I WASN’T SELECTED in 1986, my first year of eligibility for the NHL Entry Draft, so it was super important for me to make the team that represented Canada at the 1987 World Junior Championships in Piestany, Czechoslovakia. Most of the teams had seen me and written me off because of my size. But if I performed well at the World Juniors, I knew they would have to take a second look. I was invited to a five-day training camp in Orleans, Ontario, just outside Ottawa. It was an opportunity to step out. I was always able to capitalize on those moments. The more pressure, the better I played.
I had an unbelievable performance at that camp. I flew across the ice as if I were hydroplaning. And when somebody passed, it was as if the game slowed down. Everything I shot went in the net. To me, it looked like a soccer net, not a hockey net. I was just super, super focused. There are times when you can’t do anything wrong. Every elite athlete has experienced this. Everything is perfect, no matter what you do—you are in the zone.
I made the team. It was my first major international tournament. I was glad my good buddy and fellow Warrior Mike Keane was there too. Moose Jaw has retired his number 25 sweater alongside my number 9. Keaner is the most competitive person I have ever met. If I were going to war, he would be the first guy on my list. He had no talent at all—none. But no matter what we were doing, he had to win. Didn’t matter what. First in line to fucking get McDonald’s—that kind of guy,you know? He was funny, really funny, and had red hair, an Irishman. Boy, he was tough! He wasn’t very big—five foot eleven, 180 pounds—but he was voted the toughest guy in the Western Hockey League two years in a row. Keaner was an interesting guy, for sure. I felt ten feet tall when I was playing on the ice with him. Nobody messed with Keaner, which meant nobody messed with me. He was killing guys. I saw him knock out twenty guys in the three years I played for Moose Jaw. Literally one-punch them flat on their asses. Mike and his dad and brother Billy lived hockey the same way my brothers and I did. His dad was a prison warden, but he also coached his sons. Mike was the youngest, so he had to keep up, and Billy showed him no mercy. Keaner won three Stanley Cups and wasn’t even drafted. He became captain of the Montreal Canadiens—an English-speaking, Irish kid. Think about it. I see him every once in a while, but he’s not on my speed dial or anything. He’s 41 and he’s still in the game, playing for the Manitoba Moose.
Nitra, our home base, was an absolute shit hole. But I was the kind of guy who always made the best of every situation. Through the whole tournament, everybody would complain about how shitty the food was and everything. For me, it was an adventure. True enough, the food was absolutely horrendous. I didn’t eat caviar, so that eliminated half my choices. I mean, what 18-year-old Canadian kid wants to scarf down fish eggs? I think they thought they were doing us a big favour by serving it. We were so hungry we would try it again and again, then end up spitting it out. We ate fries three times a day because none of us were interested in eating German shepherd or whatever the hell that lardy mystery meat was that they stuffed into the sausages. Hockey Canada finally flew over a whole bunch of Kraft Dinner, but the cooks in Nitra managed to fuck that up too. They served it all soft and mushy.
Each apartment had two single beds in two bedrooms. Keaner and I dragged ours into the room with Yvon Corriveau and Greg Hawgood so we could stay up and talk all night. The four of us hit it off instantly, like we were held together by Velcro. I was a little awestruck by Yvon because his sweater was already hanging in the Washington Caps’ dressing room. He’d talk about what it was like. “You don’t have to carry your hockey bag, and they sharpen your skates without you telling them to. The hotels are great, the food is great and the girls are better-looking.” Unbelievable! He was a good guy. A big guy. He was ripped and had a full beard. I don’t think I even had hair on my nuts.
Greg Hawgood was a special player too. He was not much bigger than me, five-nine or so, but he played defence. He was a tough little guy. Greg ended up playing in the Stanley Cup finals, for Boston against the Oilers in 1988.
