He pulled out the rope and tried to show me how to use it. He threw it at a big rock, but the rope coiled backwards and he was throwing it all over the place. He couldn’t hit it.
“Okay, okay!” I shouted. “My turn. Give me a try! I want to try!” I took the rope. “Oh, I think you’ve got this all coiled wrong.” I fixed it up, handled it like a pro, whirling it a couple times around my head, and thwump—I bagged the rock right away. All the guys stood behind the guide, just dying. No one let the poor guy in on the gag. As I walked away, I just said, “See ya later, bud!” in my Clint voice and gave him a wave.
Washington was a great city. I loved the place. I had lived in the States before, when I played junior hockey in Portland—a beautiful area, but D.C. was a whole new world. There was so much stuff going on. The house I lived in was in the same area as where the original Wonder Woman, Lynda Carter, lived. That was pretty cool.
There were always all kinds of things happening in Washington. One time, the team had a chance to meet President Ronald Reagan. The Capitals had played an exhibition game against the U.S. Olympic team, so we were invited along with them to an event at the White House. Please forgive my attention span, but I viewed the White House trip with the same reverence I afforded Mr. Wey’s history class back at Jasper Place Composite High. Our team lined up, waiting for the president. We all wore suits and pretended to be civilized. To me, Ronald Reagan was an actor I used to watch in old westerns. I wasn’t really concerned with his politics. To be honest, I was just a dumb Canadian then. I was very new to the country and didn’t have the respect that I do now—especially for the leader of the most important country on the planet.
I was at the end of the receiving line, next to a Secret Service agent who was too serious for me to not mess with. First, I flicked the cord attached to his earpiece and knocked it out. He put it back in, and I flicked it back out. He was appropriately annoyed. Then I took off my cowboy boot and started using it as a radio, like Maxwell Smart. The presidential guard wasn’t impressed, but I thought it was hilarious.
Dale Hunter elbowed me in the ribs. I turned my head with my boot still in my hand, and there was the president waiting to greet me. Making the best of an awkward situation, I told President Reagan that I loved his movies, particularly the westerns. “Oh, I enjoyed making them,” he said. “It was a good time in my life.” He must have thought I was an interesting Canuck, because he stayed to chat for a while—about westerns, ranching, being president, the whole works. “It was a very special time in my life,” Reagan kept saying about his days on the silver screen.
“I bet it was,” I said. “It sure beat the Bonzo the chimp thing.”
“Oh, oh, yeah,” he said, almost as though he didn’t want to talk about it. He told me how great it had been to get paid to ride horses and have fun back then. And then I kind of ruined it by forgetting that we weren’t in a locker room. I asked him about Barbara Stanwyck. She was a hot old cougar back then.
“Between you and me,” I said, “you ever take a run at that?”
President Reagan went “No but I sure would have liked to.” Then he shook my hand and walked away.
I can’t be sure, but I think a lot of my teammates bought my act. At least when I was with the Capitals, they did. I went through a lot of personal stuff, but I attributed all my anxiety to my terrible marriage. If I couldn’t sleep or stop worrying about something, it was always my wife. I didn’t have a name for my condition at the time, so I just figured that my sleepless nights and bouts with anxiety were tied to my toxic relationship. One of our rookies, John Druce, sat next to me on one of our commercial flights to a game, and we got talking about coping with the pressure of playing in the NHL. He was a few years younger than I was, and I think he was nervous about his future in the show. It seemed weird to me, because he was a great player. His confidence just didn’t seem to be there.
“How do you do it?” he asked me. “You’re a goalie—you have more pressure than any of us.” I started listing off all the research I’d done on coping with pressure. Some book I’d read on psychology or something like that.
“Listen, John, I know what you’re talking about,” I said, trying to give him some support. The whole time I was thinking, Holy shit, you think I’m calm? If you could just get inside my skull, you’d know that I’m just trying to hold myself together and keep up a composed front.
I’d like to think that I helped him. Druce went on to have an incredible playoff run in 1990—he scored fourteen goals in fifteen games, one of the best individual playoff performances ever. It was the highlight of his career. I remember seeing how well he did that spring and feeling really happy for him.
