would ever like help with an event, or company to have lunch or dinner with, this is my phone number. You can do what you want with it … you probably think I’m a crackpot for even suggesting it.”
But I didn’t think that at all. On the car ride home, I said to Don, “I got a phone number from a woman named Luba. She mentioned that she’s done a lot of organizing and such in her life, and if you need any help with dinner—”
Don said, “Look, I’m not looking for anything right now in the way of companionship, for sure. But hang on to the phone number. When you get home, put it on the fridge in case I need her for something. Don’t let Cari find it in one of your pockets!” I guess Don didn’t realize I do my own laundry.
A few miles later, he asked, “What did she look like?”
For some reason, I remembered that she wore bright pink lipstick and I remembered that she was attractive and blonde, but that’s about all I knew.
During the playoffs that year, he kept asking me questions, “Well, was she tall? Was she short? What was she like?” But I couldn’t remember those details. Finally, he said, “Well, do you still have the phone number?” I did, and I brought the number with me to the third round of the playoffs—Washington was playing in Buffalo. Don went to the morning skate. He was dressed in a suit and, at sixty-four years of age, looking good and feeling pretty confident that day. So he went back to his room and called Luba.
He had the phone receiver just inches off the hook, with his head down and his mouth close to the top of the table. He identified himself and then said, “Luba, is the situation still the same as you described it to Ron at that dinner at the Inn on the Park?’”
He decided that if she hesitated even a second, he was going to slam down the receiver. He couldn’t stand the rejection. But she was cheerful and said, �
��Absolutely, Don. I’m certainly available and would be glad to meet you for lunch if you like.”
He said, “I’ve got to finish the playoffs, but after the playoffs I’ll come out to … where is it you live?”
She told him she was in Caledonia, which is a town down by Hamilton. They set a date, but he didn’t know what to do. Should he take her to lunch? Take her to dinner? Take her to a movie? We talked a lot about it, but I was very little help. My expertise on dating ended in high school.
Finally, he drove down to Caledonia in his big white Lincoln. Meanwhile, Luba had told all the neighbours, “Don Cherry’s coming, but when you see him, please don’t make a fuss. Don’t run out and bother the man when he gets here.”
When he arrived, most of the neighbours were sitting on lawn chairs in the driveway two doors down, drinking beers. And as he pulled up, they were yelling, “It’s Grapes! Hey, Don! Over here!”
Grapes got out of the car and went to the door and saw that she had a really nice figure. He was happy about that. In fact, upon first meeting her, he was quite smitten. He called our house that night and left a message on the machine saying, “Ron, I have only two words for you: knock out! You don’t know much about hockey, but you sure know about good-looking women.” A year later they eloped to Vegas.
I love Luba. She has a good heart and seems to see the best in everyone. She’s so agreeable that Don’s pet name for her is Absolutely Luba. But she’s not a pushover. Grapes always tells her to just keep away from him during the playoffs because, when he gets home, he’s not a very nice guy to be around. Afterward, he asks for five days of total solitude. He’s tired. During the 2011 Vancouver series, he said to her, “You’re happy I’m leaving again. It’s okay, be honest. You won’t miss me. You’ll be relieved.”
I told him he could change all that with a page from my book. “Clearly, if you did all the laundry, made all the meals, walked the dog and did the ironing, Luba would miss you more. Just ask Cari.” Don looked at me and said, “You know what? I always thought you were kidding until I saw you fold hockey sweaters.”
Whenever we go on a trip, I do the driving, and Luba makes us these amazing sandwiches. Don’s a happier guy now that she’s around.
21
THE OWNERS SMELLED BLOOD
Don has a scathing wit and temper, and whenever I ride too high he cuts me down. When I interviewed Gary Bettman in April of 2002, during the seventh game of the Eastern Conference semifinal between Ottawa and Toronto, I was hard on Gary. Cari watched from home and told me Gary had placed his hand on top of mine fourteen times to try to interrupt me. I had no idea he was doing that. We were deep into the conversation, going toe to toe. Sometimes, instead of patting me, he said, “Ron … Ron … Ron …” I was pleased with the interview, but Grapes felt sorry for Gary. Afterward, he pulled me aside and chastised me for sticking it to the NHL boss. He said, “C’mon, Ron, that’s not your style.”
In his book The Rise and Fall of the Press Box, Leonard Koppett, one of the twentieth century’s most famous sportswriters, wrote about commissioners. He said they are the agents for the owners and should be treated with respect, and that the pitfall in challenging the boss is that although people will admire you for standing up to authority, you have to be careful to make sure that’s not your motivation.
In 2002, when Grapes admonished me for my contentious interview with Bettman, that’s what he was talking about.
Gary and I have had several interesting on-air chats. I look forward to them because the dynamic in our relationship is kind of like two bantam roosters with their chests puffed out. I like him, I really do, but he becomes so defensive when I get after him. Bettman’s awkward in a way that reminds me of Dustin Hoffman in the movie Rain Man. It’s interesting that he ended up representing the establishment, because guys like him make great advocates for the underdog.
Gary is a fast-thinking guy with lots of nervous energy. He travels at 100 miles an hour. I remember meeting with him when he was just appointed commissioner in February 1993. He said, “I’ll take you for lunch.” We went to this Chinese restaurant, and we were in and out in about ten minutes.
