The guy who beat me in a fight was Tony Iob, who started with Kingston and then ended up with the Sault Ste Marie Greyhounds. He was a lefty, and he pounded me pretty good when I was a rookie.
But two years later, we had a rematch and I beat him as savagely as he had pounded me. The reason I remember that fight so vividly is because my mother was sitting in the first row, pounding on the Plexiglass, urging me on during the scrap. By then she had accepted that this was the player I needed to be if I wanted to play in the NHL. She knew that fight was important to me, and she knew that winning that battle with Iob was more important than scoring another goal.
That game against the Greyhounds was also memorable because I netted a hat trick against goalie Kevin Hodson, who ended up being my NHL teammate in Detroit.
In Belleville, we had a Bulls head in the arena that lit up, mooed, and puffed smoke every time we scored a goal. We lit up Hodson for 10 goals that night and when we played together in Detroit he told me he still had flashbacks and nightmares about that “that damn bull’s head with its eyes lighting up.”
What I was trying to prove to NHL scouts is that I could be counted on to protect my teammates and to do all of the dirty work that a role player needs to perform at the NHL level.
When the Red Wings interviewed me before the 1992 NHL draft in Montreal, I remember Ken Holland asking me, “What are you willing to do to play in the NHL?”
I looked him in the eye, and said, “Whatever it takes. A lot of guys will say that, but I’m someone who will actually do whatever it takes.”
What I said must have had an impact, because the Red Wings drafted me in the second round, 46th overall. Curtis Bowen of the Ottawa 67’s was Detroit’s first-round pick.
About 40 members of my family were at the draft to hear my name called. We held a party in our hotel room afterward, and I remember that my uncle Vic McMurren, and my two cousins, Chad and Robbie, volunteered to make a beer run when we were running short.
No one was concerned when they didn’t come back for 30 minutes. We just figured they got lost. Even when they weren’t back in 60 minutes we didn’t panic. But when they were gone for 90 minutes, we sent out a search party. Finally, after two hours, they stumbled into the room to report that they had been stuck in the hotel elevator for the entire two hours.
Only then did we realize that the case of beer now contained only empties. The trio had downed the entire case while they were trapped.
We all decided to go out to eat, but Robbie passed out before we got out the door. It was quite a night.
The only irritating aspect of my junior career is that we never truly had a good enough team to make a long postseason run. We were in rebuilding mode throughout my OHL career.
In my first season in Belleville, we were 36–26–4 and then upset Kingston in seven games of the opening round of the OHL playoffs. But we never made another playoff run.
Just making the playoffs was like our championship, and we did that in my final two seasons.
We just weren’t deep enough. In my final season in Belleville, I had the 127 points, Gretzky had 121, and Grimes had 113, plus defenseman Scott Boston had 13 goals and 71 assists for 84 points and Tony Cimmelaro had 39 goals and 83 points. But no one else on the team had more than 50 points.
Another good memory I have of my junior career is playing against Eric Lindros. He was like the LeBron James of the OHL. He just muscled his way into the scoring areas and it was difficult to stop him.
But I would say the Bulls punished him as much as anyone. We never connected on him the way Scott Stevens did in the NHL, but I remember we hit him all the time because he never had his head up.
He had never had to worry about anyone hitting him before he got to the OHL, and we made him pay for his bad habit.
My junior hockey career had prepared me well for my NHL career. But the downside of junior hockey is that you have the ability to live like a wild adult far too early.
You’re away from home when you’re 16, hanging around with 18- and 19-year-olds. You’re away from your parents. You’re with well-meaning coaches and billet families who try to supervise your life, but they don’t know you as well as your parents do. It’s easy to get away with more.
In my first year in Peterborough, I had my first fake ID. I was running around like crazy, drinking, smoking dope, and partying like a rock star. I was probably drinking four or five times per week when I was playing junior hockey.
The night before the OHL draft was prom night at my school, and I recall being wickedly hung over at the OHL draft.
Even though I was a decent student, I failed chemistry and got a 50 percent in math. When I came home, my parents made me go to summer school, taking a bus every day for 45 minutes to go from Leamington to Herman, to bring up my grades.
You can say that I would have been exposed to the same temptations if I’d been going to high school at home, but it isn’t the same when you’re away from home and missing classes because of road trips. The level of supervision just isn’t the same.
I can remember regularly going over after school to watch NHL fight videos with buddies and smoke weed. Could I have gotten away with that had I been living at home?
Mavety had a team rule against players going to bars, but he knew we were all drinking together somewhere. Actually, Mavety’s rule brought us together as a team because it meant we all became friends. Our team had great chemistry.
It’s a strange situation when you’re going to a high school and you’re not from that community. There’s tension between the local students and the interloping high school players.
When I enrolled in Quinte Secondary School in Belleville, I tried to be a normal student. I got involved in drama and I joined the rugby team when my hockey season was over. I was disappointed that I couldn’t play football. I tried to do my work, even when I missed classes. I encouraged my Bulls teammates to do the same time.
But there is no question that I was a wild man off the ice during my junior days. I grew up quickly when I moved away from home. Probably too quickly.
