On Family, Hockey and Healing

by Walter Gretzky

  Wayne’s celebrity didn’t come upon him, or us, suddenly. Don’t forget, people were paying close attention to him, in both positive and negative ways, from the time he was a kid in the minor leagues, outscoring his teammates and opponents—most often, boys who were older and bigger than him. Because there was a lot of jealousy toward him and my other boys when they were growing up, I would tell them to not only play their best every night, but also to cheer their teammates on. Have manners, be polite. Wayne was signing autographs in his teens, and one thing I did try to teach him was to appreciate his fans and treat them nicely. And I taught him and the other boys that when it came to the press, I expected them to tell the truth and not run away. If someone wanted to do an interview, I told them to try to do it. Take the time and talk to them.

  I believe in being open, but still, you do have to wonder sometimes at the lengths to which people will go just to get near or collect some kind of souvenir of a famous person like Wayne. For awhile there, I was actually a little concerned about my younger kids walking home from school alone or being out on their own late at night. Like any parent, I was worried about what could happen to them, but especially once they had such a famous brother. I warned them to be careful and aware at all times, and, fortunately, nothing bad ever happened.

  Being asked for autographs and mementos was one of the first indicators that things were going to be different now, for all of us, and by the ’80s, such requests were a part of our life. We weren’t the only ones who Wayne’s fans would approach. Once Wayne really got going with the Oilers, even our extended family and friends started to get calls, out of the blue, from collectors and memorabilia hounds from all over the world, asking if they had any items of Wayne’s that they might like to sell. You can be sure that in the case of our true friends, the answer was and is no. Wayne has signed and given away things to family and friends, which they consider to be very special, beyond any mere monetary value.

  We’ve even had people going through our garbage—honestly! I have to thank our neighbours for being so tolerant. Cars come through here all the time, clearly on the lookout for the Gretzky house, and often the people in the cars will stop and ask one of our neighbours, “Where’s the Gretzkys’?” People get out and take photographs. It felt odd the first time a stranger knocked on our door and asked me to come out and pose for a picture, but I’m used to it by now.

  Once, I was sitting in the living room, where I could see out the front window. Along came a car, which slowed down—obviously, it was someone coming to see the house where Wayne Gretzky grew up. Nothing unusual about that. Suddenly, the car doors flew open, and two young girls, around eleven or twelve, jumped out and ran onto the lawn. They bent down and started pulling up the grass! When they had a few clumps, they raced back to the car, and it sped off down the street. I just shook my head, amazed that anyone would want a piece of Gretzky grass. It was truly bizarre.

  The funny thing is, a couple of years ago, I told that story during a speech in Kitchener, Ontario, and got a lot of laughs. A while later, I was at a Hallmark store, signing autographs and figurines of Wayne, and a lady came up and said, “Remember that story you told not long ago in Kitchener, about those two girls snatching the grass from your lawn? Well, I was the driver of the car.” I couldn’t believe it! I asked her whatever became of the girls, and she told me they were the daughters of family friends from Nova Scotia, who had been visiting her during summer holidays. Both girls were now grown up, still living in the east, married, with children of their own.

  I was delighted to hear this, and I had an idea. I asked the woman if she’d give me their addresses, and she did. I went home, pulled up some grass and sealed it up in two plastic bags. I sent them off with two notes saying, “I imagine that grass you took is getting awfully old and dry. Here’s some fresh grass. Yours truly, Walter Gretzky.” You know, I never did hear back from them, but I get such a kick just thinking about the looks on their faces when they opened their packages and read those notes!

  Being in the spotlight sure brought a lot of craziness to our lives, but, as I’ve mentioned, we had some time to get used to it. The younger members of the family can’t remember a time when Wayne wasn’t getting a lot of attention. You never knew how a person might react to Wayne or even to you, just because you were related to him. On the up side were all the people who recognized exceptional ability when they saw it. They sincerely wanted to see Wayne realize his potential and were excited by the possibilities. On the down side were his critics, who either resented his talent or thought it was too good to be true.

