by Sean Avery
Hockey players did not typically hang out in Amy’s bar, but any Jersey girl knows who the Rangers are and Amy is a Jersey girl. Amy became a self-proclaimed Rangerette and started coming to games because I was hanging out in her bar. She took it upon herself to turn the New York Rangers’ green room into a revolving cast of A-list models/actors/directors/actresses. At any time you could see the likes of Paul Haggis, Gerard Butler, Scarlett Johansson, and Sienna Miller paying homage to the Blueshirts in the green room.
Amy became a close friend and a golden ticket. Eventually I was one of the few guys on the planet who could walk up to the door of Bungalow 8 and walk right in no matter who I was with or how I was dressed. As a matter of fact, this very thing happened one night when Brendan Shanahan had found his way into the Bungalow after a game and for some reason I was already home.
After the second text from Shanny calling me out for being home already, I walked downstairs to my car, which at that time was a matte black Audi S8 (faster than a Ferrari but a mature four-door), and pounded down 10th Avenue, running red lights until I was double-parked and inside Bungalow. Shanny broke out in laughter when he saw me walking through the crowd à la Goodfellas, still wearing my bathrobe.
New York is the city that never sleeps, and since the day I arrived I’ve been on call.
One night Amy connects me to Mary-Kate Olsen, one half of the infamous twins who starred in Full House for eight seasons, starting from when they were babies. MK is very smart and she loves music and socializing over cocktails and cigarettes. We hit it off and talk fashion and music and finally around 4 A.M. we both walk out onto West 27th Street a little worse for wear.
The funny thing about this story is that I actually became very close with her security guard, Bill Durney (and remain so to this day). Along with his partner, Dale, Bill had taken care of Mary Kate and Ashley since they were little girls. Everyone slags on these girls, but they’re Hollywood success stories and have grown up to be successful businesswomen. Not many child stars end up as normal and successful as they have done, and considering these girls’ fame and fortune, they’ve made it through the fire not only alive but very, very well.
I also met Scarlett Johansson, who had begun her beautiful, blond ascent into the starry ether that was the home of the A-list actors, and Amy Sacco introduced me to her the same way: as the star player for the New York Rangers. I always got a little embarrassed when she did that, but she knew what she was doing and it was OK because it was Amy.
And thank you, Amy, because Scarlett pulled out a joint and asked if I wanted to join her in enjoyment of same, and so we went to Amy’s private office in Bungalow 8 which was normally off-limits unless Clooney or Pitt needed some privacy.
Privacy was also part of Amy’s genius. She never blabbed to the media about who or what happened in her club, and the giants guarding the door were so smooth at lifting that velvet rope that I’m willing to wager the NYPD—who were dying to get a look inside—never did because those savvy doormen would clock an undercover cop at fifty paces.
Scarlett and I enjoyed the joint and made small talk—yes, I had spent the night with the Stanley Cup, and she had spent the night cheering for the Yankees, but she still liked the Rangers—and we were feeling the vibe of the “groovy cool” music DJ Uncle Mike was spinning for the club, which drifted through the closed door of Amy’s lair. I could see that Scarlett wanted something in that moment, and I don’t think it was me in particular, but she leaned in and we kissed.
We sort of just flowed back out to the club to sit and enjoy the music pumping through our bodies. NYC nightclubs play the music so loud that conversation becomes difficult, so we chilled and smoked a few cigarettes. I liked her, and I did the same thing I did when I met Rachel, at least in spirit. I gave her a bit of unexpected sass. I got up from the table and extended my hand to her and said it was a pleasure and I think she’s a very interesting woman (this always confuses women because they immediately question whether I think they’re pretty enough). I gave her a kiss on the cheek and walked out. I never asked for her number.
We went out a few times after that night and it was always set up by Amy, telling me she was going for a drink with Scarlett and I should come. I smile every time I think about Amy Sacco.
