Hockey Dad

by Bob Mckenzie

  That was no problem. I actually preferred Mike go into college as a twenty-year-old freshman because his skating and strength still weren't where they needed to be.

  As it turned out, the St. Lawrence scholarship offer was for three years, meaning I would have to pay for one year. The amount, $40,000 (U.S.), was not insignificant, but if you calculated the cost of Canadian university for four years, minus what Saginaw would have paid, it was pretty much a wash.

  The three-year scholarship, or three-for-four as it's called, is not uncommon in the world of college hockey. It allows the schools that do it to divvy up more scholarship money among more players. Plus, if the player turns out to be a bust in the first year and quits, there's no expense to the school. A lot of scholarship players do get full rides, all four years paid for, but those kids have real competition for their services.

  Beggars can't be choosers, they say, so Mike and I were thrilled to take what was offered. Mission accomplished.

  32: Bada Bing, Bada Boom: Once a Buzzer, Always a Buzzer

  ONE OF CINDY'S FAVORITE QUESTIONS to me is: "Do you ever get tired of being wrong?"

  No, dear, apparently not.

  When we orchestrated Mike's move from Bowmanville to St. Mike's, I warned Mike about what he might be getting into.

  As good as we expected the Buzzers to be and for as much as they promoted players to the NCAA, I thought Mike might experience a little culture shock. The Buzzers were composed of primarily two types-Italian-Canadians and graduates of the Greater Toronto Hockey League (GTHL). Actually, it was mostly Italian-Canadian graduates of the GTHL.

  I try not to fall into the stereotype trap, but our OMHA community-hockey sensibilities were that a lot of GTHL people, generally speaking, emphasized a different value system, one where self-interest was dominant. As for Italian-Canadians, well, without getting myself into any more trouble than I already am, let's just say the stereotype is they tend to be emotional and excitable (not like my Irish kin…yeah, right).

  The I.Q. (Italian Quotient) on St. Mike's was extremely high.

  The management/coaching staff consisted of two DePieros and a Ricci. The trainers were Frescura and Coccimiglio. The opening night lineup was Tisi in net, with Lozzi and Potacco flanking Cogliano up front. On defense, it was Zamparo with Schmidt.

  Schmidt? Okay, so there was a token German-Canadian (just kidding, Horst). We mustn't forget Cassiani and, thanks to a few mid-season trades, Forgione, Dileo and Sgro.

  I thought I had found my kindred spirit in Buzzer owner Mike (Ace) McCarron, only to discover he's as Sicilian as he is Irish. Well, there was always Father Mike (Lehman), the popular team chaplain.

  Anyway, here I was telling Mike how he could be walking into this dressing room of self-centered extras from The Sopranos and, what was it Cindy said, do I ever get tired of being wrong?

  Mike's two seasons at St. Mike's with the Buzzers were the two best years of his hockey life. Mine, too. That is saying something, because Mike led a charmed life growing up in Whitby, and playing for and with great people in Oshawa and Bowmanville, too. But there was something special about St. Mike's, especially those two Buzzer teams that won back to-back OPJHL championships in 2005 and 2006. There is obviously a rich tradition at St. Mike's, but it was the people-the management and staff, the players, the parents, the families-who made it something special. It was as if all of us who were there at that time knew we were in the midst of something quite special, on and off the ice; just as we all still know it today. The value system with this group was extraordinary. The St. Michael's College School motto is "Teach me goodness, discipline and knowledge." GM/coach Chris DePiero created one for the Buzzers-"Commitment, belief, trust." It was all of that, and then some, fostering a special feeling that is best summed up in another slogan: "Once a Buzzer, always a Buzzer."

  So, after our two years there, even I became a full-fledged, honorary paisan. If Bert or Carm or Sam say the word, I'm there, baby, and I'm bringing the porchetta and spiducci.

  Of all the dumb things I've ever done, and you know there have been several, this was easily the dumbest, and potentially most hazardous.