When I played in Quebec and Washington, I was good at making it seem like nothing affected me. You have to remember, Bryan Murray was the head coach, and that man hated goalies. I love Bryan, but he was one of those guys who, if you had a great game but you lost 2–1, he’d say, “Well, you didn’t make the big save when we needed it.” If you played great but lost, he was tough on you.
We played Pittsburgh on New Year’s Day in 1988, and a shot took a bad bounce and went in. I was playing really well and we were beating them by a few goals—we ended up winning 5–3. After the game I was happy, enjoying the win, but Murray came in and chewed my ass out. “You let in a goal like that! Christ!”
It really bothered me. I went home that night scared shitless and consumed with anxiety. We were playing the Oilers the next day—Anderson, Messier, Kurri. Thankfully Gretzky was out. But shit, I barely slept that night. I still ended up playing well and we shut them out 2–0. It was one of the best games in my career. For everything Murray exposed in me—my lack of confidence and overpowering insecurities—he also managed to bring out the best. He motivated me.
Of all the pressures a pro hockey player faces, the constant threat of being traded is one of the worst. Players will never admit it, but it affects them. I remember Mike Ridley, one of my teammates with the Capitals, having a very hard time dealing with a rumour that he was to be traded to Buffalo. During practice, he was in the corner, rapidly shooting a puck back and forth against the boards as if it were a Ping-Pong ball. He kept doing it over and over again. It looked like he was having a nervous breakdown, brought on by the pressure. Some of the guys were laughing at him, but I saw so much of myself in him at that moment. I remember feeling relieved that I wasn’t the only basket case on the team. The trade rumours turned out to be unfounded. Ridley played another five seasons in Washington and retired in 1997 with more than 800 games in the league and 758 points.
As it turned out, I was the one who got shipped to Buffalo. The day before the trade deadline in March 1989, the Capitals sent me to the Sabres along with Grant Ledyard and a sixth-round pick for defenceman Calle Johansson and a second-round pick. I was surprised by the deal. There had been plenty of rumours that the Capitals would trade one of their goalies before the deadline. Along with Peeters and me, they had Don Beaupre, who had been a starter with Minnesota down in the minors. I figured either of those guys would be the one to go—I was confident that the Capitals wanted me to be their number one guy. But I was a twenty-seven-year-old with a solid track record, and Buffalo’s general manager Gerry Meehan thought I was the best veteran goalie available. Daren Puppa, the Sabres’ young stud in net, had broken his arm during a game a couple of weeks before, so they were looking for a reliable replacement to get them through the final stretch of the season and into the playoffs.
When Bryan Murray called me into his office before practice that morning, he was fighting back tears. He choked up a bit as he said, “Clint, I hate to tell you this, but we’ve traded you.” He looked devastated. I was surprised to see him so emotional. Bryan had always been hard on me, but he wasn’t a heartless bastard. He pushed his players to be the best, and I respected that. He was always a good guy at the core of it. Now here I was, traded—and consoling my coach because of it. He kept apologizing for the trade.
“It’s okay, Bryan, I understand,” I said. He probably doesn’t remember any of this now, but seeing how much he cared really meant a lot to me then. He’s a tough guy, and the fact that he was emotional told me that I was a valued member of the team.
Of course, when you’re traded, you’re in shock. When I was sent from Quebec City to Washington, it was during the draft, so the season was over. I didn’t have to pack up my gear and say goodbye to everyone. It really felt like a new beginning more than a sort of ending. But this was different. The trade to Buffalo was totally unexpected. I guess there were rumours, but I’d learned to ignore all that stuff. It’s a weird feeling because, on the one hand, it seems like one team doesn’t want you but on the other, there’s a team that wanted you badly enough to trade for you.