  One person in the media who always criticized Wayne, and I could never figure out why, was sportscaster Dick Beddoes. It didn’t matter what Wayne did, Beddoes just always kept saying that Wayne was overrated, that he wasn’t as talented as everyone thought, that eventually his luck would run out and he’d fade away into oblivion. It was hard to figure out why the man had such a negative attitude. But years later, I was talking about him with one of the local sportscasters who said, “No, Walter, Dick didn’t really believe that Wayne was that bad. In fact, he had a lot of respect and admiration for him. He just kept saying all those nasty, outrageous things to keep his ratings up.”

  Think about it: more people would tune in if Dick Beddoes made controversial statements than if he just stuck with more predictable comments. That had never occurred to me.

  I was often taken aback by what people had to say about Wayne. I’ll never forget the day back in 1989 when I was flying to Edmonton to see him break Gordie Howe’s scoring record, as we knew he likely would at the game that night. It was all very nice on the plane, since Wayne had decided to bring me out first-class. Making conversation, I asked the lady sitting next to me where she was going, then realized that was kind of a stupid question, since we were on a plane, going to the same place. She said she was going to visit her daughter, who she hadn’t seen since her wedding several months earlier. She asked what I was doing, and I said I was going to see my son. Then I pulled a magazine out of the bin in front of me and, wouldn’t you know, it was the Sports Illustrated with Wayne on the cover as Athlete of the Year. The lady started in, “Oh that Wayne Gretzky, he’s no good.” She proceeded to criticize him for the next few minutes. She really had nothing positive to say about him at all. I should have told her right then and there who I was, but I didn’t want to embarrass her. I just put the magazine back in its place, with the cover facing in, and tried to avoid conversation.

  Soon the flight attendant came along to ask us all what we wanted to drink with our breakfasts. She went along the row, addressing us by name. “And what will you be having, Mrs. Smith? And Mrs. Jones?” Finally, she got to me. I was cringing as she said, “And Mr. Gretzky, I guess you’re going out to Edmonton to see Wayne score that goal? You must be very proud of your son.” Well, the look on that lady’s face! I felt sorry for her, but, on the other hand, I guess she had it coming. She hardly touched her breakfast, just sipped at her coffee, and I had trouble eating the food in front of me, too. I’ll tell you, it was a very silent flight. We just sat side by side, our arms crossed over our chests, staring straight ahead the entire time.

  People have often wondered why I didn’t retire when Wayne hit the big leagues. I remember that when I worked for Bell Canada, I used to dream all the time about the day I’d retire. Although juggling Wayne’s travel schedule with my job wasn’t something I complained about, and I was able to use my vacation days to go to the boys’ tournaments over the years, it all would have been easier if I’d had more leisure time and flexibility. I would think, “When I retire, I’ll be able to sleep in if I want to, stay up late, go away for two or three days at a minute’s notice and not have to worry about getting back.” Of course, the irony is, only a few months after I did finally retire, I had the stroke, and that cured me of making plans and dreaming too far into the future for the rest of my life!

  I did, at one point during those years, take a six-month leave
of absence, but as much as I might have fantasized about the freedom of leaving my job, I didn’t feel ready. Wayne kept urging me to give it up for good. His thinking was that I could do some work for him. I guess in the end I felt better earning my own money, living in a house I bought and paid for myself. It was a matter of self-respect. Also, what kind of example would I be setting for my other kids, who were still either living at home or just leaving the nest, if I quit my job and lived off someone else’s success? That’s not a very good lesson on how to live your life, in my opinion. You have to make your own way, and I wanted my kids to understand that.

  After the six months were up, I had to decide by eight o’clock on the morning of the day I was due back whether I’d work or be done with it. The night before, I sat around for a long time thinking about what I should do. Phyllis had already gone to bed. Finally, I went in to the bedroom and said, “Phyllis, wake me up in the morning. I don’t want to be late, I’m going to work.” I’m glad I did. I put in my thirty-four years, and I have a pension from Bell Canada. Mind you, I never see it, because Phyllis spends it, but, all joking aside, I’m happy I went back.

