The Day I (Almost) Killed Two Gretzkys

by James Duthie

  I believe this is where the Morgan Freeman closing voice-over begins.

  “Eventually the jellyfish terror subsided. The carnage left behind, a reminder of mankind's fragility. . . (poignant pause). . . but also. . . his perseverance. For humanity, as it has done through the ages, finds a way to overcome. To fight back. And ultimately. . . (longer poignant pause). . . to survive.”

  Amen, Morgan Freeman. Amen.

  • • •

  Postscript: I got a lot of e-mails from angry Prince Edward Islanders after that column, claiming I was going to ruin their tourism industry. So I should clarify that I now go back to the beautiful island every summer for Brad Richards' golf tournament, and the jellies aren't nearly as bad as they were that one terrifying summer. But I still won't go in the water. And I avoid the Jell-O at the Mandarin buffet. The psychological scars run deep.

  Chapter 13

  Middle Standings Syndrome

  March 2008

  When we were growing up, my sister, the second of three kids in the clan, used to chirp constantly about “Middle Child Syndrome.” It was a long-running gag. She would accuse our parents of ignoring her while spoiling our older sister, the first born, and me, the baby.

  I would respond by saying she was delusional as there were clearly no favourites in our family. I'd do this while being cuddled in my Mommy's arms, being spoon-fed ice cream. I was 17.

  The shrinks will tell you there is something to Middle Child Syndrome, and I do my utmost daily to make sure it doesn't affect my own middle child, little what's-her-name.

  The NHL has its own version of MCS. Call it MSS: Middle Standings Syndrome.

  Having your team in a playoff race is intoxicating, but losing out at the end has never been more devastating. Narrowly missing the Stanley Cup Playoffs has become the worst thing that can happen to a franchise. (Next to being owned by a pension fund.)

  “It is (expletive) deadly,” says one NHL general manager. “Mediocrity is a terrible fate in this league now.”

  Playoff teams get extra cash (the NHL range is roughly $700,000 to $1.3 million per home playoff game), tons of fan-buzz, more season-ticket renewals and a 1 in 16 shot at Stanley. And this year, 1 in 16 isn't far off the actual odds. In the parity era: you get in, you can win.

  At the other end, NHL bottom-feeders get a lottery pick in the draft, which can turn a franchise around in one single selection. Be lousy for multiple years and you can set yourself up for the next decade. See: Washington (Ovechkin, Backstrom), Chicago (Toews, Kane), Pittsburgh (Fleury, Crosby, Malkin, Staal), and the former Sultans of Suck—Ottawa (Redden—via Berard, Phillips, Spezza—via Yashin, Daig. . . oops, sorry typo).

  So being good is good, and being bad can be good, but being anything between good and bad. . . is bad. (Apologies if reading the preceding sentence gave you a nosebleed.)

  “One year of just missing the playoffs, you can probably handle, but two or three years in a row can really cripple you,” says another GM. “In our league now, you have to either capitalize on your talent, or capitalize on your lack of talent.”

  The Toronto Maple Leafs have become the poster boys for Middle Standings Syndrome. They finished 9th in the east the last two seasons, and are likely headed for something in the 10th to 12th range this year. Their perennial late-season charges are admirable from a hockey standpoint, but disastrous for the future of the franchise. The potential destiny-changing players they've missed out on the last two seasons include Kane, Toews, Backstrom, Staal, Sam Gagner.

  We now pause briefly to let Toronto fans throw up.

  OK, resume.

  Erik Johnson (who looks like he will win a Norris or three someday), Peter Mueller, Nicklas Backstrom and soon to be added: Steven Stamkos, Drew Doughty and more.

  The Leafs are not alone. The Florida Panthers also suffer from MSS. They are on the verge of their fourth straight non-playoff/non-lottery season, making a certain former Senators coach the star of his own sitcom: Martin in the Middle.

  MSS doesn't have to be fatal. Teams such as Detroit, Buffalo and Ottawa seem to find impact players no matter where they draft. But it makes life much more difficult.

  And draft position isn't the only issue for MSS teams. They may have trouble attracting big-name free agents, who usually prefer teams with either playoff pedigree or future potential. Places like Chicago and Washington, with their stock of young talent, will be just as attractive as Anaheim and Detroit this off-season.