I packed my life into my pickup and made the seven-hour drive to Buffalo. A lot goes through a player’s mind when he gets traded. I understand that everyone, no matter what their line of work, has had to change jobs or move to a new city. Everybody starts over. But being traded is different. Most players don’t have a say where they end up. And it’s a strange, abrupt goodbye. A team becomes your family; you spend days and nights together—weeks on the road. You battle the press and critics together and spill blood as one. And then you show up for an early-morning skate, get called into the coach’s office—and it’s done. Just like that, you’re heading north on Route 220, singing along to Hank Williams Jr.’s “Whiskey Bent and Hellbound” as you pass through Altoona, Pennsylvania, halfway to your new life. I was sad to leave Washington. I’d put together two great seasons with the Capitals, had led the league in shutouts and was finally being mentioned among the game’s elite. But I was a piece in a new puzzle now. I arrived in Buffalo excited and ready for whatever came next.
I pulled into the Ramada Inn in Buffalo and met up with Grant Ledyard, who’d been traded from the Caps with me. The team’s equipment manager, Rip Simonick, picked up our gear and took it to the rink. The next day, we drove over to the Memorial Auditorium and found our jerseys already hanging in our new stalls. We had one practice with our new team before flying off to Manhattan to play the Rangers at Madison Square Garden.
The Sabres had been on a downswing prior to the trade. Since Puppa’s injury, they had won just seven of seventeen games and Boston had knocked them out of second place in the Adams Division. The battle now was to hang on to third place against a Hartford team that had gained a bit of ground on them. Buffalo had a good crop of players, led by Pierre Turgeon, Phil Housley and Dave Andreychuk, but this was just before the arrival of the stars of the nineties, like Alexander Mogilny and Pat LaFontaine.
The Rangers, with a roster that included Brian Leetch, Brian Mullen, Tony Granato and John Vanbiesbrouck—not to mention a couple of surefire Hall of Famers, Marcel Dionne and Guy Lafleur, in the late stages of their careers—were battling my old team for first place in their division. And the Garden was always a tough place to play. The fans knew how to welcome the visiting team: they’d throw batteries at the opposing goalie. Hostile crowds never really bothered me, though. I was always extremely focused during games. As soon as the puck dropped, I was transfixed. I didn’t hear the crowd—it was just a hum in the background. I was obsessed with one thing: making sure the puck didn’t leave my sight. In front of me, a blur of bodies swirled around, hiding the puck as it moved. Half were with me, half against, but they were all obstacles. Anytime I couldn’t find the puck, my breathing would stop until it came back into view. Everything was riding on that black disc. If it got past me, I was ruined. Single-minded obsession is the most critical skill a goalie must have.
That night, in my first game as a Sabre, I shut the Rangers out. We won 2–0—the perfect way to kick things off. I started the next four games, picking up two more wins, a loss and a tie. I was hot. The city loved me; I was the saviour. That stretch was the best two weeks of my life. I’d never felt higher than I did at that point. I felt as though I was on the verge of something huge.
14
Jugular
THE FIRST TIME I SHOULD HAVE DIED WAS A WEDNESDAY. MARCH 22, 1989.
As I prepared for our game against the St. Louis Blues that night, I sat by myself in the locker room at the Memorial Auditorium, staring down at the floor, visualizing myself in net. It was a routine I did before every game. The meditation forced me to focus on one thing: the puck. It quelled the chaos and turned it into a positive obsession. I’d run through stop after stop in my mind—a pad save, a glove save, a breakaway.
After being lost in an imaginary future, I got off the bench and went out into the hallway, beneath the seats slowly filling with fans. I turned to face a cement-block wall a few feet away, squared my shoulders and crouched. Thud. I threw a rubber ball against the wall with my right hand and caught it with my left. Thud … thud. Then I threw it with my left and caught it with my right. Thud … thud … thud. Each time, the ball bounced off the wall faster than it originally hit it. I threw the ball harder and harder against the wall—catch and throw, catch and throw.
It was a routine I had picked up from Vladislav Tretiak when I went to his camp in Montreal. It was essential to getting into the right frame of mind to play. Sometimes, I would throw two balls against the wall, tossing one and catching the other at the same time. I forced myself to learn how to do that. On off-days, I’d pick a number and I wouldn’t stop the drill until I hit that number without dropping a ball.
