The Day I (Almost) Killed Two Gretzkys

by James Duthie

  It's the ultimate red card. No more moaning. No more writhing. No more screaming. Except, of course, after diving to try to draw a foul.

  The pre-tournament nookie-ban is apparently commonplace in soccer. No wonder they peel off their shirts after they score. Gotta get naked sometime.

  Truth is, this is hardly new. For centuries, coaches have been cranky on the hanky-panky, fearing their players will wear themselves out, or perhaps pull something (insert your own lame joke).

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Abstinence makes the team grow stronger.

  Or not. There actually have been detailed scientific studies on the effect sex has on athletic performance.

  Lab Rat: “You want us to do what before we go through the maze? Yeeehaaaaa! Cruelty to animals my a--! This is Ratopia!”

  Uh, actually, the tests were on humans.

  Lab Rat: “Damn you, humans! All I do is give, give, give. You shoot diseases into my butt, you take out pieces of my brain, and when I have a chance to get a little tail, you suddenly decide to use your own monkeys. I'm calling PETA!”

  In 1995, a research team took a group of physically fit men, and looked at the effect of sexual intercourse 12 hours before a strenuous workout on a treadmill. It found there was no difference in the performance (the treadmill performance, silly) of those who did and those who didn't. Except maybe for the incessant hooting and high-fiving among the one group.

  In a similar Swiss study reported in the Journal of Sports Medicine and Physical Fitness (I actually giggled after writing that. I have now officially done more research on this than on any term paper in four years of university. I may sell it on the Internet as a thesis.), a group comprised of weightlifters, endurance athletes and team-sport players worked out once after having sex, and once without. There was no difference in their results either, except for the subjects who had intercourse within two hours of the test. They took longer to get their heart rate down after the workout.

  “See, honey, a two-hour recovery time is normal!”

  In fact, some research has shown that sex may actually improve athletic performance (which would instantly explain the long, great career of one Wilt Chamberlain).

  A survey of London marathon runners found that those who had sex the night before the race had faster finishing times than those who didn't. It also marked the first time in sexual history that anyone had bragged about getting done quickly.

  Apparently, during sex, endorphins and serotonin are released (this is so romantic), and those chemicals produce a natural high, which, some experts say, can dull pain, and perhaps even provide a second wind, thus boosting athletic performance.

  A prominent female researcher did an extended study involving NBA players. But we're still waiting for Madonna to publish her results.

  As for Team Italia's ban, it extends through the first round, after which wives and girlfriends will be allowed to “visit,” but Trapattoni has told players to use “moderation.” Which, for sex-starved Italian footballers, will likely be about seven hours a day. But as long as it's wives and girlfriends, the Italians should be just fine. As Casey Stengel once said: “The trouble is not that players have sex the night before a game. It's that they stay out all night looking for it.”

  On a final, personal note, I, too, have abstained for the duration of several World Cups.

  Just never on purpose.

  • • •

  Postscript: Italy had, by their standards, a disastrous World Cup in 2002. They barely survived the first round, and then were knocked out by South Korea in round two. Conclusion: the lack of sexual relations clearly affected the team's productivity. I cite this example to my wife every time she asks me to do yardwork.

  Chapter 39

  The Big Hurt

  March 2002

  So what is the world's roughest sport?

  The game of life, apparently. Our beloved athletes are going down in bunches! They are spraining, straining, tearing and breaking. And that's just on off-days.

  It's a dangerous world out there. Just ask Colleen Jones, Canada's women's curling champ, whose status for the Worlds is in jeopardy after she injured her neck. She suspects it may have happened while she was, gulp, getting her hair braided.

  Yikes. Who's her stylist, Bryan Marchment?

  Braiding her hair?!? No wonder we haven't heard from Bo Derek in years. She's probably in long-term physiotherapy.

  Many other jocks have DL'd themselves. Take Kansas City Royals outfielder Mark Quinn, who will miss the start of the baseball season after cracking a rib kung fu fighting. Good glove. Good bat. Bad ninja.

  At least Chow Yun Quinn owned up. San Francisco infielder Jeff Kent said he broke his wrist washing his truck. Strange how all these eyewitnesses saw him wipe out popping wheelies on his motorcycle, a no-no in his contract. Bad lie, Jeff. No one believes a major leaguer would wash his own vehicle.