  It's hard not to feel a little sorry for Paul Maurice and his Leafs. They did exactly what they've been programmed to do their entire lives: play hard, and try to win as many games as they could. But as Morgan Freeman told Brad Pitt in Se7en, long before he found poor Gwyneth's head in a box, “This isn't going to have a happy ending.”

  As for you Leaf-haters, the joke has changed. You can no longer make fun of Toronto for being awful, like you did all those decades when they were. They're not awful. They are middling. Which, sadly for them, hilarious to you, is now worse than being awful.

  • • •

  Postscript: Both Florida and Toronto did miss the playoffs that season, and Jacques Martin and Paul Maurice were soon fired. Toronto and Florida finally escaped MSS in 2009, when they finished 2nd and 3rd last overall, respectively. Alas, Toronto traded away its draft pick (as well its first-rounder in 2011) to Boston, for Phil Kessel.

  Chapter 14

  Control Freak

  December 2001

  I shut off the TV and, all stuffed full of myself, immediately think of Alec Baldwin in Malice.

  “You're asking me if I have a God Complex? Let me tell you something. . . I am God.”

  Yeah! What he said!

  So cocky, but oh soooo true. How can I not talk smack? What I've done over the past four hours or so is the stuff of legends. This was perhaps the most dominant performance of my career. Left! Right! Jump! Jump back! Up, up, up, up, up, up, right there! Crossover, jump back, down, down, down. . . Yes!!!

  Unstoppable.

  It's 11:38 p.m. on a Sunday, and I am Tiger. I am Gretz. I am Jordan (and I mean flying/tongue-wagging/in-his-prime/Chicago Jordan as opposed to bad knee/settle for jump shot/end-of-career Washington Jordan). I am all of them, except I'm in sweats and a six-year-old Gap T-shirt with a large mustard stain near the navel, lying horizontal on my couch.

  I stand up, and coolly toss the TV remote down as I strut away to bed.

  • • •

  There are few things a man will truly master in his life. The remote, I have.

  It has become an extension of my right-hand (I'm actually left-handed, but flick righty, a freakish abnormality). I know, you probably think you're Da Man, too. Most in our species are good at it. It's just who we are. It's what we do. But I'm a full-fledged phenom.

  You wanna go? Stick that new plasma in the back of your SUV and come on over. Oh, we'll go all right. You got no shot.

  I'm Monet with that thing. I've done four football games simultaneously without missing a play. I can do Letterman, Leno, Koppel and two west-coast hockey games without breaking a sweat. I can flick when one show goes to commercial, subconsciously time the break, and flick back within two seconds either way of show resumption. Often, I'll return right in those few frames of black between the last commercial and the first scene. That's called the Seamless Flick. It's rare, and it's pure poetry.

  I believe I nailed four Seamless Flicks on this particular Sunday. That's unheard of. Sunday was a Tour de Flickin' Force. In four hours, I watched the end of the Raiders-Cardinals game, NFL Primetime, The Simpsons, Malcolm in the Middle, a good chunk of 60 Minutes, enough of the Brian's Song remake to know I liked the original better, every play of the Niners-Bills game, and a full-length feature film. Plus, I bathed the kids, read them a story and put them to bed.

  I am God.

  Here's a brief synopsis of the play-by-play, or flick-by-flick highlights:

  7:28 p.m.

  Dilemma: After watching racial-profiling sto
ry on 60 Minutes (my token effort at being informed), had planned to bathe kids and move TV so I could watch NFL Primetime over shoulder from upstairs bathroom. Simple. But Raiders-Cardinals game is in OT. Will need remote. Difficult to flick properly and watch both kids. Quick adjustment: strip naked, leap into bath, assume position against back wall with both kids and TV now directly in front. Wrap towel around hand and remote to prevent slippage. Smooth work on recall button catches Raiders fumble, Cardinals winning field goal and all early Primetime highlights. Other hand cleanses children with rubber ducky sponge. Brilliant.

  8:06 p.m.

  Another gruelling half-hour. Second half of Primetime runs concurrently with Simpsons. Wife takes diaper and pajama duty. Team player. Flick. Monty Burns has a girlfriend. Flick. Rocket Ismail just burned Champ Bailey. Flick. I think Monty's about to get nookie. Flick. “He. . . could. . . go. . . all. . . the. . . way! Flick. He did! Eeeeexcellent, Smithers.

  8:42 p.m.