  I know my stubborn independent attitude was frustrating for Wayne sometimes. He wanted to give us a new house on a couple of occasions, but we didn’t feel right about it. The first place he bought for us was huge, a mansion. We went and looked, but we just could not see living there—it wasn’t us. Next, he tried to surprise us by buying a property that he thought we could build something on. That plan got foiled when I was at city hall one day and a woman in the planning department, who obviously did not realize it was a secret, asked me about the property. Again, Phyllis and I said no to uprooting ourselves. It’s not that we didn’t appreciate the gestures. I’m proud of the fact that Wayne is a generous-hearted person, always thinking of other people and eager to share his good fortune. The crazy thing is, once he became a star and could really afford anything he wanted, people started giving him things: cars, trips, watches, works of art, you name it. That’s the strange way celebrity works. You have to have a good head on your shoulders to handle it, especially in the beginning. I think Wayne has managed really well to keep all the consequences of fame and wealth in perspective.

  He has helped the family, too, no doubt about it. We finally put an addition on our home, which really comes in handy with a family the size of ours, especially now that our grandchildren are coming along. And Wayne’s wife, Janet, insisted on giving us a pool in the backyard, where the rink used to be. We’ve been here forty years and we’re very comfortable. We don’t plan on moving any time soon.

  While I was happy to continue working for Bell, I must admit that once Wayne became famous, I sometimes ended up in awkward situations on the job—even worse than that encounter with the lady on the airplane. On one occasion, I arrived at an office to fix a teleprinter, and the young woman at the receptionist’s desk asked me where I was from.

  “Brantford,” I told her.

  “Oh, so do you know Wayne Gretzky?” Not wanting to get into it or seem boastful, I just said, “Yeah, sure, everybody knows everybody in Brantford.”

  Well, she proceeded to launch into a scathing attack on my son, how her fiancé had played with him in minor hockey, and how Wayne was nothing but an overhyped so-and-so who didn’t deserve all the attention he got. She was really quite vicious in her remarks. I was under the desk repairing a wire, just praying she’d stop and that she wouldn’t expect me to respond to what she was saying. Mostly, though, I wanted to stick close to the phone on the desk, because I was expecting a call from another Bell man, who would be checking to see if the repair had worked.

  When I turned away for just a moment, the phone rang and the young woman picked it up. After a couple of seconds, her eyes got wide and she gasped. I swear, she threw down the receiver and backed away from the desk and out of the office. “You’re NOT …!” she kept saying, “You’re NOT …!”

  Of course, my colleague had asked if he could speak to Mr. Gretzky.

  I have to admit, I felt sorry for her. Funnily enough, I never again got a call to do a repair job at that office. Incidents like that taught me over the years that whenever the subject of Wayne came up, even if I sounded like I was boasting, it was best for everybody concerned if I just immediately jumped in and said, “I’m his dad, you know!”

  I may have kept my day job, but that didn’t stop me from following Wayne’s career closely. I’ll admit, I got quite wound up when it came to hockey, especially if it was a game in which a son of mine happened to be playing. If I was watching a game on TV, I would get really upset if the people around me talked too much. A few friends used to come by regularly to watch a game in the basement with me: Butch, Eddie, Bryan and Ronnie Finucan. I’m afraid they’d all tell you, I could be grouchy if they didn’t keep quiet. It got so bad, and Phyllis got so fed up with me, that we ended up having two TVs in different rooms, so anyone who thought they had to chat while watching the game could watch it elsewhere.

  BRENT: You didn’t make noise while Dad was watching the game on TV. No way! He had his own room, and we were the rowdy crowd in the other room: me, Glen, my mum, a couple of our friends. Glen used to put signs up for the playoffs, like seat designations, banners.

  My dad had just a plain room. He’d be watching TV with a red phone right beside the couch, so he could pretend he was calling Glen Sather to give him some coaching tips. You had to be quiet if you went in to his room—there were no ifs, ands or buts about it. If you got too loud, he’d look at you and you just knew: shut up and get out.

  I have to thank our neighbour down the street, Roly Bye, who installs satellite dishes for a living, for making it possible for us to watch a good number of Wayne’s games that we’d otherwise have missed. We got to know Roly in the late ’80s. Wayne had already given us a dish so we could watch all his western games— it certainly beat an old radio rig-up with one little earphone!—but the thing wasn’t very reliable. I phoned Roly one day and said, “Wayne’s playing tonight, and I can’t get a darn channel on this dish. Do you think you could come up and look at it for us?” He fooled around with it and managed to get a picture, but it was terrible and there was no sound at all. He didn’t think there was much hope of getting what he needed to fix it that day, but he kindly said, “Walter, if you want to come down to the house tonight, we’ll be watching the game there. And you’re welcome to bring your friends.” I didn’t want to impose, but I didn’t want to miss the game, either.