2. The Apprenticeship
“Talking ’bout girls, talking ’bout trucks, runnin’ them red dirt roads, out kicking up dust”
—“Boys ’Round Here”
Blake Shelton
When I played for the Adirondack Red Wings in 1992–93, we were the toughest team in professional hockey. I’m not talking about minor league hockey. I’m talking about pro hockey, including the NHL.
Eight players on that team boasted 100 or more penalty minutes. I put up 278 penalty minutes that season with only one misconduct penalty. My recollection is that I collected 45 fighting majors. Kirk Tomlinson had 224 minutes. Bob Boughner was at 190 minutes. Jim Cummins came in at 179. Dennis Vial was at 177. The late Marc Potvin had 109. Micah Aivazoff, one of our top goal scorers, even had 100. Serge Anglehart was probably the toughest guy on the team, but he didn’t play much that season because of a bad shoulder. These guys all had NHL-caliber toughness.
Unquestionably, we tried to intimidate our opponents.
I vividly recall Tomlinson and I having Providence tough-guy Darren Banks cornered against the boards and arguing about who was going to fight him.
“I’m fighting him,” I told Tomlinson
“Back off kid, I got him,” Tomlinson replied.
Meanwhile, Banks is just standing there hoping one of us will fight him so he can go on with his life.
Before Tomlinson reacts, I jump in and start fighting Banks. Tomlinson was furious at me that I took his fight. We would argue all of the time on the bench about which opponent each would get to fight. There were not enough willing combatants to go around. It was a wild season.
My plan that season was to follow the same game plan Coach Drumm had given me when I played Junior B hockey in Peterborough. I had to establish myself to make peop
le respect me. I fought every time I was given the opportunity. But I always felt as if opponents took it easy on me that season because they didn’t want to face a murderer’s row of tough guys if they hurt me.
Tomlinson would say, “Don’t hurt the kid because if you do you know what will come next.”
The art of fighting in pro hockey isn’t as simple as the average fan thinks it is. There are unwritten rules that have to be followed. I learned that in my first NHL training camp when I beat up a guy in a rookie league game against the Toronto Maple Leafs.
On my way to the penalty box, I was high-fiving guys and celebrating like I had just won the championship belt.
Later that night, Red Wings assistant general manager Doug MacLean came up to me and said, “The way you acted after that fight is unacceptable. This is the NHL, not the World Wrestling Federation. A member of the Detroit Red Wings doesn’t act the way you acted.”
The message was received loud and clear. When it came to fighting, I wanted to do it the right way.
My willingness to drop the gloves against anyone, at any time, quickly made me a fan favorite. Fans seemed to like the fact that I chewed gum when I played. When I was done with a fight, I would blow a bubble just to show everyone I was fine. Fans sent me buckets upon buckets of Bazooka bubble gum. My dressing room stall was stacked three feet high with bubble gum.
Even though I was in the minors, I would have to say that season was among the most enjoyable of my hockey career. We had an incredible amount of fun that season. In addition to being tough, we could play. We were a skillful group. The season before, in 1991–92, Adirondack had captured the American Hockey League championship with Barry Melrose behind the bench.
The Los Angeles Kings had hired Melrose to be their head coach in the summer of 1992, and the Red Wings had brought in Newell Brown to be Adrirondack’s new coach. He was only 30 years old, meaning he wasn’t much older than some of the guys on the team. One of our goalies, Allan Bester, was 28. Ken Quinney and Bobby Dollas were two of our better players, and they were both 27.
The Adirondack team in 1992–93 was a mixture of veterans who thought they should be playing in the NHL, and bunch of younger guys such as Chris Osgood, Slava Kozlov, and me, who hoped to be there soon.
We had impressive offensive firepower on this team. Chris Tancill was like the Brett Hull of minor league hockey. He scored 59 goals in 68 games that season, and might have had an opportunity to take down Stefan Lebeau’s league record of 70 goals had he not been recalled to the Red Wings for five weeks in the middle of the season.
One thing I will always remember about Tancill was that he was the speediest dresser I’ve ever seen. No one could don gear for a practice or game quicker than Tancill. He could dress cup to jersey in under two minutes. I know that because I actually timed him once because I was so fascinated by his dressing skill. He could walk in the door of the dressing room, and be out on the ice for practice in three minutes. It was one of the most amazing talents I ever witnessed in hockey.
Gary Shuchuk was another player who seemed like he should be in the show. He was a hard-nosed player, and he could dangle with the puck. Quinney and Mica Aivazoff were also 30-goal guys.
It was like an old-school team because all of the tougher players understood that our job was to make sure no one bothered our scorers. It was our job to make sure our scorers had plenty of room on the ice, and we did that job very well.
What made my Adirondack experience more enjoyable was the fact that the veterans considered it their job to make me a better hockey player. They wanted me to move forward in my career. The older tough guys made me their gofer to be sure, but they also sat me down and passed down the fighting wisdom they acquired. They taught me how to pick my spots to fight, and schooled me on the importance of timing my fights to help my team.
