by James Duthie
“Summer hockey especially bothers me,” says Turco. “Take the ice out. I never played in the summer. I played everything else. Sure, I missed hockey but I also never came to hate it because I'd played too much.”
The goalie's right. We've all seen those little glassy-eyed, year-round hockey robots, who have had all passion for the game sucked out of them by age 10. Of course, there are some who you could put out on the ice four hours a day and it still wouldn't be enough.
So, we'll watch our boy closely to see which way he leans. If the fun of rep starts to fade, we'll happily go back to Club Med. But for now, The Amazing Race continues.
And we're surviving. It doesn't consume our entire life. In fact, tonight we have no hockey! We're going out!
To a team fundraiser. Wanna buy a raffle ticket?
• • •
Postscript: Three years later, we're still living the rep (no)life. The kid loves it, so we're all in. Heck, in retrospect, I had it easy back when I wrote this. Now, my daughters both do competitive indoor soccer, dance and yoga in the winters. Thankfully, there is no rep yoga. Yet. “Down dog tournament this weekend in Oakville! Bring your mats, and be there two hours early for meditation!”
Chapter 71
Bye-Bye Si
December 2006
I collect next to nothing.
No hockey cards, no sports memorabilia, no used Vic Rauter powder puffs. (Jay Onrait keeps those. Creepy.) The one exception is a pile of magazines that, if set on fire, would be visible from outer space.
I kept every issue of Sports Illustrated since my Mom and Dad gave me a subscription for my birthday in 1981. (Along with a large monkey-puppet that my sister knit a Clemson Tigers sweater for. True story. A sad, troubling one. But true.) That's a quarter century of SI: 1,400-plus magazines, lugged across the country through three cities and eight moves.
It was not a collection, per se. I never laminated the covers, never displayed or hung them like some sports bar. They were simply dumped on a pile that would need its own wing on the Duthie Estate, if there were a Duthie Estate (I'd prefer a compound). Instead, they just lay in boxes, out of boxes, around boxes, taking up our entire furnace room.
There was a logical reason for this Mother-piece of packratting. When my little boy, or girls, got interested in sports, I wanted them to be able to dig through the old SIs. I figured it would be like opening paper time capsules of seasons and eras gone by.
I wanted them to see those wonderful covers of Michael Jordan in his prime: gravity-defying, tongue-wagging, so they wouldn't just know him as some guy on the Celebrity Golf Tour. I wanted them to read the Gary Smith pieces that could make you laugh and cry in the same paragraph, and convinced their dad to study journalism.
My wife bought that sappy story for 15 years, until she brought home a truckload of Christmas presents last Saturday, and declared the furnace room the only viable place in the house to hide them. Problem was, she could barely open the door, and had neither the energy nor Sherpa guide necessary to ascend Mount SI.
They had to go.
And so my children's sports library, their lifetime of joyful retro-reading, would instead amount to one afternoon with my seven-year-old boy, trying to teach him 25 years of sports history while we dumped load after load in the recycling bin.
It was a glorious few hours, gazing at those faded, dog-eared, food-smeared covers. There were images I recalled instantly: Andre Dawson and Dave Stieb in front of a Canadian flag (THOSE CANADIAN CLUBS! July 18, 1983), a steroid-swollen Tony Mandarich (THE INCREDIBLE BULK, April 24, 1989) and a young pre-face tattoo, pre-circus act, pre-everything Mike Tyson (KID DYNAMITE).
There were headlines dripping with irony. Giant cartoon heads of Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire adorned the March 6, 2000 issue with the cover line: ALL THE JUICE IS IN THE NL CENTRAL. You weren't kidding!
We giggled together at Gary Nicklaus's Daisy Duke shorts (THE NEXT NICKLAUS, March 11, 1985). I giggled alone at WHY CAN'T THEY RUN LIKE OJ? (Oct. 8, 1990). That one required a little too much explaining for the boy. There were dubious predictions: WOODEN BATS ARE DOOMED! (July 24, 1989). . . And what now seem like silly questions: CAN THE NFL BE SAVED? (Dec. 6, 1993). Hmm. . . I think maybe it'll be OK. As for CAN THIS MAN [Doug Flutie] SAVE THE USFL? (Feb. 25, 1985). Uhh. . . I'm thinking not.
