Wayne Gretzky's Ghost

by Roy MacGregor

  Guy Lafleur was convicted in June 2009 and given a one-year suspended sentence. He appealed and, on August 17, 2010, was unanimously acquitted of all charges by the provincial Court of Appeal.

  THE CLOUD OVER VIKING

  (The Globe and Mail, February 16, 2005)

  VIKING, ALBERTA

  They came to say farewell to a man who loved black cows, sappy songs and “pull my finger” gags. They thought, for most of the day, that they would be burying the game he loved best as well—the National Hockey League, where six of Louis Sutter’s seven sons went off to play a total of 4,994 games. They filled the community centre with as many mourners as the town has citizens, fourteen hundred, filled it on a cold clear day where the only lingering cloud was in the conversation before and after the service.

  Is the NHL season over? Will it be, as everyone expected when they set out for Louis Sutter’s funeral, officially cancelled this afternoon in a New York press conference? Or has it—through panic, through coming to senses, through the intervention of three key players—been salvaged just when fans were beginning to accept that the owners’ lockout would mean no season at all this year?

  No one at the funeral knew what was going on in the surprise last-minute meetings between the league and the players, not even Harley Hotchkiss, chairman of the board of governors. “I didn’t even know the man,” said Mr. Hotchkiss, one of the owners of the Calgary Flames. “But I came because, right now, I feel there’s more of the Sutters in all of us than there is in what’s been going on elsewhere.”

  Whatever was going on elsewhere was far, far away from little Viking. Here, they started arriving before noon for a 2 p.m. funeral service. Some came by chartered bus, some wheeled their own chairs down the snow-covered streets. Some wore Hugo Boss suits—the true official uniform of NHL players—and some came in jeans and cowboy boots. Some men tossed cigarettes away at the door and inserted toothpicks; some men gave up their seats to women and went and leaned against the walls.

  They were here to honour Louis Sutter, seventy-three, the seventh of thirteen children and, surely forever, to stand as the Secretariat of hockey breeding. Sons Brian, Darryl, Duane, Brent and the twins, Ron and Rich, all learned the game on the farm slough and went off to play in the NHL where, as a family, they scored a total of 1,320 goals and 2,935 points. They won Stanley Cups and played on so many teams that it is easier to remember the one none ever did play for—the Oilers straight up Highway 14. All six are still involved in hockey. Darryl coached the Flames to the Stanley Cup final last June, and Brent coached Team Canada to the world junior championship last month.

  But the gathering also paid tribute to Grace, the widow who celebrated her fiftieth anniversary with Louis last summer, the mother who sorted out the tube socks and washed the long underwear. By wide admission, Grace was the central force behind a family so smitten with hockey that it was said that, on weekends, you had to go out into the barn if you wanted a breath of fresh air.

  What Louis Sutter handed down to his boys was stubbornness, a willingness to work hard and a strong sense that you are never better than anyone else. The Sutter boys—only Gary, who stayed behind to work the farm, did not pursue a professional hockey career—were consummate “soldiers” in a Canadian game that admires grinders and heart and determination above all else.

  Sutters never complained, never whined, never believed in the self above the team. A stark contrast often noted by those who stayed around to chat while the direct family, with the boys all serving as pallbearers, went off to the cemetery for a private burial.

  People spoke with great affection for Louis, who was obviously sometimes a handful. They told the story of him trying to sneak into town for a drink driving the combine. Even his grandchildren joked about his love for “happy hour,” which sometimes went on “too long.” His great-nephew, Perry Chernesky, talked about the great delight his uncle took in playing the old “pull my finger” gag on any kid silly enough to yank the older man’s finger and suffer the consequences.

  It is unlikely that Mr. Chernesky, a pastor, has ever told a similar story to his congregation in Edmonton. But Edmonton is not Viking. Only Viking has a sign by the elevators claiming to be “Home of the Sutters.”

