The Crazy Game

by Clint Malarchuk

  We squared off. He was strong, but I didn’t think he was a particularly good fighter. It was a decent hockey fight, like any other. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but everyone thought it was the funniest thing. I got to know Tiger off the ice over the years. He was such a character.

  In 1983–84, I’d played in twenty-three games with the Nordiques, slightly more than the year before, but I still hadn’t managed to fully break into the league. And in ‘84–85, I didn’t get called up at all. The Nordiques had drafted Mario Gosselin, a member of the 1984 Canadian Olympic team in Sarajevo. He was also from Thetford Mines, Quebec. The team gave him every opportunity to become the star. Quebec is a hockey Mecca, and they love their homegrown stars. That’s understandable.

  I played fifty-six games in Fredericton that year. It was hard to have success early and then have to toil in the minors. I had no idea when I’d get another shot and was feeling like the Nordiques had essentially pushed me out of their plans.

  But in ‘85–86, I played forty-six games for Quebec. I had finally made it as an NHL regular. Back then, goalies didn’t play seventy games a year the way they do now, so forty-six was a very respectable number.

  My mom taped almost all my games that season (and never really stopped).

  It was a great year. Everything went right. At the end of November, I made twenty-seven saves to pick up my first career shutout, against the Boston Bruins at the Garden. It was the first time the Bruins had lost that season. Peter Stastny had a hat trick in our 3–0 win, but he gave me the game puck. It was very kind of him. This shutout was a huge moment for me, because I’d lost my previous three starts. I had spent the previous four years playing sparingly, up and down between the minors and Nordiques. I was only twenty-four, but it felt like my career was slipping by. “The puck’s in my pocket now, but it’s going on the wall at home,” I told reporters after the game.

  Three days later, we played the Bruins back in Quebec City, and my mom flew in for the game. I played the best hockey of my life, stopping thirty-three shots for my second straight shutout. Two of my best saves were on Ray Bourque. At the end of the second period, I got my pad across when he had an open net from thirty feet out. In the third, I made the same save on the same play, but I had to do the splits to get across and stop it.

  “In the third period, we tried to screen Malarchuk more, but even that didn’t work,” Bourque said after the game.

  When I was named first star of the game, I skated out on the ice for the fans and saw my mother cheering along with everyone else. “It was an indescribable feeling. She came in from Calgary to see me play,” I told the beat reporters in the locker room afterwards. “It’s the first time she’s seen me get a shutout. The last time I had two shutouts in a row like this was in pee wee hockey.”

  The following season, 1986–87, I established myself as a bona fide starter. I played in fifty-four games, which tied me for fifth in the league. Those two seasons set me up as Quebec’s number one guy, while Gosselin was still being groomed. That was when I started to become comfortable as a pro. I was more confident on the ice, while away from the rink, I was more outgoing and fun.

  I had a lot of great teammates in Quebec. Michel Goulet and Peter Stastny were both among the best in the game at the time. There were some great personalities on the team, too. Paul Gillis was about my age, and we shared the same attitude about the game. He was incredibly hard-working and a very fun-loving guy, but really low-key. He was one of those guys you could rely on; he’d do anything for anyone. Gord Donnelly was the same way. He could get me wound up, and vice versa, and we’d both laugh about it.

  And then, of course, Dale Hunter—he was just a hard-nosed, what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. He didn’t pull any punches. No politics. He’d tell you what he thought. And at times, he’d hurt my feelings. He would say things like “These fucking goalies! How could you not have stopped that one!” But on the other hand, he would say, “Mallard! Great game!” He was just a good, straightforward guy.

  Quebec City was a tough place for an anglophone to play in. I struggled with the language barrier, and there was a lot of pressure on the goalies. But it was a great playing experience. The city had a real hockey atmosphere.

  I had a little condo close to the arena. I never had a big, fancy house in Quebec, and I didn’t drive a nice car. Even after I’d made it out of the minors, it just wasn’t my style. It felt good to be in the city, because hockey was religion and you’d get recognized everywhere. Still, they were respectful of your space. No one ever harassed you.