I told the boy he could choose a couple of issues to keep. He grabbed one of the few hockey spreads we could find, featuring Tony Tanti (Nov. 21, 1983). He is now convinced that Tony Tanti is the defining hockey player of the last half-century. This brings me much amusement.
But the issue he really wanted was the 1991 College Football Preview Issue with Houston Cougar Quarterback David Klingler on the cover holding a stick of dynamite (BOMBS AWAY!). He immediately proclaimed Klingler his favourite athlete. For a seven-year-old, any guy who walks with a lit explosive in his hand defines cool. I haven't figured out how to break it to him that David Klingler is probably selling insurance in Austin now. I kept about 50 myself. Some Gretzky and Mario cover issues, every 49ers cover, my Perry Tuttle Clemson Tigers National Championship cover (Hey, my sister didn't knit that monkey-puppet sweater for nothing!), the Sportsmen of the Year Issues, and a Rick Reilly column on the late (Kansas City Chiefs running back) Joe Delaney, which is still the best thing I have ever read.
Oh yeah. And the Swimsuit Issues. Now those, I may laminate.
• • •
Postscript: I just hit 30 years of subscribing to Sports Illustrated. But it's not the same anymore. I used to read it cover-to-cover the day it arrived. Now I end up with a stack of six that haven't been opened, which I'll skim through when I get a rare free hour. Who has time to read sports columns anymore? Oh wait. . . crap.
Chapter 72
The Right Duff
October 2007
My son hates Mike Comrie. Mike Comrie ripped his heart out. Mike Comrie stole his woman.
You see, my boy is in love with Hilary Duff. Problem is, Hilary Duff is in love with Mike Comrie.
So, protective father that I am, I confront Comrie about how he has heartlessly crushed a not-quite eight-year-old who owns a Hilary Duff poster and three CDs, which I am obligated to play on the way to every one of his hockey games. Comrie just laughs and says: “Tell him I never meant to hurt him.”
Sure you didn't.
But sorry, son, the guy's too nice to stay mad at. And the story is so Disney-ish, it should be a. . . Hilary Duff movie! Hockey star boy meets sweet Hollywood star girl (at a resort in Idaho this past July). Boy and girl go gaga over each other. Boy lights up the league in the first week of the season with girl cheering him on in the stands.
So darn sweet, it almost makes you want to puke.
After rebooting his career last season in Ottawa, Comrie signed with the Isles and has been an early-season revelation. He has four goals and seven points in five games, playing 22 minutes a night on the Islanders top line. All the while becoming a tabloid all-star:
“Hilary and fresh boy toy Mike Comrie were spotted having a romantic dinner last night at Giorgio Baldi restaurant in Santa Monica. Comrie is the center for the New York Islanders hockey team. Score!”—TMZ.com. (I particularly enjoyed the phrase “the center,” as if a hockey team only has one. Oh wait, it's the Islanders. They might be right.)
“Apparently, the two are very affectionate toward one another,” according to friends of Duff. “They're always together and can't keep their hands off each other.”—GossipGirls.com. (Good to see an old-school NHLer can still clutch and grab.)
“Hilary and her new beau cuddled and danced together all night long from their perch on the third-floor VIP section overlooking the dance floor.”—People.com. (. . . And she screamed in glee when he seamlessly transitioned from Robot to Macarena.)
Comrie laughs it all off.
“I certainly never wanted to be in the tabloids,” he says. “You try to keep your privacy. But I understand her fans want to know what she's doing. It is a little strange to walk
out of a restaurant and there are 25 cameras waiting for you.”
Yeah, it took me a couple of years to get used to it.
You'd think a player might be distracted by all this Hollyweirdness. But Comrie is doing the opposite. He's thriving. When Duff came to see him play for the first time in the pre-season, he had four points and the game winner. (I personally believe he put her in the front row to distract the opposing goalie. Evil genius, that Comrie.)
Duff is currently shooting a movie in New Jersey, so the pair has been spending a lot of time together. You won't get many more details out of Comrie. He wants to keep the relationship as private as possible. He'd rather talk hockey.