On March 16, 2007, we play Atlanta. We lose in a shootout, which means we still get a point. And I score again. The next night, we play Boston. It’s St. Patrick’s Day, and in New York City that means everyone is Irish for the day and there’s a massive parade up Fifth Avenue and booze everywhere—it’s like Mardi Gras crossed with New Year’s Eve. Tonight, the luck of the Irish was certainly with me, as I had one of those games where everything bounced the right way. Every fourth shift I seemed to come off the ice with a point.
It’s my first four-point game in the NHL and it feels like I’m flying. I realize on this night that I’d played too hard over my career, and what I mean by that is that I played holding my stick too tight. I always wanted to play so very well for my team and for our fans and for the hot girl I’d invited to the game, but I didn’t have the carefree attitude that most “pure” goal scorers have been blessed with. When I get in tight on the goalie and have some time to pick my spot I’ve been rushing my shot, and invariably bury it in the goalie’s chest. Easy save.
But tonight I’m loose and seeing everything on the ice, and patience runs through my blood. The lights are brighter and the fans are louder and while I may have had an assist from lucky St. Patrick, I know that I’ve worked all my life to be in this place. It’s a huge moment for me as a person and as a player. I know that New York has had a big influence in this transformation. I don’t think that how I played before was wrong, because it got me to this point. But I was gaining a new confidence in myself and my game because now I realized that not only could I play at the highest level, I was also a pretty good player.
On March 21, the guys in orange and black from the City of Brotherly Love come to town, and I am in a hospitable mood. This is the most comfortable I’ve ever been in my own skin since I can actually remember, and my life in this city has inspired me to raise the level of my game to a place that excites me. If you can make it here . . .
I score my fifteenth and sixteenth goals of the season tonight and we send the Flyers back to Philly on the wrong end of a 5–0 game. It’s one that they’ll remember, as my teammate Colton Orr showed everyone in MSG tonight why he is hands down the toughest guy in the NHL, and easily the toughest man I’ve ever played with or against.
The Flyers’ Todd Fedoruk picks up where he left off against us a month ago, and resumes his maniacal freight-train routine, trying to run our guys through the walls of MSG and onto 7th Avenue (which is actually six stories below ice level). We knew that this was going to happen, and Colton Orr knows his job, so he’s ready and waiting because he’s keenly aware that if Shanny has to step in again, then he’s probaby looking for work elsewhere. He would have been losing sleep over the fact that he hadn’t been out on the ice the last time Fedoruk went apeshit and Shanny had to handle it.
So Fedoruk nails four guys before Colton gets on the ice and puts a stop to it. They exchange a couple of punches, and tussle a bit, and then Colton lands a ferocious right to Fedoruk’s jaw. I was standing five feet away on the ice when Fedoruk took the best punch that Colton has ever thrown, and it’s the only time I’ve ever truly believed that a player just died in front of my eyes. I swear I thought he was dead.
Fedoruk is lying on his back with both arms bent at a ninety-degree angle and they are convulsing slightly. MSG is dead silent. New York fans can be hard on visiting players, but I’ve also seen them give standing ovations to stars like LeBron James on his fifty-point night against the Knicks. They appreciate excellence.
They also have compassion, and now they’re in shock as the paramedics and doctors surround Fedoruk and the stretcher is wheeled onto the ice. I look at Colton sitting in
the penalty box, a huge ice pack on the hand that just did that to Fedoruk, and I know by the look on his face that he thinks he may have just killed Todd.
One moment you want to kill a guy and the next you’re being escorted to a mock prison cell wishing you’d taken just a little off the finishing punch. I don’t wish the job of NHL heavyweight on anyone.
The whole arena and both benches exhale in relief when we see that Fedoruk is conscious, talking, and has movement as he’s carted off the ice on the stretcher. Although Colton did come back to play for a few more seasons in the NHL, this fight really affected him, and he was never the same after it.