Steve Chiasson was our captain. Another defenceman. He played hard and had some skill. Steve had been drafted by the Detroit Red Wings in 1985 and had already played half a season with them. We ended up as teammates in Calgary from 1994 to ‘97. We were buds because he liked to party. Thanks to Steve, I started smoking. We were in Engelberg, Switzerland, at a practice camp and had the night off. Engelberg is a little ski village below Titlis Mountain—swear to God. Anyway, he had some Marlboro Reds and I said, “Hey, lemme try one of those.” He gave me one and it was love at first puff. I haven’t stopped since.
Our goalie, Jimmy Waite, was this quiet French kid. He played for the Chicoutimi Saguenéens. We had no clue who this kid was. Then, the first day, Jimmy came out and stoned everyone. And he stood on his head for the rest of the tournament. He was on another planet. The next year, when we went to Moscow, he was even more insane, even better. I thought, “Man, this guy is going to be a great goalie,” but he never really got there. He was picked up by the Chicago Blackhawks, but it would be tough to see ice with Ed Belfour and Dominik Hašek sitting in the row in front of you. I heard he is still playing in Germany, with Ingolstadt. The guy loves hockey.
In our first six games at the 1987 WJCs, I had five points (two goals and three assists). It was what I would consider a successful tournament for me. The team was also doing well; we’d won four times, with one loss and one tie, and were assured of a medal. We had to play the Russians in the last game of the tournament. If we lost, we went home with the bronze. If we won, we were guaranteed a silver, and if we could beat them by five goals, we would win the gold medal. The Russians had had an awful tournament—they were out of the running for a medal, and the coach and players were really pissed. Nobody on that team was happy with how they played. And the Russian media really slammed the coach, Vladimir Vasiliev. The way they were playing, it looked like we were at least a lock for the silver.
I scored twice in the first period. For goal number one, the puck was dumped into the corner and bounced out to Keaner. He shot it on net, and I followed up on his rebound and buried it—top shelf: 1–0. The second goal was a turnover that happened because, if Europeans don’t see a play developing, they always circle back and try to regroup. So when the Russian D-man came out from behind the net to regroup, he drop-passed it to the second D—basically serving up a pizza to me. I saw the slice sitting there, raced in, picked it up, deked and scored. For our third goal, they served up another pizza and Dave Lada put it in. The fourth one was Steve Nemeth. He went in and took a slapshot and just roofed it.
The game was chippy as anything, lots of penalties. The Russians had nothing to gain by beating us. They were done, regardless of the outcome, so they were spearing and flying at us with elbows and dirty shots. We weren’t choirboys, either. Hockey Canada had put together a team of fighters and instigators. You came at us with a knife, we’d come back at you with a bayonet.
I felt for Everett Sanipass, a first-round draft pick of the Chicago Blackhawks in 1986. He and I were the only Aboriginals on the team. He was a Mi’kmaq from the Big Cove Reserve in New Brunswick.He was so unsophisticated that he made me look smooth. Anyway, he was supposed to be interviewed during the intermission, but thanks to my two goals, the CBC called on me instead. I believe it was the worst interview in the history of hockey. It was my first time on national television, and I was so wired from the game, it was as if I had done several 8-balls of cocaine. I was talking 300 miles an hour. I remember seeing it when I got home and all I could do was bury my head in my hands and say, “Oh God.” I saw a dopey kid from a very small town trying to say hi to everyone he ever met. It was fun, though, and it foreshadowed the years to come. I have never met a microphone I didn’t like. The media always liked to talk to me because I was colourful and I was totally honest all the time.
Back on the ice in the second period, there were more and more altercations after the whistle. Then, near the fourteen-minute mark of the second period, Sanipass and a big Russian started throwing punches with their gloves on. It started when I skated toward Pavel Kostichkin, who had just been checked by Sanipass. He got up and—bam!—took a shot and knocked me down. This all happened directly in front of the ref, Hans Rønning, who just stood there thinking about what he was going to have for dinner that night.
When you are 17 years old your testosterone is at a high, high level. Our players at the WJCs in 1987 were born in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. What was happening in the world at that time? The Cold War. What were we fed by teachers, parents, the government and the media for breakfast, lunch and supper? That the Russkies are your enemy. And what do you think the Russian students were taught? The same thing about us. The evil Westerners want to take over the world. By the time we met in Piestany, North America and the Soviet Union were starting to make nice, but that did not erase years of suspicion and tension.