  ROLY BYE: That’s a night I won’t forget. I didn’t think Walter was going to make it, you know. The starting time was eight o’clock. I thought he’d be here early, but just about right on the button, the door flies open, and in comes Wally. He sat on the chesterfield, my wife, Gloria, sat in her chair and I sat beside him. I said, “Do you want a beer, Wally?” He said, “Oh no, I can’t drink beer.” “Pop?” “No, I’ve got ulcers. I can drink milk, though.” So I got him a big glass of milk. I’ve never seen a guy so intense. You wouldn’t believe it. He sat there like a little kid with his feet under him. And he was like that right until they got about three goals ahead. Then he just laid back and relaxed, put his feet on the coffee table.

  Thanks to Roly, we saw all of Wayne’s games. If there was a problem with the reception, he’d come over on those cold winter nights to fix it. Sometimes he was already in his pyjamas, but he never complained. We would stay up till three in the morning, watching the game. It was a way of life around here!

  EDDIE RAMER: Watching Wayne’s games with Edmonton, on television, Walter’d have his watch out, seeing how much ice time Wayne was getting, and he could get very upset: “He’s not out there for the power play! Why isn’t he out there?!” or “They took him off before the power play finished!” Very intense. Enjoyed it thoroughly, but was right into it.

  BUTCH STEELE: Oh, he would pace and pace and pace. He would just be stomach and nerves and smoking and pacing. Back and forth. And whether it was Wayne or Ke
ith or Brent, it didn’t matter which one of the boys, if they had a key game, if they didn’t play well, you know, he wouldn’t get upset, but he’d say, you could have done this better or that.

  People joke about me being harsh on the boys about their performances. I do recall times when Wayne would score five of eight goals in the game, and I’d say, well, why didn’t you score all eight? And when he called me after one game and said, “I did it, Dad, I did it!” I said, “Did what?” “I broke the record!” And I said, “What took you so long?” But really, of course, I was proud of him. In fact, I’ll say the thing that made me proudest was the fact that he’d take the time after a victory to call his dad and tell him about it. Being thoughtful like that is one of his greatest achievements, in my opinion.

  WAYNE: What can I say? My dad was there every step of the way for me, so it was just the most natural thing in the world for me to think of and include him whenever something major happened. Those were special times, and I knew how much it meant to him to see me, to see all of us, succeed.

  I do believe in gentlemanly conduct and helping others out whenever you can, even if it means going a little out of your way. Bob Coyne teases me about this. We started to get to know each other in the late ’80s, when he was taking a Brantford minor hockey team to Sweden. I called Bob three or four weeks ahead of when they were scheduled to leave, which was on Boxing Day. I said, “Bob, if you’re taking a team of kids to Sweden, you’ll need some of Wayne’s stuff to trade over there. European kids are big on trading at tournaments. I’ve got lots of stuff; you’ll want to come up here and get some.” Bob tells me now that he just didn’t have the nerve to come pounding on our door to take me up on my offer. Two weeks went by, and I called him again. “You haven’t come up,” I said. “No, I’ve been busy.” I said, “Well, get right up here. I’ve got all this stuff out. It’s sitting here.” He said, “When would you like me to come?” I said, “Tomorrow at four.” Well, we missed that time for one reason or another, and we arranged for another date, and another date after that, but we didn’t connect. And now we were down to Christmas night, and I called again. “Bob. Walter Gretzky. You still haven’t got here.” He said, “Well, it’s Christmas night. We’re flying out tomorrow morning.” I said, “Get up here right now.” He said, “I can’t come to your house on Christmas, Walter. You have your whole family there and everything.” I said, “No, no, no. They’ve all gone. It’s quiet. Just Phyllis and me here right now. Come on up.” So reluctantly he came up. Damn good thing. I had three green garbage bags full of Wayne memorabilia. Everything from eight-by-tens to water bottles with pictures of Wayne on them, buttons and pins. Phyllis was happy to part with the pile, I’ll tell you.