On some teams, the competition for playing time was a cutthroat endeavor, everyone looking out for themselves. But none of my Adirondack teammates were like that. They took me under their wing and said, “Hey, kid, we are going to help you get to the next level. You just need to pay attention to us.”
About 15 of us lived in the same apartment complex. I was living with Boughner and Serge Anglehart. Chris Osgood and Mike Casselman lived together. Bobby Dollas and his wife lived in the same complex, as did Cummins and Vial.
It was a close-knit team. There wasn’t much night life in Glen Falls, New York. So we made our own entertainment. We spent a lot of time together as a team. My keen interest in golf started because most of the players on my first pro teams were golfers. That spring, we played every chance we had.
At that time, I was just starting to break 100 and the older players, particularly Tomlinson, were established golfers. As I recall, Tomlinson was actually a Canadian pro. He gave me my first set of clubs.
Of course, the guys golfed for money and they weren’t handing out handicap strokes to me. I either had to improve my game in a hurry or keep paying out money to these guys. I chose to improve.
One of the gambling games they played involved tying a red-and-white snake made out of tape onto the bag of the last guy to three-putt. Whomever had that snake on his bag at the end of round had to pay. I owned that fucking snake way too often. But it made me a better golfer. By the end of season I had probably shaved 10 or 12 strokes off my game. By the end of my first season, I could shoot in the 80s.
What I remember most about my first pro season is that we had many barbecues, drinking sessions, and plenty of adventures.
The Red Wings realized quickly that I liked to party too much, and general manager Jim Devellano suggested to my girlfriend, Cheryl, that she may want to consider moving to Glen Falls around Christmas that season. The Red Wings’ hope was that she would tone down my act.
We moved into an apartment that was right above Osgood and Casselman’s. What I remember most about that arrangement was that I was constantly downstairs playing Sega Genesis video games with Osgood and Casselman.
When we played that NHL game, I was always Chicago because the Jeremy Roenick player was God in that Sega game. Casselman was Washington and Ozzie was always Vancouver. We wrapped tape around a Gatorade jug and treated it like the Stanley Cup of video hockey. We wrote the winners of our tournaments on our Gatorade Cup. We would often play all night.
Sometimes, Cheryl would have to get out of bed and stomp on the floor to signal for me to come home.
When that would happen, Ozzie would say, “Your old lady is calling you.”
It’s the kind of shit you say when you are 20 and don’t have a fucking care in the world. It was an awesome life.
That season was one adventure after another. Glens Falls is located in the mountains, and Gord Kruppke and Avisoff lived at the top of the mountain. We said they lived at the top of the world because it was a lengthy trek, on windy mountain roads, to get there.
But we would take advantage of that in the winter by attaching inner tubes to the back of Anglehart’s truck. You would sit in the inner tubes and ski behind the truck as Serge flew around those mountain roads. There was nothing better than tubing at the top of the world. We always had the truck filled with players and girlfriends on our tubing expeditions.
One night I remember Stew Malgunas, Mike Sillinger, and I were on the tubes when the truck took a turn too sharply. We flipped over, and found ourselves sliding down the embankment. We tumbled about 20 feet until we were stopped by a well-placed tree. We weren’t hurt, just pissed that our teammates had left us behind.
The guys in the truck didn’t even initially realize we were missing, and they kept driving down the mountain.
“Now we have walk up this hill,” Sillinger said.
“No, we don’t,” I said, and pulled a bottle of Southern Comfort out of my coat.
The three of us sat under the tree and drank most of the bottle while our buddies searched for us. We had so
me fun at their expense. We would yell to them, and then hide as they got closer. They had no idea whether we were injured or fucking with them.
Another time, I was on the tubes alongside Anglehart’s girlfriend. She was about to slam into a garage on her tube and I made a dive off mine to knock her out of harm’s way. The problem was that I ended up slamming into the garage and suffering a nasty hip pointer. I was a bruised mess.
When you are a professional athlete, particularly a first-year pro trying to prove you belong, the last thing you want to do is tell your coach you have been injured while tubing down mountain roads.
But my teammates had my back. The plan was that some of us would show up early for practice and go out on the ice. When Coach Brown showed up, everyone was going to say I had been hurt by crashing into the boards. My injuries were consistent with that kind of accident. The plan worked, I missed four games, and Brown had no idea what really happened.
My life as a pro hockey player was just as I hoped it would be when I was signed by the Red Wings.
I was 20 when I proposed to Cheryl. Most 20-year-old hockey players are not in a hurry to get married. Pro athletes at that age are far more interested in the promise of tomorrow than who might be by their side today. Her parents were like parents to me in Belleville; marrying Cheryl seemed like the right thing to do.
* * *
The 1992–93 Adirondack team deserved a better fate that season.
On January 29, 1993, the Red Wings traded Shuchuk, Potvin, and Jimmy Carson to Los Angeles in the deal that brought Paul Coffey to Detroit.
At the time that Shuchuk was dealt to Los Angeles he was leading the AHL with 77 points in 47 games. He had 24 goals and 53 assists. The Kings wanted Shuchuk because Melrose knew him well from the previous season in Adirondack when Shuchuk helped him win the title.
My Last Fight Page 3