It’s the end of March and we’re battling with nine other teams to secure a playoff spot. To give you an idea of how tight it is, today, March 25, sees us sitting in the fourteenth spot in the NHL with eighty-five points. Sixteen teams will make the playoffs, and we have a three-game road trip ahead of us. Tonight’s opponent, the New York Islanders, are currently out of the playoffs, and yet they’re only two points behind us. We’re all laser focused to make sure that we’re not going to lose our spot.
My roommate on the road is Colton Orr. Even though Colton is the toughest player in the NHL, he’s a real teddy bear off the ice—if a teddy bear had paws that look like he put them through a meat grinder. Off the ice, he keeps to himself a lot, going to movies alone and not really hanging out, but I figured that was just fine, because as long as the Rangers needed a tough guy, then Colton Orr had a job in the NHL. We complemented each other, but were in competition. I stirred things up with my agitating and now Colton protected the talent from abuse by our opponents.
Colton has some demons, and sometimes he’s too honest with everyone around him. I say that because honesty can leave you open to people with ulterior motives being able to use that honesty against you. For instance, Colton had been sober for a while, but when we were in Montreal a while back he went out and tied one on. A well-known punk of a Montreal drug dealer brought him back to our hotel room in the middle of the night and demanded money from me, money he said Colton owed him. Colton was out of it, and this guy was trying to rough me up, but he picked the wrong guy. I had both my hands around his neck and slammed him against the wall and told him he was leaving now and never coming back. He agreed.
The next day, Colton sat the entire team and coaching staff down and told everyone about his slide from sobriety. I know he felt he had to do it, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone, and I could see that some of the guys didn’t take this information the way he meant it to be taken. They just looked at him as weak.
But tonight, in another “must win” game, Colton scores our first goal of the night and his second goal of the season and the guys on the team are jumping up and down on the bench because we’re so happy for him. Colton makes all our lives easier because just having him dressed and in the lineup protects us. No one wants to leave an arena the way Todd Fedoruk left it.
Colton’s goal is the only one we score in regulation, and the game goes into OT. Michael Nylander wins it for us in overtime.
Our next game is in Montreal, and the Habs are another of the teams swarming around the same playoff spot as we are. They’re three points behind us. In my opinion, Montreal is the hardest NHL rink to play in, not just because of the ghosts of all the greats who have worn the bleu, blanc, et rouge, but also because I made a comment about French players wearing protective visors running around and taking shots at guys and from that day forward I was Public Enemy No. 1 in Montreal.
In truth, though, the Canadiens were the only other NHL team that showed any interest in me, and they even invited me to their training camp, but I picked the Wings because I knew Kris Draper. So I always had a soft spot for Montreal. As I said before, I enjoyed playing the character of the villain, but that didn’t automatically make it easy. The way I got motivated was partly through my desire to win, and a lot through the people yelling and screaming at me to fail. They fueled me and I played into it and that’s how my engine ran.
In Montreal we would walk to Bell Centre and autograph seekers would hound us for autographs—not kids but the professionals. I would tell them to “va-t’en foutre” (which means “go fuck yourself”) in the hope they would tell their friends that it was all true, I was the biggest scumbag on skates. I enjoyed messing with them.
We lost in Montreal that night, 6–4, and now, with five games left in the season, we pretty much have to win them all if we don’t want to be golfing come the playoffs in April.
On the very last day of March, we play the Flyers in Philly. We open the scoring three and a half minutes in, but the Flyers tie us twenty seconds later. Two minutes after that I feed the puck to Matt Cullen, and he pops it to Ryan Callahan, and we get the lead and never give it up. We won that huge game 6–4, and I played more than eighteen minutes.
On April Fool’s Day we play our biggest game of the season at MSG against the Toronto Maple Leafs. We have eighty-nine points and still occupy the fourteenth playoff position, and Toronto has eighty-seven points and aren’t in the playoffs at all. Yet. This season is going to go right to the very last game. Toronto scores first, and then I tie it with an unassisted goal, my seventeenth of the season. I get an assist on our fourth goal, and then I score my eighteenth—again unassisted—on our way to a 7–2 win over the Leafs.