  It was this recognition as a special hockey family that brought so many of the hockey world out to honour a man many of them had never even met. Kevin Lowe and Craig MacTavish were there from the Oilers. Bob Pulford was there from the Chicago Blackhawks. Former players Lanny McDonald, Jim Peplinski and Rich Preston were there. Hockey Canada president Bob Nicholson was among the mourners, as were numerous scouts and various present players.

  They came to sit and listen while Louis Sutter’s grandchildren took to the podium, their voices sometimes breaking, and told stories about their grandfather.

  “He loved old cows, preferably blacks. He said black cows could calve up in a tree.”

  “Grandpa loved standing oat crops—every year they were going to run 110 bushels.”

  “He loved grabbing handfuls of wheat and chewing on it until he had gum.”

  “He loved country music, especially the old ones, and thought he could sing them all.”

  “Grandpa loved shooting gophers with his old twenty-two.”

  “He loved Grandma’s desserts—especially rhubarb pie and pudding. And chocolate bars from town.”

  “He loved watching hockey and baseball on television.”

  “He loved the Toronto Maple Leafs”—and, apparently, cheered for them even when one of his own would be playing for the other side.

  They played his old favourite songs, John Denver’s “Back Home Again” and Hank Snow’s “Old Shep,” the story of having to put a sick dog down and not quite being able to do it—a slight stretch of a metaphor for whatever might be going on in New York that same afternoon between owners and players.

  Colin Campbell, the NHL vice-president who has spent the past months looking at changes to the professional game and hearing, endlessly, that it is “broke” and just isn’t like the old days, could only stand in the centre of the hall and shake his head. “You see something like this,” he said. “It’s not broke.” But then he had to move.

  They were putting up the tables and chairs for the community supper. And everyone was expected to pitch in.

  Almost immediately after the funeral, NHL commissioner Gary Bettman officially cancelled the 2004–05 season. Hockey returned a year later with new rules against obstruction that heralded a new era of faster, more skilled hockey. Brent Sutter coached the New Jersey Devils but then returned to Alberta, where today he is coach of the Calgary Flames. Brother Darryl resigned as the Flames’ general manager in late December 2010. His son, Brett, is an NHL prospect with the Carolina Hurricanes, where Brandon Sutter, Brent’s son, is an assistant captain. Several other next-generation Sutters are also excelling in hockey.

  TEN

  IT’S NOT JUST “A MAN’S GAME”

  A SCANDAL OF MINUSCULE PROPORTIONS

  (The Globe and Mail, March 2, 2010)

  VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA

  It was their Olympic moment—and, in an accidental way, mine. Never for a moment of any kind—Olympic or professional—did I think of it as a story other than a charming and endearing tale. Perhaps I should resign in disgrace from the profession of journalism. As it happened, I was one of the very few actual witnesses to the post-game, on-ice celebration by the Canadian women’s hockey team last Thursday.

  You will know it as the “booze and cigars” scandal that shook the Canadian Olympic moment to the very core.

  The women had defended their gold medal wonderfully with a sparkling 2–0 victory over archrival United States. They had leapt upon their brilliant goaltender Shannon Szabados with a fervour that suggested, for a moment, that she would become the “Lucky Loonie” under the ice that the men would play last Sunday for their gold. They had screamed and screeched and hugged each other and burst into tears and, in a lovely gesture, had parad
ed about the ice with their Canadian flags and saluted a delirious crowd. Some actually shook and shivered as their medals were placed over their necks and the flag and anthem raised to the roof.

  That, I thought, was the story, and had been happily reworking it with quotes later in the day, when the packed arena had long since emptied. The ice had just been resurfaced. It glistened invitingly. The ice-surfacing machine was still out when the first unmistakable scrape of a skate blade on ice floated up into the press area where a few of us were still working.

  I looked down and smiled to see that the gold medal winners had still not taken off their uniforms or skates, still had not had enough of their special moment. Several came skating out, the ice resurfacer cheering them as he saw what they were doing, even though it meant he would have to do his work all over again.