  Perhaps they shouldn't open their own boxes either, as San Diego pitcher Adam Eaton found out when he stabbed himself trying to open a DVD package (hope those 12 minutes of extra footage were good).

  Pitchers should keep their cutting to fastballs. The Legend of Bobby Ojeda and the Hedge-Trimmer from Hell should be required reading for all rookies (Bobby trimmed all right, trimmed off the top of his finger and missed the last month of a season).

  Ball players leading the sporting world in RBIs: Really Bizarro Injuries. Poor Vince Coleman had his leg eaten by a tarp rolling machine and missed the '85 Series (a scene eerily reminiscent of Quint getting swallowed by the shark in Jaws). Pitcher Steve Foster got so worked up watching a motivational speaker rip a phonebook in half; he had to try it himself. Dislocated shoulder.

  “I am a good person! I can succeed! I will succ. . . AHHHHGGGGGG!”

  Brian Giles went down with spider bites. This may explain Glenallen Hill's arachnophobic nightmare, causing him to fall through a glass table and miss a bunch of games. Outfielder Jose Cardinal couldn't sleep at all because he said he heard crickets chirping in his hotel room. Scratched. Sammy Sosa and Russ Davis both slept well, but on the wrong shoulder. Out of the lineup.

  Right shoulder, wrong eye for Chris Brown, who strained an eyelid sleeping. How exactly do you rehab from that?

  Personal Trainer: “C'mon, Brown! Gimme three more winks! Three more, you wuss!”

  Hope he was careful with the A535. Hope Ken Griffey was, too. He missed a game after his protective cup slipped and pinched one of Junior's. . . juniors.

  It's enough to make you puke, which Kevin Mitchell once did, straining a muscle in the process. Maybe it was bad fish. Oh sorry, that was Mark Portugal who missed a start after getting food poisoning from eating some nasty mahi-mahi. Should have had the carp, which is what English soccer keeper David Seaman was planning on doing until he wrecked his shoulder trying to reel in a big one. Almost ended his career. So Seaman decided he should stick to watching TV in his leisure time. Until he broke a bone reaching for his remote.

  Don't feel too silly, Dave. Another soccer player, Robbie Keane, tore his knee cartilage making the same move. Damn that Coronation Street!

  Where will the carnage end?

  At least athletes who hurt themselves playing other sports can maintain some sense of dignity. Unless, of course, it's New Orleans Saints tight end Cam Cleeland, who tore his Achilles tendon playing golf.

  Golfers should be hurt playing football. Football players should not be hurt playing golf. Maybe they just need to train harder. That's what Moises Alou was doing. . . when he fell off his treadmill and tore up his knee. It had almost healed when he ran over his son on his bike, and re-injured it. He was out almost a year. Moises should seriously consider becoming a Bubble Boy.

  Geez, maybe the safest place for our athletes is the field of play. If they make it out there. Philadelphia Eagles defensive tackle Hollis Thomas broke his foot against the Giants this past season. . . in the pre-game introductions.

  I guess those who somehow make it to game-time healt
hy should celebrate. Just not like Cardinals kicker Bill Gramatica, who tore up his knee jumping up and down after a field goal. Season over. Or French soccer hero Thierry Henry, who ran to the corner of the field after a goal, and smacked himself in the face with the flagstick. Stitches. Maybe they should just stick to high-fives. Then again, former Brave Terry Harper threw out his shoulder giving his teammate one. DL.

  And you thought their egos were fragile.

  As for Colleen Jones and her painful 'do, she'll suck it up. This is curling, remember. It's not the Ultimate Fighting Finals. But a valuable lesson has been learned. When it comes to hairstyling, curlers should just stick to. . . curlers.

  • • •

  Postscript: This column really should have become required reading for professional athletes, especially baseball players. Like Milton Bradley, who tore up his knee arguing with an umpire. Or pitcher Joel Zumaya, who hurt his wrist playing Guitar Hero. Or fellow pitcher Terry Mulholland, who scratched his right eye by rolling over a loose feather in a hotel pillow. Or Clint Barmes, a National League Rookie of the Year front-runner in 2008, until he broke his left collarbone carrying deer meat up the stairs. Or Smoltz, who scalded himself while ironing a shirt. While he was wearing it.