Forget that! I talk hockey all day. I want to talk about the girl. So many questions: Does he play that “Wake Up! Wake Up!” song on his iPod before every game? Does he have a favourite Lizzie McGuire episode? Does he ever pull a Britney and not wear underwear on purpose to shock the paparazzi?
Sadly, there are no answers. For some silly reason, Comrie puts his relationship ahead of my disturbing curiosity. (So selfish.) But sources close to him (crap, I sound like I'm writing for US or In Touch) say the relationship is getting serious. So, I beg him for one answer. Is it serious, Mike?
“Yeah. It is. I don't think I've ever been happier in my life.”
OK, now you can puke. I have to go console my son.
• • •
Postscript: Comrie cooled off, but still had a good year with the Islanders, scoring 21 goals. He has switched teams numerous times since then, but the girl remains the same. Comrie and Duff were married in the summer of 2010. My son has moved on to Megan Fox. Give the boy credit: he has taste.
Chapter 73
A Break from Bertuzzi
February 18, 2004. This column was written four days after Todd Bertuzzi attacked Steve Moore on the ice in Vancouver. It was, from the standpoint of public reaction, one of the worst weeks in the history of hockey.
• • •
For a moment, forget about it.
Forget the bounty, the stalking, the sucker punch, the blood, the stretcher, the kid in the hospital, the terror his family must have felt, the outcry, the tears, the suspension, the hate mail you've gotten blaming the “evil media” and the hate-hockey mail from those fed up with the game.
Just take a minute, and log off from this whole nightmare.
So you do. You go down to your basement, where you find your boy, digging through his toy closet looking for the $2 yellow plastic hockey stick his overanxious Dad bought him while he was still in the womb.
That's weird. The boy never liked the stick. It had barely been out of the box. Oh sure, he likes sports. He'll hit golf balls in the backyard grass 'til there's no grass left. Just mounds of ugly divots. He doesn't care that his only club is a rusty right-handed Spalding junior ladies 7-iron with a baby blue grip. And he's a lefty.
He'll sneak up on you in the office and chuck the Nerf off the side of your head while you're typing, then laugh like he's funnier than Chris Rock. He'll open the basement bathroom door, stick his two-year-old sister in front of it, and fire soccer balls at her like it was the FA Cup Final.
But not the stick. Never the stick.
Maybe this is the junior kindergarten version of rebellion; his stance against the endless hockey highlights he is force-fed every morning while Dad watches SportsCenter, when he could be watching something profound and important. Like Rescue Heroes.
You've tried not to worry about it. Tried not to be one of those dads, the ones who have their kids in power skating while they are still in Pull-Ups.
“He's four, and he hasn't even had lessons yet?” they ask you, befuddled by your obvious failure as a hockey parent. But you didn't want to force him. After all, you didn't skate until you were eight. And you ended up starring on the. . . Blackburn Hamlet Peewee House League Champion. (OK, Consolation Champion. Point is, there's no hurry.)
And even if he never played, even if he preferred. . . oh, say. . . rhythmic gymnastics. . . (gulp). . . you'd be supportive.
But suddenly, there he is: grabbing one of the cheap yellow sticks, handing the other to you, and making two nets out of plastic bowling pins. Game on. Sure, he only shoots backhands, misses on 80 per cent of his one-timers (actually, all he has is one-timers. . . no interest in that stick-handling thing yet) and figures his sister's doll's head makes a perfect puck. But, man, he's having a blast. You haven't seen his eyes light up like this since the first time he had Froot Loops.
Later, he raids the bookshelf in your office, scanning the cover of every NHL Media Guide before declaring his favourite teams are the Nashville Predators and the Florida Panthers (note to sports marketers: any ferocious-looking member of the cat family works well with four-year-olds). OK, so he does refer to the Rangers as the “Power Rangers” (boy, really wrong on that one), and calls the Maple Leafs something that sounds like “Maco Leaps,” but give him time.
And then it hits you. Darned if for a couple of hours, you didn't forget the whole awful week. My God, kids have a sense of timing. You half expected him to wink, and say, “I knew you needed that, Dad.”
Funny, you'd just heard someone on TV say that hockey lost thousands of fans this week. Maybe. But far away from that mess, it also gained a new one.
• • •
Postscript: My son hasn't put down the stick since. Hockey is now his passion. I'll show him this someday, just to let him know how strange and wonderful his timing was. The Moore vs. Bertuzzi case was still in the Canadian civil court system at the time this book was published.