And as far as hockey goes, back home we had been brawling almost every game. Everybody was. There was always a big brouhaha. It put butts in the seats. We were taught to react to situations, not to think. The coaches really planted that one in us. Hockey Canada knew the situation very well. We’d already had two brawls against Switzerland in an exhibition game, and then on New Year’s Day we played the Americans and had a big shindig at centre ice during the warmup. Chiasson was suspended even though he wasn’t involved. Did anyone from Hockey Canada sit us down and say, “Look, boys, this is a sensitive situation. We are concerned. You stand to lose if you fight”? No.
So what happened? Valeri Zelepukin, number 10, was after me the whole game because I’d been bugging the hell out of him. “Hey, Natasha, you fucking Commie Russki!” He didn’t speak English, but he got the gist. Anyway, once the fight got going he came at me. We circled each other, throwing a couple of punches, and then both of us went down punching and rolling around. We found our feet again and continued just hammering each other. I was vaguely aware that next to us Chiasson was trying to hold back another Russian from joining us.
Zelepukin had me in a bear hug. I managed to break free and look up, and both benches were coming at us. It was like, “Holy cow, here we go.” I have since heard that Evgeny Davydov, who eventually played for the Winnipeg Jets, led the charge. Anyway, Keaner got hold of Zelepukin, and that was it for him. Then Keaner took care of two more Russians, including Vladimir Malakhov. Greg Hawgood was chasing a guy while swinging his helmet at him. And Sanipass, who was tough as hell, was a wrecking machine.
The refs went from fight to fight trying to break each one up, but these guys were completely ineffective. The problem was they chose the ref, Ronning, for political reasons. He was a Norwegian, and the International Hockey Federation figured he was neutral. The ref is the policeman. If the policeman lets everybody run red lights, well, everybody’s going to run red lights, right? And these refs were not cops—they were more like mall security. They didn’t skate off the ice, they ran off. I watched them go.
The whole thing lasted for a good forty-five minutes. They tried turning the lights out, but that didn’t solve anything. It was still dark when we all eventually got tired, picked up our shit and skated to the dressing rooms, waiting to be called for the next period. We were sitting there trying to recover when Dennis MacDonald, who was the head of Hockey Canada, came in and told us we’d been disqualified from the tournament and what a black mark on hockey it was and how ashamed we should be. He was doing his Hockey Canada thing and we were just amazed. This kind of stuff happened every night in the WHL! This was normal! And the Russians had been in bench-clearing brawls at the World Juniors before, with the Czechs in 1978 and the Americans in 1985. Don Wittman of the CBC blamed us for coming off the bench first, when it turns out it was the Russians who were first over the boards.
Some have accused Steve Nemeth and Pierre Turgeon of being cowards because they didn’t step up and fight with the rest of us, and I can see where that level of frustration comes from, but you know what? Some people just aren’t made that way. They’re really not. Turge was one of the most skilled guys who ever played in the NHL. He wasn’t your typical in-your-face, brash guy. He was just a nice guy who played hockey. Nemeth was the same way. Everything happened so fast. We were in the brawl and the next thing you know we were on the bus going, “What the fuck happened?” Obviously, we were disappointed that we weren’t able to finish the job.
I think it was such a bizarre incident that everybody reacted poorly, but I have one good memory. When I got home I received a medal in the mail from Harold Ballard. He’d had them made up because he agreed with what we’d done. Brian Williams (with CBC then, and now a commentator with TSN) kept beaking off, calling it an ugly, disgraceful incident. The guy probably never even laced up in his life. The most adversity he ever faced on ice was making it to his car in the winter. Don Cherry was behind us because he played the game, so he understands the game. I don’t think it gives him the right to be as critical as he is sometimes, because he was never a big success story in the game, but he knows what goes on in the heat of the moment. It gets out of hand at times. That is the nature of hockey.