His job is so secure. He did the owners the ultimate service by breaking the players’ union, so he deals with them from a position of strength. Essentially, his job is to try to modify and coordinate the interests and demands of thirty owners, and he’s done an amazing job of that. He is very smart and always ensures that he approaches the right people so he can divide and conquer. He has enough protection now that he maintains control. And you have to respect him for that. His job involves law and politics, and he is brilliant at both. He doesn’t need to know hockey. His forte is the business of hockey. He wants the standings tight so that every fan in every city believes that their team has a shot at the Cup. The 2004 lockout and the resulting salary caps achieved that, and a lot more, for the owners. To this day, what happened is still a contentious issue.
On September 14, 2004, the ten-year-old collective bargaining agreement between the league and the players was due to expire. Negotiations began early in 2003, and Bettman, on behalf of the owners, was determined to do what he had failed to achieve ten years earlier—implement a salary cap. Bettman argued that the owners’ biggest expense was player salaries, which accounted for 75 per cent of their budgets.
Their primary issue was cost certainty, so that they could plan for future expenses. But there was much more at stake. A cap would increase the value of their franchises overnight.
Bettman faced off against Bob Goodenow, the executive director of the NHL Players’ Association. Goodenow was smart, tough and cunning, which made him perfect for the job. He was determined to let the market decide what players should make. He felt hockey stars could not achieve their full earning potential without a free market.
Both Bettman and Goodenow were educated at Ivy League schools. Goodenow graduated from Harvard in 1974 and from the University of Detroit Law School in 1979. Bettman studied industrial and labour relations at Cornell and got his law degree at New York University in 1977. The two fought hard, but as September 2004 rolled around there was still no deal. On September 15, the league announced it was locking the players out.
Bettman claimed cost certainty was essential to the deal. Just prior to 2004–05, the owners’ public report claimed the league had lost almost a quarter of a billion dollars. Goodenow offered a 24-per-cent rollback on player’s salaries for one year. He knew that if the PA could avoid a salary cap, the players would eventually make up the rollback money. But with Goodenow’s softened position, the owners smelled blood.
My favourite source in these matters is Rodney Fort, who at that time was an economics professor at Washington State University. He’s now at the University of Michigan. He wrote, “First, the NHL accepted the NHLPA’s 24-per-cent rollback offer. They have announced it and it is built into all of the subsequent calculations they do at the NHL web page.
“Second, in addition to that rollback, they now demand a ‘floating limit’ proposal that really is their previous cap demand, to the dollar, in a thinly veiled disguise.”
Bob Goodenow really had his work cut out for him. He kept asking, “Why should labour accept a system that doesn’t permit management to pay an individual as much as it wants?”
Leonard Koppett also wrote about labour strife and pro sport commissioners. “Whose ultimate influence counts most, for a settlement before or after a strike actually occurs, is seldom obvious. Usually it comes from someone, or some factors, outside the formal bargaining.” And with respect to the lockout, that was absolutely the case.
Several of the players’ agents were the primary outside force pressuring for a resolution. During the lockout, they had a powerful voice. The agents who pushed the hardest were cash-con-strained—they had lines of credit with the banks that payments had to be made against. They knew players only want to play. “Listen, you may only have five good years. Are you sure you want to sit out for one or
two of them?”
Goodenow said this was short-sighted on the part of those agents who supported the cap, because in a capped environment agents provide zero incremental value and their commissions are tied to the cap. The players cannot make a dollar more or a dollar less. Instead, there is a formula that determines how much is spent, and it’s just a matter of who gets what. The only decision is, how much do the first-line guys get? How much do the second-, third- and fourth-line guys get? It’s an allocation issue. The formula just spits out the number. “Player X, you’re worth $15 million a year, but we’re going to get you $8.5 million. I’m going to negotiate less, but not too much less than what you really should get. Then I’m going to charge you 3 per cent, because even though I’m not going to get you as much as you should get, it’s not as little as it could be.”
Second, some of the wealthy players with seniority didn’t hold the line. There were guys who’d earned $50 million to $100 million in their careers. When they risked losing up to $10 million to sit out a year, they buckled. And at the end of the day, all players paid the price.
On February 15, Bettman put his “final offer” on the table—a salary cap of $40 million. Goodenow agreed to a cap of $49 million that would grow with revenue. Bettman made another “final offer” that would expire the next morning for a set limit of $42.5 million. The deadline came and went, and Bettman cancelled the season.
Rudyard Kipling said, “If you don’t get what you want, it’s a sign either that you did not seriously want it, or that you tried to bargain over the price.” The deal Goodenow offered was their bargain price, and the two sides could have agreed on the fluctuating revenues and saved the season, but the owners locked the players out anyway. Was it because they were bent on breaking the union and serving up Goodenow’s head on a platter?
Goodenow, on the other hand, thought the length of the lockout was helping the NHLPA gain a stronger negotiating position. He misjudged the players’ resolve and the agents’ influence. For at least four years ahead of the contract negotiations, he had warned the players that the owners would be willing to lock them out for a season, and maybe even deep into a second, over the salary cap issue. He told them that if they weren’t willing to hold out, then they might as well negotiate a cap up front. He told everybody to start tucking money away, and promised them that, in the end, it would be worth it.