  Chapter 40

  Mats, Please Put us Out of our Misery

  December 2008

  My least favourite season in this business, my annus horribilis, was 2004–05, a.k.a, the NHL Lockout. Not only was there no hockey, but months went by without anything of substance happening, yet we still had to talk about it on TV every night. It became Seinfeld, without the comedy. A show about nothing.

  Mats Sundin has become The Lockout, version 2K8.

  For six months, we've been waiting for him to make up his mind. Six months!?! Presidents and prime ministers have been elected. Economies have crumbled. And still, we wait on Mats. Somebody shoot me. Wait, time to update that phrase: Somebody Plaxico Burress me.

  In what psychologists would deem a cry for help, I decided to compile a timeline of the Sundin saga, a form of self-inflicted torture much more horrific than anything that sicko in the Saw movies could dream up. I've added footnotes for. . . umm. . . historical perspective.

  June 12–Toronto grants permission to the New York Rangers to talk to Sundin. (Doesn't that feel like it was 27 years ago?)

  June 20–Leafs grant Montreal permission to talk to Sundin. (Wouldn't life be great if people couldn't talk to you unless they were granted permission? Like, say. . . telemarketers. And in-laws.)

  July 1–Sundin officially becomes a free agent. (Within hours, Michael Ryder gets $4 million a year, Jeff Finger gets $3.5 million a year, Cristobal Huet gets $5.6 million. What does that makes Mats worth? This is going to get silly.)

  July 1–Vancouver offers Sundin $20 million over two years. (Told ya.)

  July 10–Sundin says no thank you to Vancouver, and all other offers, saying he's not sure if he wants to play. (When you can say no to $20 million, you clearly have made way too much money in your life. Or you really, really, hate rain.)

  July 15–Rangers officially declare they're still interested. (I officially declare that I'm losing interest already.)

  July 23–Report indicates Sundin will decide his future on Aug. 1. (I recoil in fear, thinking TSN will schedule a “Sundin Decision Day” special, forcing me to miss August long weekend horseshoe tournament at cottage. This would hurt me more than you will ever know.)

  July 30–Sundin's agent JP Barry says on Vancouver radio that six teams are interested in Sundin and that he's informed them he'll make a decision in August. (I believe this is the same way Tom Cruise chooses his wives.)

  Aug. 1–Sundin sets soft deadline of Aug. 15 for decision. (“Soft deadline”? Isn't that like “almost pregnant”?)

  Sept. 2–Sundin announces that he won't make his decision until after the season starts. (So when you said “soft deadline,” you meant really really soft, like. . . mushed bananas.)

  Sept. 3–Sundin says: “I haven't even looked at different options, or teams, or where to play. My first question is, do I want to play any more?” (13 seasons with the Leafs can have that effect on a guy.)

  Sept. 5–Sundin returns to Toronto to play in a charity ball-hockey game. (Confused New York Islanders scout notes that his skating looks shaky.)

  Sept. 5–Sundin meets with Cliff Fletcher. (Jokester Sundin tells Fletcher he's now ready to waive his no-trade clause. Cliff doesn't laugh.)

  1985–Austrian rock singer Falco records “Rock Me Amadeus!” (Sorry, mind drifted off for a minute.)

  Oct. 4–Senators owner Eugene Melynk woos Sundin during “chance” meeting at Sens-Pens game in Sweden. (And by “chance meeting,” we mean Melnyk hid in a storage closet in Sundin's luxury box for 18 hours until he showed up.)

  Oct. 30–Sundin starts training in LA. (. . . To be a contestant on American Gladiators.)

  Nov. 3–Bryan Murray indicates Ottawa is still interested in Sundin. (And by “interested,” he means, “Choose us! Choose us! Oh please please please! Have you looked at our secondary scoring?!? We're dying here, Mats!” I'm paraphrasing.)

  Nov. 4–Sundin meets with Brian Burke in Anaheim. (To do what? Help him pack?)

  Nov. 19–Sundin meets with Bob Gainey in Los Angeles. (No one gets more free lunches than Mats.)