Whenever I did these pre-game drills, people would stop to watch me, but I blocked them out of my head. I’m sure the speed was remarkable to them. But in my mind, it was just one fluid blur. Thud … thud … thud … The anxiety became manageable. The repetition slowed everything down and let me focus on one simple thing.
After the drill, I was still tense, but it wasn’t debilitating. I finished getting dressed with the team and went out for warmups under the lights of the Aud. The tension stayed with me through the shooting drills, but it was all directed towards the game now. Each shot was part of a countdown. My heart pounded throughout the national anthem. My mind and body were consumed by the beat. Thud … thud … thud … thud … thud … thud … And then the players lined up, the puck was dropped, and it all came to a crescendo. Then silence: 20:00 … 19:59 … 19:58 …
The clock crept past the five-minute mark. It was still the first period and I hadn’t faced many shots yet. We were up 1–0. The puck was on the boards in the corner and I was on my post. The Blues’ Steve Tuttle, a twenty-three-year-old rookie, charged to the net, looking for a pass. One of our defencemen, Uwe Krupp, was right behind him. 4:45 … The pass came just above the crease—a backdoor play. I slid across the net. 4:44 … Krupp pulled Tuttle down from behind and slid into me, skates first. 4:43.
It felt like a kick to the mask. There was no pain, but I pulled my helmet off. And then I saw the blood. It spattered red in the faceoff circle. A stream gushed out with every beat of my heart. It’s an artery. I grabbed my neck, trying to keep the blood in, but it rushed between my fingers. It just kept coming. I slumped forward and it glugged out like a water fountain.
Everything was a blur. I didn’t see the white faces in the crowd. I didn’t see fans pass out or any of the players vomiting on the ice. I didn’t hear Blues forward Rick Meagher turn to the benches and scream for help. All I saw was the blood rushing into a red sea around me. I’m going to die. Terry Gregson, the referee, looked down at me. His eyes were huge. “Get a stretcher—he’s bleeding to death!”
Our trainer, Jim Pizzutelli, got to me first. He had gauze from the medical kit. He pushed it against my throat, holding me so tight I could barely breathe. The crease was covered in blood. I coughed out, “Jim, it’s my jugular.”
He was so calm. “Just do what I say.”
Years earlier, Jim had been a combat engineer in the Vietnam War. His second week in, he was walking through a village when a truck collided with him and four other soldiers. The impact broke his ribs. It tossed another soldier int
o a gully, where he was decapitated by a sheet-metal hut. Jim was medevacked out, with the young man’s body and head beside him. He studied sports medicine after the war. Now here he was, squeezing his arm around my neck.
“We’re going to save you.”
“Jim, I can’t breathe.”
He flexed his grip. “You’re not going to breathe until we get you to a doctor.”
He helped me to my skates and we made it through the doors behind my net. I was scared as hell. I had no idea how much blood I had already lost. I had seen a television show that said a severed jugular would bleed out in minutes. I’m going to die.
My mother was at home in Calgary, watching the game on satellite. I couldn’t let her see this happen—not on the ice, not on TV, not like this. They put me on a table in the trainer’s room. Rip Simonick, our equipment manager, stood over me and held my hand. I asked him to call my mom. When I first started playing for the Sabres, I saw a chaplain hanging around the arena. I asked Rip to call for him, figuring God might be my only hope to live. But at the one game I really needed him, the chaplain wasn’t there.
One of the team’s doctors took a towel and pressed it down on my throat with all his weight. He’d let up so I could breathe, and the blood would spout out and he’d press back down.
I still didn’t have a sense of time. There was mass confusion. Lots of nurses and doctors came down from the stands, wanting to help. Security had to clear everyone out. Jim started cutting off my pads and chest protector. Rip was still holding my hand as he dialled my mother’s number. I didn’t want to pass out. If I close my eyes, I won’t wake up.
The ambulance seemed to take forever, but it was probably only ten minutes. When it finally arrived, they got me on a stretcher and put an IV in my arm. I tried to make a joke: “Put in a couple stitches and let me get back out there.” Blood gurgled out as I said it. No one laughed. They were white as ghosts, and I figured it was the end.
The Crazy Game Page 9