  The Niners game is just starting. Now, usually, a Niners game is a flick-free zone. It's somewhat sacrilegious to browse on your favourite team. But Malcolm in the Middle rules. And it's only the Bills. Flick. Malcolm, Reese and Dewey are running a black market on stuff donated to their church. Flick. Garrison Hearst is running, and running, and running. Flick. Dewey freakin' kills me. Flick. Brian's Song. Can't start crying now. Flick. The Bills should start crying any minute.

  9:13 p.m.

  I should be able to coast home from here. There's nothing else I usually watch now except the game. Yet, it's already 14-bagel, and I find my thumb wandering. What's this? Angelina Jolie. Hmmm, The Bone Collector. I'm a sucker for mammoth-lipped women in lame serial killer movies. Must return shortly. Flick. Ahmed Plummer picks off Alex Van Pelt, who, by the way, is killing the reputation of all the fine Vans who came before him. Dick Van Dyke, Dick Van Patten, Eddie Van Halen, Mario Van Peebles. Greta Van CNN. This guy doesn't deserve a Van. He is Alex Pelt. Period.

  10:27 p.m.

  Back and forth it goes (unlike the Bills who don't go forth, just back). Flick. This killer locks people in his cab, drives them to some abandoned underground rat-infested hell and leaves them to die. So, all in all, a typical cabby. Flick. Jeff Garcia to Terrell Owens, six more. Just give the NFL MVP to both of them. Flick. Angelina just shot a rat! Those lips take up half the screen. Flick. Terrell Owens's touchdown dance is exactly like the funky number Michael J. Fox does at the dance in Teen Wolf. Flick. Just as the killer is about to stab poor quadriplegic Denzel Washington, The Giant Lips gives him two bullets in the back. Where have I seen that ending before? Oh yeah, the 912 other lame serial killer movies. Flick. I believe Alex Pelt wishes someone would shoot him in the back. It's 35-0.

  The credits have rolled, so have the Niners. And I head to bed with Terrell, Angelina, Berman, Dewey, Mr. Burns, Morley Safer and Gale Sayers all dancing together inside my head. I check on my sleeping son, and wish he could have stayed up to witness his Dad's Opus. You see, he, too, has the gift. It's genetic.

  The boy is barely two. He has a 10-word vocabulary (12 if you include “Eeeeeoooo” and “Boodeedee”. . . I have no idea). He counts to five like this: “Two, two, two, two, two.” He believes the dog can, and should, be driving, and protests loudly when I don't let him.

  Yet he has full control of the VCR remote, including rewind, fast forward and pause, for the all-important cookie run. And if there's a slow moment during Blue's Clues in the morning, he's on that recall button so fast to get to Clifford the Big Red Dog, it's scary.

  They just make you so proud.

  • • •

  Postscript: Column was written before the age of the PVR (see “TV Ecstasy”, page 147), which has turned Remote Control Flicking into a dying art. It's a shame—this was my one tangible skill I hoped to pass down to future generations. Oh, and by the way, Malcolm in the Middle really did rule. I'm not sure how it holds up a decade later in syndicated reruns, but back in the day, Frankie Muniz was a comedic genius. Don't ever forget that.

  Chapter 15

  Ovechkin: the Rock Star

  September 2008

  Washington, DC—The lights are brought down in the concert hall, and the fans go nuts. When the band struts onto the stage, they go nuttier. This is, after all, the hottest act around.

  A spotlight finds the lead singer, who is glammed to the max. He wears more eyeliner than Amy Winehouse, and his wild hair is gelled together in one giant spike, like Alfalfa from The Little Rascals. . . on steroids.

  He steps to the mic and screams: “Hello DC! Are you ready to rock!?!”

  By the ear-drum-blowing response, it's safe to say DC is ready to rock.

  The singer smiles his familiar wide, toothy grin. He owns this crowd, even though he can't sing a lick. They don't care. Neither does he.

  As the first guitar chord is struck, Alexander Ovechkin grabs the mic stand like it's a hockey stick, scissor-kicks in the air, and starts belting out a song, gleefully oblivious to the fact he barely knows any lyrics and is eons off-key.

  No, this is not the strange dream of some Washington Capitals groupie who fell asleep with her iPod on. This is real. Or surreal, anyway.