  Nov. 21–Sundin meets with Melnyk in Los Angeles. (Why didn't Mats just have one of those group dates they do on The Bachelor?)

  Dec. 8–Sundin sets “target date” of Dec. 15 to make decision. (Is it just me, or does “target date” sound an awful lot like “soft deadline”?)

  Dec. 14–Sundin talks with the New York Rangers. (Hey, wait a second. We did that one June 12! Is this show running on a loop?)

  Dec. 12–Dejected columnist realizes he has spent half a day researching a story he was sick of five months ago. Sticks pen in eye.

  • • •

  Postscript: Sundin signed with Vancouver in late December 2008. He was a non-factor most of his half-season there. The following year threatened to be a sequel to the painful Mats-athon. But just before the season started, he announced his retirement in Sweden, saving us all several more months of pain and suffering. Sundin had a terrific career, and is probably a Hall-of-Famer. But he probably should have retired as a Maple Leaf, one season earlier.

  Chapter 41

  Au Revoir Expos

  September 2005

  I just heard that an old friend passed away. Not to sound cold, but I didn't get emotional. After all, I hadn't gone to see him in years. In fact, no one had seen much of him of late. He hadn't moved or anything, he was still around. People just left him alone. There was a time though when he was The Man. We'd drive two hours every weekend to visit his home. He'd dance and goof around with the kids. Everybody loved the big fella.

  Yup, sure gonna miss you, Youppi.

  OK, so I don't do sucky well. Even if I did, it would be wrong to get all Dick Vermeil about a team I hadn't seen in person in seven years, and watched on TV about as often as Dr. Phil.

  The only ones who truly have a right to get mushy over the Montreal Expos' demise are the employees who'll lose their jobs, the couple thousand fans who've stuck with them over the years and, of course, that big orange furry ball of love himself, the Youpster.

  The rest of us didn't care enough before, so we don't have the right to say we care now.

  But we can remember. Remember a time when we did care.

  I'll remember the mid-'70s, listening to the Expos in French on my AM radio in Ottawa, which in baseball terms, was a suburb of Montreal. And though I understood enough to follow along, there were some slight problems.

  Namely the mysterious “Orling,” a player I could never find in the box scores, but who seemed to dominate the game on the radio. It seemed every second hit went in his direction: “Balle frappe Orling.” It took me about a half-season to figure out Orling was actually “Hors ligne,” translation: foul. I sheepishly scratched the number 24 ORLING jer
sey off my birthday list.

  I'll remember finally getting Duke and Dave (Snider and Van Horne) on English radio. They were jock-Mozart. I'd waste away night after summer night listening to them while tossing a beat-up Slazenger against the aluminum siding of my house, trying to make Ozzie Smith diving grabs into the hedge.

  I'll remember spending one of my first dates ever listening to a game at a movie (I think it was Zapped! with Scott Baio and Willie Aames, so you could pretty much follow without the audio). I guarantee she doesn't remember that. Or me.

  I'll remember walking into that stadium and smelling burnt rubber, only to realize it was the hotdogs. The Big Owe weenie didn't even have a bun, just a piece of semi-toasted soggy bread that only stretched around half of it. It looked like a Britney Spears outfit, there was so much meat exposed. And yet, I still ate three a game. C'mon, it's baseball!

  I'll remember being there the night they booed Jeff Reardon's wife. She was introduced between games of a double-header in recognition of some charity work. Problem was, hubby had blown the save in game one. Tough crowd.

  I'll remember my 16th birthday, when my sisters baked me Tim Raines' head. Not a decapitated Gwyneth-Paltrow-at-the-end-of-Se7en head, but a cake. It was a darn good likeness, too, complete with an Expos ballcap. A couple of my friends took icing sugar and sprinkled it under his nose for the mandatory Tim Raines coke joke. Not funny. I worshipped Tim Raines.

  I'll remember rewriting the entire lyrics to “I Don't Like Mondays” on the fateful day in '81. This, after Rick Monday's home run and Jerry White's subsequent first pitch meager game-ending ground ball after two straight walks in the bottom of the ninth. Last few lines (with sincere apologies to Bob Geldof):