  I think they’ll get another NHL team one day, for sure. The Colisée was a real hockey rink, and the fans packed it. Some of the older rinks like that, like Boston Garden, were just great for hockey. The crowds were the perfect size. The atmosphere was loud and intense. It was a first-class facility.

  I’d always try to get to bed early the night before a game and then head to the rink two hours before morning practice. I’d warm up, work out, stretch, go over my gear. I was meticulous about my equipment. And I was very strict with my warmup routine. I was always a big stretcher.

  The travel was nuts. We’d fly commercial, or we’d charter puddle-jumpers to games that were nearby. I was always exhausted after one of those shitty flights. I look back now and think we were really more like glorified AHL players back then—not in terms of talent, but the lifestyle. On the planes, if you had the window seat, you were scrunched up against the side, with no room to move. Our sticks were in the aisle. The hockey bags and luggage didn’t all fit in the cargo space down below, so the extra gear was just crammed in with the players. Now every player and coach gets his own La-Z-Boy–style reclining seat!

  We pulled a lot of pranks up in the sky. We had a scout travelling with us once. The poor bastard fell asleep. We put a turban of shaving cream—a massive dome of it—on his head. Then we sprinkled M&Ms and other candies on it. Finally, someone lit a cigarette—because you could smoke on planes back then—and stuck in on top, burning like a candle on a birthday cake. If you fell asleep on the plane, you were a marked man. You’d have your tie cut in half or wake up with shaving cream all over your lap. Dale Hunter and I were the ringleaders. We were pretty cruel. But I will say, Dale was always the catalyst for pranks: putting Vaseline in your comb, baby powder in the hair dryer. He’d clean his ears with Q-Tips and put them back in the box. That one was particularly gross.

  The league was a lot different then than it is now. You’d never see some of the shit that went on openly as part of team policy happening today. For starters, there was a back area in the locker room where players could smoke. We had a fridge stocked with beer. After the games, the guys would crack a few and sit in the hot tub.

  After practice, it was straight to the bar. Lunch consisted of beers and sandwiches, and then the guys would stay there all afternoon, just drinking beers. The married guys would go home around four or five, and then the single guys would go out.

  One time, Van Halen came to town for a concert and wanted to see our locker room after their sound check. A few of us were hanging out at the rink. The season had just ended, so we were just packing our gear up and saying goodbye. The guys from Van Halen came in and pounded back some beers with us. I’m sure they were doing more than beer—not that I saw that. We all hung out for a while and we had a few. I didn’t even know who they were at the time, except that they had that one hit song, “Jump.”

  We had some remarkable talent on the Nordiques. Michel Goulet was easily the most naturally gifted forward I ever played with. He could shoot a puck while off-balance and put it up in the top corner, even in practice. Goulet was just incredible, the most talented that I played with, bar none. But the teammate I admired most was Dale Hunter. Actually, he’s also the player I admire most from my entire era. He showed up to play every night, and he was tough—probably the toughest guy in the league who had actual talent. He had skill but could still intimidate and frustrate his opponents
. Dale finished his career with 3,565 penalty minutes, second only to Tiger Williams on the all-time list. That’s the equivalent of almost sixty games sitting in the box! Despite that, he still scored 323 goals and 1,020 points. That’s my kind of hockey player.

  There are guys in the NHL today who have never been in a fight in their life. How do you play hockey without fighting? We would have been murdered. It was a goon show half the time. My defencemen always knew that if a player started something with me, they were not to jump in. I could handle myself. “Treat me like any other player,” I told them. “I’m not just a goalie. Let me fucking show them.” There was no way I was going to be one of those goalies who needed his defencemen to fight his battles for him. And besides, I used to hack the hell out of players in front of my crease. Most of the fights I was in, I started. And I didn’t fight the amateurs. I fought the guys who were tough. Guys like Tiger Williams.

  There was one game against the Detroit Red Wings in 1985–86 when I busted my ass to the bench for a delayed penalty. There was a scuffle on the way back to my net. One of their guys was shoving J.F. Sauve, the smallest guy on our team. “Screw you,” I said. “He’s five-foot-fuck-all.” As I jumped in, the Red Wings’ coach, Brad Park, hollered down to his goalie, Mark LaForest, “Even it up!” The poor guy. I destroyed him.