Chapter 74
Anna and Me:
A Love Story
September 2007
OK, technically the title should be Anna and Me: A Brief Professional Acquaintance Story. But work with me here.
If you have frequented this column through the years (you really deserve some kind of government subsidy), you will have undoubtedly noticed the author's journalistic fascination (unhealthy obsession. . . whatever) with a certain female Russian ex-tennis player. I Googled my own archives and found that I used the word “Kournikova” roughly as often as “the.”
My devotion to the Church of Anna has faded somewhat over the last couple of years. Why? Well, I have matured as a writer, no longer relying on cheap frat boy ogling lines. Plus Jessica Biel got really hot.
Truth is, I was almost over Anna until my boss called me in the middle of my summer vacation.
“Hey, James, sorry to bug you. . . wondering if you could help us out with an event. . .”
“No Shot. Summer. Me no work.”
“Oh. . . well, it could be fun. It's a tennis thing. . .”
“Don't do tennis. Only contact sports. And swimsuit competitions.”
“Are you sure. . . they want you to be the umpire for a celebrity match with John McEnroe and Jim Courier and Carling Bassett and. . .”
“Legends tennis? Seriously, kill me now. I'd rather watch reruns of Full House.”
“Oh. . . and Anna Kournikova will be there, too.”
“I'm in. Love tennis! Whatever you need, boss! You know me. . . company guy all the way!”
It was destiny for us to meet. Anna dated hockey players. I am a hockey commentator.
Anna dates a singer. I often sing at weddings, after four hours of open bar. Anna is young and single. I am young (compared to. . . say. . . old people) and was once single.
I KNOW! The coincidences are so. . . freaky!
OK, the age gap did enter my mind. I am edging close to my “Creepy Older Guy” phase. There will come a day soon when it will be icky for me to crush on twentysomething vixens. That doesn't mean I'll stop. It'll just be icky.
And so here I am, backstage at the Roger's Cup one perfect August evening, waiting for some crappy real match to end so I can have my Anna moment.
And then suddenly, before I have time to mess up my hair to look more “dangerous” and do push-ups in the bathroom, she is standing next to me. She
looks a little thinner than her last Maxim cover, but still fAnnatastic. Our conversation goes like this:
Me: “Hey, Anna, my name is James. I'm the guest umpire for your match tonight.”
Anna: “Oh.”
She is clearly into me.
Me: “So. . . umm. . . how long you in town for?”
Anna: “I fly to Austria in the morning.”
Unless something. . . or someone . . . changes those plans. Heh. Heh. Know what I'm sayin'? Heh heh.
Me: “Oh, that's a quick turnaround.”
The single lamest comeback of my verbal life.
Me again (she apparently felt no need to reply to the last statement): “So, I hope it's OK if I have some fun with you during the match tonight. You'll be wearing a mic, too, so you can come back at me.”
Anna (confused and peeved): “I'm wearing a mic? No one told me I was wearing a mic? I can't attach a mic to this.”
Then in a PG Penthouse Forum moment, she flips the top of her skirt over about two inches to show me how thin, and. . . well. . . unmicrophonable. . . it is. Magic.
And then Pooffff! she is gone (likely off to berate some official or her manager about never mentioning the mic). Some talented (and dang lucky) technician found a way to get the mic on, and a few minutes later Anna is bouncing all over the court treating the exhibition like it is the US Open Final. Throughout the match, I make several spirited attempts to win her over. My decision on every protested call is:
“Whatever Miss Kournikova says.”
I tell her I took Spanish in high school. I sing her pretend-boyfriend Enrique's ballad “Hero” to her. It is incredibly sweet and beautiful (though my wife, who is in attendance, strangely chooses “pathetic and disturbing” for her description).
Anna laughs and giggles and charms the umpire and every other male in attendance. (Except maybe McEnroe, who acts as if the entire event is a prostate exam.) And yet when the match is over, she offers only the traditional umpire handshake and a half-smile, and she is gone. No hand to the ear “Call me” signal. No “Next time you're in Miami, look me up.” No “I've always dreamed of meeting a married-father-of-three Canadian cable sportscaster with legs like a chicken. Let's make out.”