  It was a Sunday afternoon game in Ajax, a month or two into Mike's first season with the Buzzers. The Axemen were, by far, the worst team in the league. This one was over early; the Buzzers were up by five or six after the first period. Midway through the second period, Mike beat a guy one-on-one at center ice and went in on a breakaway but failed to score. The guy who got beat raced back and drilled Mike in the head from behind and received a five-minute major and game ejection.

  A minute or so into the power play, Chris DePiero put Mike back on the ice. While the play was going on, and St. Mike's was setting up in the offensive zone, whichever Ajax player was closest to Mike tried to get him to fight. They would spear him or whack him. It wasn't just one player; it was every Ajax player on the ice who came within ten feet of Mike. I'd never seen anything like it when a team is killing a penalty.

  Now, I will be the first to admit there were some nights when entire teams wanted to rip Mike limb from limb. Some of those nights, I would even say he brought it on himself, for bumping a goalie or trash-talking or hacking someone. But in this game, I couldn't for the life of me see how he had done anything to provoke that level of response. I was convinced the Ajax players were acting on the direct orders of their owner/GM/coach Larry Labelle.

  Carolina Hurricane scout Tony McDonald was at the game and walked by me as the second period was winding down.

  "Bob, is it always like this for your son?" he said. "No," I replied, "not usually this bad."

  "Well, it's ridiculous," he said. "It's sick, actually, sickening. I don't know how you put up with it."

  I thought about what he said. He was right. This, I said to myself, is bullshit; I'm not going to put up with it.

  The period ended. I made my way to the opposite end of the stands that hang over ice level. The Ajax coaches were walking towards the dressing rooms directly beneath me. As Larry Labelle walked under me, I leaned over and said: "Hey Larry, if you want to fight McKenzie so badly, why don't you come on up here?"

  "Why don't you come down here?" he replied. I don't know what possessed me to do it-I rarely say boo when I'm in a rink watching a game-but I accepted the offer.

  I located the staircase to ice level and as I got halfway down, if anyone had been able to see it, the thought bubble coming out of my head would have said: "What the hell am I doing? I can't fight this guy. I will lose my job at TSN if that happens."

  A reasonable man would have turned around. A smart man never would have gone down in the first place. But since I am sometimes neither, I just kept on trucking.

  Larry and I had a rather spirited verbal exchange. He questioned Mike's manhood and said Mike should drop his gloves and fight. I said something to the effect none of the players on the Ajax team were worth fighting; that he and his team were an embarrassment. What turned out to be my parting shot was that Larry, of all people, should realize any coach whose own son plays on his team should know better than to send players out to fight someone; that maybe someone might decide to send someone out to do harm to his son. How would he like that?

  He didn't. Larry had to be restrained by his assistant coaches. I sensed an opportunity to escape with a little honor, and my career still intact. On the way back up the stairs, Larry's wife and daughter, who ran every aspect of the game-day operation in Ajax, were coming down. They hurled a few choice obscenities at me as we passed. I returned the favor, rather emphatically, only to see that Father Mike, the Buzzers' chaplain, was right behind them.

  "Sorry about that, Father," I said.

  If only that was where the story ended. At the start of the third period, someone told me they overheard Larry's wife telling people she just called the police because "Bob McKenzie from TSN assaulted my husband."

  Great, sure enough, ten minutes later, two of Durham Region's finest arrived in the stands. I walked up
and said hello and started laughing. One of them recognized me, but the other one wasn't as friendly.

  "You think something is funny?" he said.

  "Yeah, the fact you are even here," I said. "That's funny." "You think assault is funny?" he said.

  "Buddy, the only assault here is what's happening on the ice right now," I said and at that precise moment the head coaches for both teams, Larry Labelle and Chris DePiero, were being physically restrained from going after each other behind the penalty box and fighting. "You want to arrest someone, start down there."

  I went outside with the officers. They asked me what happened.

  Did you touch Mr. Labelle?

  No.

  Did you threaten him?

  No.