  Two of the women—Meaghan Mikkelson and Rebecca Johnston—moved to the far end and began making circles in the ice like figure skaters, unaware that from where those of watching stood, their freshly cut circles were very close to forming the Olympic symbol. How serendipitous. Several more players came out. They had cameras. One was carrying a bottle of champagne. Others had beer. One had an unlighted cigar. Another cigar appeared and a lighter. Soon, the almost-forgotten smell of cigar smoke floated into the press area.

  The former captain of the Canadian women’s team, Cassie Campbell Pascal (now married to Hockey Canada’s Brad Pascal), was still there, packing up from her broadcasting job, and the players called her down. She congratulated them and, wisely, left them to their special moment. As everyone should have.

  The resurfacer asked if he could have his photograph taken with them and they were delighted to accommodate, forming an impromptu team photo at centre ice with the ice machine as backdrop. He let them try the machine. All, presumably, had driver’s licences.

  Two of them skated to a quiet part of the rink, lay on their backs, lifted their legs high in the air and shook their skates like little children playing in the snow. I do not know if I have seen anything so sweet and so very, very, very Canadian.

  It never occurred to me that I would write about this except, perhaps, to show that there is something special to being on an Olympic team that goes far beyond any games or medals. But someone must have thought it was scandalous. Women smoking cigars? Women drinking champagne and beer? Didn’t they just win an Olympic gold medal—and aren’t they a hockey team?

  But then someone looking for a peg found a peg—the woman with the beer was not only the one who had scored both Canadian goals but was … wait … wait … eighteen years old! And what’s the drinking age in British Columbia? Why it’s … nineteen!

  Stop the Games. Call out the police. Charges. Disgrace. Take away their medals.

  To me, there is only one thing equal to the embarrassment of a wire service deciding this was a news story of issue rather than an anecdote of great charm. And that is that some people actually took it seriously.

  Hockey Canada felt obliged to apologize for the women’s behaviour. The International Olympic Committee even vowed to get to the bottom of this scandalous allegation of an eighteen-year-old Olympic gold medallist holding a beer—suggesting perhaps the beer in hand wasn’t an official sponsor, who knows?

  What Hockey Canada should have done, rather than apologize to women who had already been insulted that same day by the president of the IOC calling the future of their game into doubt, was offer a single response that might not exactly be in keeping with Canada’s image of a people so polite they apologize as often as other people blink.

  A raised middle finger.

  This “scandal” reflected far more poorly on the journalist who wrote it and the newspapers that ran the story than it did on the women’s team. Canadians embraced their women hockey heroes with all the admiration they showered on the men’s team. Several members of the women’s team said they appreciated someone taking a stand for them. One reader wrote to say that the true “scandal” belonged to me—referring to “a raised middle finger” at the end. Sorry, but I’d do it again.

  WOMEN’S GOLD A RECORD

  (The Globe and Mail, February 26, 2010)

  VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA

  The Olympic gold medal game may not have been decided on an outdoor rink but this one, unfortunately, was played under a bit of a cloud.

  While Canada claimed its third Olympic championship in women’s hockey with a 2–0 victory over the United States, the sport itself was reeling from a headshot delivered earlier in the day by no less than the president of the International Olympic Committee. “We cannot continue without improvement,” said Jacques Rogge. Either women’s hockey improves, or it goes.

  It would, however, be hard to improve upon this championship match played by the sport’s two archrivals, Canada and the United States. With the medal, Canada has set a new high for most gold medals at an Olympic Winter Games: eight.

  The game featured all of good hockey’s essential features—speed, determination, strong goaltending, playmaking, shot-blocking and even a few hard bodychecks (which are illegal in women’s hockey). After brilliantly surviving a U.S. five-on-three power play—Canada’s Shannon Szabados sensational in net—Marie-Philip Poulin one-timed a perfect Jennifer Botterill set-up to put Canada in front early in the opening period.

  The Canadians survived yet another five-on-three American power play—no wonder Szabados was chosen top goaltender and named to the all-star team—and a second goal by Poulin gave Canada the win before a wildly cheering sellout crowd that included Prime Minister Stephen Harper, Wayne Gretzky and B.C. favourite son Michael J. Fox.