  The Capitals marketing people created the scene themselves. They are filming it for the pre-game opening they'll show on their giant video screen before every home game. Ovechkin is backed up by teammates/guitarists Jose Theodore, Brooks Laich, Alexander Semin, Nik Backstrom and Mike Green (on drums). Donald Brashear and Matt Bradley play the intimidating bodyguards (quite well, I might add). Hundreds of Capitals season-ticket holders act as extras, playing a role that is hardly a stretch: “screaming crowd.”

  It is a brilliant, and oh-so-appropriate theme, for “Ovie and the Caps” are like a hot young band, poised to make some serious noise in the NHL's Eastern Conference. And the lead singer is the closest thing to a Rock Star that hockey has ever seen.

  “He is a Rock Star,” says Theodore, the Capitals' new goaltender (and a pretty solid lead guitar player, I might add). “I've never seen anything like it. He has this aura about him. Every time he walks in a building, people just freeze. They are in awe.”

  “This is just an ordinary day for Alex,” says Laich, surveying the scene during a break in filming. “He's a wild man. He's eccentric. He'll try anything. And everybody loves him.” It's different, this love. We have always admired our hockey players for their quiet, understated demeanor. From Howe to Gretzky to Crosby, the unwritten code of the superstar has always been to leave the flash, the personality on the ice (much to Sean Avery's chagrin).

  Well, somebody forgot to tell Ovechkin.

  As I watch him prance around the stage, striking every hilarious Whitesnake video pose he can come up with, I try to imagine Crosby or Iginla or Brodeur—or any prominent NHLer—agreeing to do this. No shot. (That's not a knock on them. Wouldn't catch me up there either without a potentially lethal dose of tequila.)

  Ovechkin just doesn't care.

  “I like having fun,” he says later during a break backstage. “That's what life is about, right?”

  This may explain why he has, during his brief NHL career: competed on a bizarre Russian game show dressed as a shark (and later, a wolf), begged for dates on another Russian program by giving out his phone number, and accepted the key to the city in Washington, declaring to the crowd: “I'm the president for one day, so everybody have fun and no speed limit!”

  And somehow, he finds a way to pull this off without a hint of pretension.

  Maybe it is because he doesn't crave attention, like. . . say. . . Avery. It craves him. So he just shrugs, and rolls with it.

  “Sure, he has that Rock Star aura, but he is a teammate first,” says Capitals owner Ted Leonsis. “How many guys would be given a day off by the coach, and drive to Philadelphia on their own to watch the team play a pre-season game? That's why they (his teammates) all embrace him, no matter how much attention he gets.”

  There was some truth in Avery's comments this wee
k about NHL marketing (despite the tired, self-serving agenda of the mouth they came from). The league needs its players to show more personality. In this 23-year-old Russian goal-scoring machine, it has stumbled upon a potential gold mine.

  After the “concert,” Ovechkin sits in a stairwell at the back of the theatre, weighing his career options.

  “I can dance, I like to shake my popa zhopa,” he says with a smile (though I did not major in linguistics, I believe that is Russian slang for “booty”).

  “But I prefer hockey star to rock star,” he smiles. “I don't want to be that famous.”

  Sorry, son. At this rate, you may not have a choice.

  • • •

  Postscript: The video made that night was shown before every Capitals home game that season. It was appropriate. The Capitals finished 50-24-8, their best record in 23 seasons. Ovechkin scored 56 goals and won his second straight Hart Trophy. At a Montreal nightclub during All-Star weekend that year, Ovechkin danced on a couch in a private area above the dance floor, while a hundred star-struck young women screamed his name. Apparently, that whole Rock Star video wasn't really a fantasy after all.

  Chapter 16

  Who Needs Golf Lessons?

  September 2000

  “Easy game, this golf.”

  —Roy McIvoy, Tin Cup

  Bite me, Roy. It ain't easy. We never believed you, anyway. Though when it comes to fictional movie-golfers, your alter-ego was much better than Matt Damon in The Legend of Bagger Vance (when it comes to golf, Mr. Ripley is not so talented).

  But I digress. The thing is, my golf game is actually a lot like that other Costner movie. Waterworld.

  I've killed more fish than Captain High Liner. I've damaged so many trees, environmentalists have chained themselves to the fern in my front yard, demanding I take up bowling. But this year is going to be different. I'm getting help. The other night, I was watching The Shopping Channel when I realized. . . It was actually The Golf Channel! Easy mistake. I'm sure the “Tony Little 60-Degree Ab-Wedge” cannot be far away.