  Did he touch you?

  No.

  Did he threaten you?

  No.

  At that point, they said they were going to ask Larry Labelle the same questions. I told them the game was still going on. They said they didn't care; they would take him off the bench in the middle of the game. And they did.

  Ten minutes later they were back outside and told me the matter was closed, they were convinced no assault of any kind had taken place.

  Whew, baby.

  On the way home, Cindy asked me if I learned anything from that day.

  "I'm a badass?" I said.

  She wasn't amused.

  Actually, I did learn a valuable lesson that day. I hope the Labelles did, too, although I suspect their enlightenment, if it occurred, took place a little after the fact. The kicker to my story is their story.

  A matter of weeks after that game, a visiting player in Ajax who had once played for Labelle took a vicious run from behind at Larry's son. Lucas Labelle was laid out and it was, by all accounts, a terribly frightening situation, where he was down on the ice for five minutes and had to be taken off the ice on a stretcher. There was speculation that the hit by this player may have been aimed as much at Larry as his son. As the player who made the illegal hit was escorted off the ice towards the dressing room, he was confronted by two women.

  He had coffee thrown at him and there was an attempt to hit him with the metal bar that was used to secure the door to and from the ice surface.

  Larry's wife was charged with two counts of assault and assault with a weapon. His daughter was charged with assault with a weapon and uttering threats. It was a front-page story on the Toronto Sun. When it went to trial about a year later, Larry's wife was found guilty of one charge of assault, but she and her daughter were acquitted of all other charges. Larry's wife was sentenced to one hundred hours of community service.

  I don't take pleasure from any of that, because at the core of it was what could have been a potentially catastrophic injury to a young man, and no parents-not Larry, not me, not anybody-should ever have to deal with that, especially if it's initiated because of the player's surname or who his dad happens to be. I would like to think we could all learn some valuable lessons here. Every kid on the ice is someone's son and we're all responsible for our own actions, on and off the ice.

  Just remember, you never know when someone is going to call the police and you never know when someone puts in a call to the karma police either.

  There are times you can just sense when a hockey team is coming together and something special is brewing. So it was with the '04-05 Buzzers as they headed into the playoffs. They beat their arch rival, the (now defunct) Wexford Raiders, to win the OPJHL South Division title. St. Mike's-Wexford series were something special, hard and intense, and no love lost. Junior A hockey in Ontario just hasn't been the same since Wexford departed the scene.

  Mike was finally stepping up his game in the playoffs, playing on a line with future NHLer Andrew Cogliano and sixteen-year-old Matt Halischuk, who would go on to be Team Canada's game-winning-goal hero in overtime of the 2008 World Junior Championship. Mike could play hockey a long time and not get two better line mates than he had that playoff year.

  The Buzzers played the Port Hope Predators in the OPJHL semi-finally and although Port Hope was much older and bigger than St. Mike's, the Buzzers won that series in Port Hope in Game 7.

  That put the Buzzers into the OPJHL championship against the favored Georgetown Raiders. Again, the Raiders were an older, more experienced team; bigger and physically stronger, too. It really looked like the Buzzers might be in trouble when Andrew Cogliano went down early in the series with a separated shoulder. But as so often happens, other players stepped up. Mike was one of many who elevated their play.

  He was finally, for the first time that season, playing for St. Mike's the way I had envisioned he would. He scored better than a goal a game in the finally against Georgetown, including Game 4 where, down 2-0 in the third period, he scored a natural hat trick, including the OT winner, to give St. Mike's a 3-1 series lead. St. Mike's ended up winning the series in OT of Game 6 at St. Mike's and the Buzzers were crowned OPJHL champions. For us, it was a momentous occasion. Neither of the boys-Mike or Shawn-had ever won a legitimate playoff championship in hockey.

  After winning the OPJHL championship, the next level of playoffs was the Dudley-Hewitt Cup, the Central Canadian Junior A Championship, which brought together a predetermined host team (Georgetown), plus champions from the Northern Ontario Hockey League (North Bay), Superior International Hockey League (Fort William) and the OPJHL (St. Mike's).