Oh, and near the end of the first period I had a fight with Darcy Tucker that wound up with me on top. I have a Gordie Howe Hat Trick with a goal to spare.
The sweetest sound is the eruption of MSG with the A-V-E-R-Y chant after I score both goals. I’ve captured the hearts and minds of the New York Ranger fans. These blue-collar cops and firefighters and Teamsters love my “no fucks given” attitude. I’m representing the workers of New York, and hard work is respected more than flash in the world’s greatest city.
• • •
It’s April 5, and Montreal is in town to play us. It’s our second-last game of the regular season, and Montreal is two points behind us and chasing a playoff berth. Because of my whole new level of game, I’m playing on a line with the great Jaromír Jágr.
He was not on my favorite-player lists when I was growing up because Brett Hull took up all of that space, and I didn’t realize what a machine this guy was until I played beside him. He is easily the strongest player in the NHL—able to outmuscle anyone and protect the puck as he works his magic. After he and I assist on our third goal and we meet in the pile to hug and high-five, I realize for a second how small I look beside a mountain of a man like Jágr. But then I shake it off and pretend I never saw myself in this mirror.
He was crazy when it came to superstitions. When he went on a hot scoring streak, he wouldn’t cut his fingernails or toenails. And some of his streaks were pretty long. It must have been painful to skate that way, especially if he ever took a shot off the toe. I’ve seen guys who cut their nails pull their toenail out of their sock after getting a blast in the foot, but that was Jags. Superstition in the NHL is really more about routine than anything else—you do the same thing over and over, and you don’t want to break the routine because it could disrupt your game. Not cutting your nails, however, was in a class by itself.
Jágr was a big kid in a big man’s body. When he wasn’t playing or practicing hockey he watched cartoons and ate cereal and slept a lot. I mean, he slept fourteen hours a day minimum.
We won the game against Montreal 3–1, and other teams chasing us lost, which helped us squeak in. We’re going to be in the playoffs.
I realize my life is now the best it’s ever been and all of a sudden all the pains of a long season go away. I’m logging nearly twenty minutes a night, and we’re going to take on Atlanta in the quarterfinals for the 2007 Stanley Cup.
• • •
After the last game of the regular season I’m feeling so confident and happy that I want to celebrate. So I decide to expand my nightclub repertoire, and p
ick the Beatrice Inn, which, true to my nature of taking the hard way, was actually the most difficult club to get into in New York City.
Angelo and Todd were roommates who also ran the door to the Beatrice, and part of their job was to read the face of every person trying to gain entry to the basement of this West Village apartment building, which was kitty corner to the Cubbyhole, New York’s famous lesbian bar. You couldn’t buy your way in, and if you looked like you were going to hit on every woman in the place, that wouldn’t work either. You just had to give off the vibe that you belonged inside.
Banking on my success at Bungalow 8, I walked up to the door of the Beatrice and asked to speak with the owner. I can’t remember if Todd or Angelo was the one who actually went inside and brought Matt Abramcyk out. When he looked at me I could see the confusion and excitement on his face, because Matt was a born-and-bred New Yorker and a diehard Ranger fan who still wore his Starter jacket from the sainted year of 1994, when his favorite player Mark Messier ended the Curse and brought the Stanley Cup back to town.
New York loves winners, and the city expects its sports teams to win every game and every championship, but even when they don’t, the love doesn’t die. When the Rangers won the Cup in 1994 it was not only a win for the city but also for hockey, because it put the game back in the spotlight, even though New York has always been a hockey town. The Rangers are as respected and loved as any team here because they’re part of the sports fabric of the city. People still talk about Greschner and Duguay and the hot models they had on their arms in the 1970s, and about Messier and Madonna in the 1990s, and now they talk about me.
The Beatrice was so exclusive—no, check that, so curated—that they would not automatically admit a Yankee, Met, or Knick, and certainly no visiting players. Actually most professional athletes would not fit comfortably inside because the ceilings were just under seven feet.