  I never interacted with Patrick Roy, even though one time, in his rookie year, the Nordiques and the Canadiens got into a bench-clearing brawl. The games were always heated between the two Quebec rivals. This one wasn’t as bad as some of the others we’d be in; the players were just kind of standing around, and Roy grabbed my sweater from behind. I turned around and glared at him: “Don’t even fucking think about it,” I said. Roy had a few fights later on in his career. He went on to win a few Cups and earned a spot in the Hall of Fame, but when it comes to bar brawls, I’ve got more wins.

  Chicago was a tough place to play. The old stadium was just nuts. A cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke just hovered over the ice. You could smell the beer, like in a dive bar. I remember standing on the red line before my first game at the Madhouse on Madison in December 1982. The noise was unbelievable. And they were just announcing the starting lineups—the game hadn’t even started yet. You could just feel your heart vibrating in the noise. I looked over at Randy Moller. We were both rookies.

  “This is unbelievable!” I yelled.

  “What?” he shouted.

  As loud as I could yell—”This is unbelievable!”

  He couldn’t hear me. That’s how loud it was.

  Even though I had made it as an NHL starter, I was still obsessed with getting better. I’d spend eight hours a day working on my fitness. I treated it like a job. I got up in the morning and went to the gym at six. There were mornings when guys would ask if I’d just come straight from the bar. Not quite—I’d had a three-hour power nap. They’d spot me under the bench press and my breath would be so heavy with alcohol that if someone lit a match, we’d go up in flames.

  I’d run twelve miles one day, up to twenty the next, then back down to twelve—alternating between twenty and twelve. After running and lifting weights all morning, I’d go over to a local boxing gym three times a week. I did this everywhere I played, from junior on up.

  As a result, I think my superior conditioning made up for the fact that other goalies had more skill. I basically willed myself into becoming an NHL goalie. I’m convinced the best save I ever made happened because I was so athletic. There was a shot from the middle slot to my right in the faceoff circle. I have no idea who shot it, because the save was too crazy to really care. Somehow, my left hand got twisted around my back, near my hip on my right side, and I made a glove save. It went right into the glove. The only people who saw it, I think, were sitting right behind the net. It had nothing to do with skill. It wasn’t intentional—I just flailed around. Total luck, but a goddamn glorious save. It’s one of those memories that sticks with a guy long after his career is over.

  In 1987, instead of the usual NHL All-Star Game, the Quebec Nordiques hosted Rendez-Vous 87, a two-game series between a team of NHL All-Stars and the Soviet national team. In fan voting, I was their first choice as goaltender. It was probably one of the biggest highlights of my career. Some accused Quebec fans of stuffing the ballot box, but I didn’t give a shit. It was such a thrill to be included. Michel Goulet and Normand Rochefort also made the team, and Nordiques coach Michel Bergeron was named as an assistant coach. The other two goalies were Ron Hextall, who was just a rookie, and Grant Fuhr. The rest of the team included Mario Lemieux, Wayne Gretzky, Dale Hawerchuk, Doug Wilson, Mark Howe, Mark Messier, Glenn Anderson and a slew of superstars from the NHL. Pretty much the best in the world against Russia. It was so cool. I was like a kid watching legends play.

  I still remember Mario—he was really young then, in only his third year in the league. He was lying on the trainer’s table, smoking a cigarette—just relaxing, having a dart. It was pretty eye-opening to see him smoke like that. I’m sure it was a short-lived thing, as good as he was. Maybe it was a show of bravado, I don’t know. But I just remember thinking, Hey, he’s human! Mario was a really nice guy. There were no TV cameras on him, no special attention. He didn’t want it. I’d walk in there and he’d be playing on the ground with someone’s kid. You know, just a really down-to-earth superstar. That’s pretty special.

  Lemieux was the toughest guy to play against. He gave me nightmares. I don’t think there’s a player now who, as a goalie, you think Holy shit the way we did with a Gretzky or a Lemieux. Today, probably Sidney Crosby or Evgeni Malkin can strike the same kind of fear. And maybe Steven Stamkos and Alex Ovechkin. But even they don’t really compare to Gretzky or Lemieux. Those guys were the elite of the all-time elite.