  The winner of that four-team tourney would advance to the national championship RBC Cup.

  Andrew Cogliano returned to the Buzzer lineup for the Dudley and even though he was playing hurt, he was dynamic.

  The Buzzers, though, were running out of gas and injuries were mounting. But they got themselves into the one-game, winner-take-all finallye against Georgetown.

  Georgetown's Alcott Arena was jammed; the atmosphere was charged. I was watching the game at ice level, right up against the glass, in the corner. There was a large group of friends and TSN colleagues with me, including (at the time) out-of-work NHL GM Brian Burke, who was spending the lockout year doing television work.

  Mike's line started. Right off the opening face-off, he came in hard on the forecheck and got tangled up with a Georgetown defenseman, who put him down on the ice behind the net.

  The whistle had gone; the defenseman was more or less draped over Mike while he was down; they were giving each other the business. It got to the point where Mike was flat on his back and the defenseman was still standing right over him. From a totally prone position, Mike put the bottom of the blade of his stick on the defenseman's chest and was trying to push him away when the blade quickly slid up, right into the defenseman's face. It didn't do a bit of damage-no cut, no scrape, no mark, nothing-but the optics and audio weren't good. Mike's stick clipped the other player's visor and pushed the helmet up; it made quite a noise on the plastic.

  The referee wasn't more than five feet away. His reaction was instantaneous. He pointed. Out of the game. A five-minute major for high-sticking.

  I'm not going to say it was a bad call. That doesn't mean I'm prepared to say it was a good one either. The truth is it didn't matter. Mike had, on the very first shift, just been kicked out of the most important hockey game of his life.

  I felt like I could be physically ill. I couldn't say or do anything. It was like I was paralyzed. The Raiders fans were roaring in the stands above me. Brian Burke was standing beside me. He just muttered, "Sorry, Bobby." I had so many friends and work colleagues there with me, but I couldn't even turn around to face them. I felt anger, embarrassment, humiliation and confusion. I continued to watch the game but it was really just a blur.

  I allowed myself to be a totally self-absorbed ass for, say, about five or ten minutes before I realized it was time to start being a father and a husband. Cindy and Shawn were up in the stands. I knew, once the period ended, I better get up there to make sure they were okay. Georgetown fans are passionate; some were more than that. When the first period ended, I walked around the rink at ice
level and by Buzzer owner Mike McCarron, who was with head coach Chris DePiero.

  "I'm sorry, guys," I said to them. "I don't know what else to say."

  Mike McCarron tried to make me feel better by saying it was a "horseshit call." Chris DePiero pulled me aside.

  "Bob, what's done is done, but Mike has to get changed out of his equipment and the guys have to see him back out here," he said. "He's a mess and I understand that. But do me a favor, get him out here. We still have a hockey game to play.

  Our guys need to see him cheering us on, supporting us. It will be good for them. It will be good for him."

  I went into the little room where the players hung up their street clothes and Mike was sitting there alone on a folding chair, still in full equipment, with his head buried in a towel between his knees.

  It wasn't the end of the world, I suppose, but, at that moment, it sure had that feel to it. I went into the room feeling angry, bitter and disappointed that Mike would do something to get himself kicked out and hurt his team when it needed him the most. But the second I saw him sitting there, my heart ached for him. He knew what he had done was wrong. He didn't need me or anyone else to tell him. There are times when, within a family, you simply circle the wagons and offer unconditional love and support. This was one of those times.

  I told Mike to stand up and gave him a great big hug. I told him his team still needed him; he had to get changed, showered and show his face; that he needed to walk out of that room with his head held high; that he should be proud of what he accomplished this season and he had nothing to be ashamed of. I told him, win or lose, to make sure he was in the handshake line on the ice when the game was over; that shit happens; it was over and done with, time to move on and that he had a chance to play many more games, something his brother Shawn couldn't say.