  Botterill was ecstatic at the game’s conclusion. “This is the moment. This is just amazing. I wanted to soak up every last second of it out there.” Szabados was equally overwhelmed. “I looked up in the stands and saw a sign that said ‘Proud to be Canadian,’ and that’s what I am today.” Reflecting on the battles against the U.S. team over the years, she said, “This rivalry will never end, it will just keep going on and on.”

  Carla MacLeod heaped praise on her goaltending teammate. “After the third shot of the game, I thought, ‘Oh boy, she is on.’ ” The United States’ Monique Lamoureux was also effusive in praising Szabados. “She played awesome. I tip my hat to her.”

  After the Canadian team almost floated to the dressing room, they returned in full uniforms and skates to celebrate at centre ice, taking pictures, drinking beer and champagne and posing with the ice resurfacing driver. The team called former Canadian captain Cassie Campbell, who won gold medals in 2002 and 2006, down to the ice to join them. Campbell was working on the TV broadcast of the game. To watch this unabashed display of joy, to see the tears on both sides—unbridled joy with the Canadian women, shattered dreams for the Americans—and to watch the pride as the medals were handed out on the ice to the Canadian, American and Finnish players, it would seem impossible that a sport with such obvious fan support could be so under the gun.

  No one argues that there is not a gap problem. The Canadians opened with an 18–0 defeat of Slovakia and the aggregate semifinal score for the two gold medal contenders over bronze medallist Finland and Sweden was a distant and disturbing 14–1. And yet, while it is obvious that the parity some predicted back in 1998, when women’s hockey was introduced to the Nagano Games, has not come about, it is obvious that, at its highest levels, the game is worthy of the Olympics.

  The problem lies in making it a true contest of country rather than a flipped puck every four years between the two North American powerhouses. To accomplish this, the two powerhouses will need to reach back and pull along those who will one day challenge them. It is a matter of self-preservation. At its best, these are elite athletes every bit the equal of the downhill skiers and snowboarders and ice skaters that do not have the head of the IOC saying get better or get out.

  Men talk endlessly about “team” and, while they do give more than token loyalty to the concept, their game is far more individual,
even greedy, when compared to the far more socialistic game the women play. What women play is a game of sharing and support. It has its peculiarities—sometimes they pass too much, sometimes they need to be more greedy—but it also has a genuineness to it that can be extraordinarily emotional.

  All you had to do was be in Canada Hockey Place yesterday afternoon to watch the Canadian women pile onto each other with screams of joy, while at the other end, the American women held on to each other with cries of anguish, to understand that.

  Ask the crowd if it’s an Olympic sport. For that matter, ask the Canadian men’s hockey team—also on hand to cheer on the women, as the women will surely be on hand today to cheer them against Slovakia.

  Improve it must. And improve it will. Until one day, that cloud is forever lifted.

  THE TRIUMPH OF THE CLARKSON CUP

  (The Globe and Mail, July 11, 2006)

  All bow down to the hockey lockout.

  It put skill and speed back into a game that had become Velcro and duct tape. It put confidence back in the Canadian small-market teams. And now it may have saved women’s hockey.

  Hayley Wickenheiser, who is rarely lost for words or, for that matter, goals, took a long breath yesterday before commenting on what the unveiling of the Clarkson Cup meant for the women’s game. Finally, the Olympic gold medallist said it all as succinctly as she could, eyes closed, cheeks bursting: “Phhhewwww!”

  “It’s absolutely true,” said former governor general Adrienne Clarkson, who made the first presentation of the trophy to the Olympic champions. “If there hadn’t been an NHL lockout, this whole thing would never have occurred to me.”

  It was Clarkson who, in the late winter of the 2004–05 lockout season, insisted that “the Stanley Cup belongs to Canada” and should be played for annually, even in a year with no NHL hockey. The famous sports trophy, after all, had been given to Canada 113 years earlier by her predecessor, Governor General Lord Stanley of Preston, and was to be emblematic of hockey supremacy in the Dominion.