  Lemieux always went top shelf or faked and went around the net to stuff it in the other side. So as a goalie, you’d want to be way out of the crease when he came in so he couldn’t go upstairs. But if he didn’t see a place to shoot, he’d go around, stuff it in and make you look like an asshole. He had long arms and long legs. And he never said shit.

  When Gretzky came in with the puck, you had to worry about Jari Kurri. He had a rocket of a shot. I thought I had good reflexes. Nope. Once, Gretzky dropped a one-timer to Kurri just inside the blue line. As a goalie, you think, I should have that. But the puck was in and out of the net before I even moved my glove. He could crush it.

  Gretzky was also a really nice guy. I was amazed by how kind these superstars were. He’s an icon, but he always treated me nicely. He was a very classy guy. But I hated him when we played. The referees were intimidated by him because he was so good and he was the Oilers’ captain. If you’re a ref, what are you going to say back to Wayne Gretzky?

  We ended up in a battle with the Buffalo Sabres for the final playoff spot in the Adams Division in 1987. We beat Billy Smith and the Islanders 4–1 in early April to clinch the playoff berth. I stopped twenty-eight shots for the win and had a shutout until 7:43 of the third period.

  The win secured fourth place for us and put us in the post-season for the seventh straight year. But with just seventy-two points, it was our first sub-.500 season since 1980–81. I had eighteen wins in the fifty-four games I played, compared with twenty-six wins in ‘85–86. All things considered, I was damn proud of the season I had. In just two years, I’d established myself as a legitimate NHL starter and been the top vote-getter among goalies for the NHL All-Stars. But I was disappointed in the playoffs because the Nordiques went with their main man, Mario Gosselin.

  We surprised everybody that spring by beating the first-place Hartford Whalers in the opening round, four games to two. In the division final, we met our old friends, the Montreal Canadiens, who were also defending Stanley Cup champions. It was a battle. We took the first two games at the Forum but lost the next two back home at Le Colisée. We split the next two, setting up a seventh and deciding game, but the Habs beat us 5–3 to end our season. I saw only 140 minutes of action
in the thirteen playoff games we played.

  My time as a Nordique was pretty much done.

  12

  Traded

  I ALWAYS WENT TO CALGARY IN THE OFF-SEASON. MY MOTHER had a house there, and my brother had a ranch outside of town. All my friends were there. And so was the rodeo. I spent most of my time hanging around the Stampede scene when I wasn’t training for the next season. I also played baseball. In June of 1987, I had just arrived for one of my ball games when my teammates told me I’d been traded. They’d heard it on the radio. So I phoned my mom, and she told me I needed to call David Poile, the general manager in Washington at the time.

  It was a huge deal. Dale Hunter and I were sent to Washington in exchange for the Capitals’ first-round pick and forwards Gaetan Duchesne and Alan Haworth. The first-round pick turned out to be a kid named Joe Sakic. (I used to tell everyone I was traded straight up for him.)

  It was an exciting time for me. I’d never been traded before, so there was a small sense of sadness. But Quebec had slipped the previous year and were clearly in a rebuilding phase. I saw the deal as a new beginning, with excellent prospects for a better situation—the Caps had finished second in the Patrick Division that year. Much as I had enjoyed Quebec, after six years in the NHL, with the previous two being particularly satisfying, I knew it was the perfect time to build off my success.

  When I heard about the trade, I went out with the boys to celebrate. We went to this cowboy bar, the Longhorn. After we had a few beers, our waitress came over and said, “Your wife was here looking for you.”

  “Oh shit,” I said. We were in the midst of a trial separation. Our relationship was falling to pieces, and I’d basically had it with our marriage. But our daughter, Kelli, was still so young and I loved her so much, so it was difficult. You don’t want to break up a family, but what kind of family were we?

  My buddies hid me in a corner of the bar and sat around the booth with their backs to the room, hoping she might miss us and leave. No such luck. Sure enough, she tracked me down. She sat on my knee and started acting all lovey-dovey with me. I knew she hated Quebec, and now that I had been traded, she probably wanted to get back together and start again. Christ.