IN THE SPRING OF 1991 I was invited to play for Canada in the World Championships in Turku, Finland. I told them, “I am seriously injured. I can’t go,” and they said, “Well, we need ya. We would really love for you to come and play.”
“Yeah, I would love to come and play too,” I said, “but I’m really hurt.” They said, “Have you been using freezing during the playoffs?” I told them I had. “Well, we can do the same thing here,” they said.
“Okay, sure,” I said. “Why not?” I don’t know if my durability was something I acquired or if it was part of my DNA, but I could play really, really hurt and banged up.
We ended up winning the silver medal. Problem was, we had to beat the USA by five goals, while the Russians had to at least tie the Swedes. We did our part, beating the Americans 9–4 with two goals in the last fifteen seconds. That kept our hopes alive. But then Sweden beat the Russians 2–1 on a goal by Mats Sundin, taking the gold right from under our noses. Canadians don’t play for silver, so it sucked. Damn that Sundin. It would have been awesome to add that gold to the collection. Anytime I played for Team Canada was a wonderful experience, and I was very fortunate to play for them nine times in my career.
Cliff Fletcher, our GM, had just moved to Toronto with the Leafs, and Doug Risebrough came up through the ranks to take his place.Risebrough was old school. So was I, for that matter. In my mind, a hockey team worked like the military. You don’t question authority, you collect your paycheque and do as you are told.
Fletcher had mentored Riser, so Riser had a lot of trust and respect for his former boss. But just as Fletcher was tough and single-minded while building our team, he was the same when he moved to Toronto. And Risebrough forgot one very important thing. Hockey is war, and you have no friends in war.
Anyway, Dougie Gilmour was looking for more money, which he deserved, but Riser took it personally. He and Killer didn’t see eye to eye. Risebrough had five Stanley Cup rings—four playing with Montreal and one as our assistant coach. He was fearless. He had proven himself to Flames fans during the Battle of Alberta, in a home game in the 1985–86 season. Risebrough, at five foot eleven and 183 pounds, took on the Oilers’ big goon, Marty McSorley, who was six-two, 235, and nearly ten years younger. McSorley got the upper hand in the fight, but Riser managed to come away with McSorley’s blue road jersey. He took it with him into the box and sat there slashing his skates through it, cutting the sweater to ribbons. Then he tossed it back to McSorley, who was so pissed he was purple.
Anyway, Riser had been an excellent soldier the whole time he played. And he did not exactly approve of what he saw as the new, more glamorous NHL. His teammates had been some of the greatest hockey players of all time—Guy Lapointe, Larry Robinson, Serge Savard, Bob Gainey, Jacques Lemaire, Guy Lafleur, Yvan Cournoyer—and they all did what they were told. Not one of them ever held out for more money. So not only did Risebrough fail to understand the kind of heartthrob celebrity Dougie Gilmour was achieving due to his good looks (Killer spent a lot of time on his hair and stuff, and I don’t think Riser knew what to make of that), but he couldn’t believe Gilmour had the temerity to walk out and sit on the sidelines just because his contract was not settled.
Killer and Riser were feuding even before Doug was coach or GM. When Riser was an assistant coach before the Stanley Cup, Gilmour was sick and tired of being told, “I want you to be my Guy Carbonneau. I want you to be a defensive player like Guy Carbonneau.” Gilmour pictured himself as more than a defensive player. He had both offensive and defensive talent, and he was fed up with Doug wanting him to be Carbonneau and not Gilmour.
So when Risebrough became head coach and went on with this Carbonneau business, Gilmour said, “Okay, Doug, you want me to be a defensive specialist like Carbonneau? Then pay me like Carbonneau.” That very year, Carbonneau had signed a million-dollar contract, a lot of money at the time. But Riser would hear none of it. He was pretty thrifty. He was a novice GM and he was trying to stay within the team’s budget, trying to prove himself.
Billy Hay was our new president. Now, Billy was a super-nice guy, and a former hockey great with Chicago, where he was rookie of the year and played on a line with Bobby Hull. After hockey, he went into oil and gas and was very successful. Billy Hay was old school too, so he also refused to up Gilmour’s contract offer. The end result was a knee-jerk reaction that gutted our team.
On New Year’s Eve, 1991, we beat Montreal and Gilmour had one of the best games he ever played for Calgary. Two days later, on January 2, Riser pulled the trigger on a deal that handed Doug Gilmour, Jamie Macoun, Ric Nattress, Rick Wamsley and prospect forward Kent Manderville to Toronto for forward Gary Leeman, defenceman Michel Petit, goaltender Jeff Reese, tough guy Craig Berube and prospect defenceman Alexander Godynyuk. Killer went on to score 765 more points, most of them as the heart and soul of the Leafs. And he led them through many tough playoff series, giving the Leafs their best years since 1967. Macoun had six and a half great seasons in Toronto and two more in Detroit. Leeman, a former 50-goal scorer in Toronto, played for us for just two seasons and tallied a grand total of 11 goals in that time. We lost character guys, and none of the guys we got in return worked out.
I know that sometimes what coaches and general managers know, players don’t know, so chances are there was more going on behind the scenes, but it was a tough time. I really liked and respected Riser, but the Flames had made a terrible trade. It brought an end to the glory years in Calgary. The whole team struggled. I had 25 goals at the All-Star break. Things had been going nicely. Then they traded Gilmour and I scored only 8 more goals the rest of the year. When we lost the core of our team, we lost our identity.
After the trade, everyone in Calgary was pretty mad at Cliff Fletcher. Ian McKenzie and Cliff had worked together twenty-three years. Cliff called Ian shortly afterward and said, “When you come to Toronto, why don’t you come and see me anymore?” Ian gave him a shot about the trade. Cliff said, “Look, what was I gonna do? Calgary was determined to make the trade. If we didn’t, someone else would have.”
THE TRADE took a toll on me. After having had so much success in the first few years of my career, being on a dominant team with so many great players, it was a huge disappointment. But I am not blaming it for my personal problems. By 1992 I was well into partying. In fact, I was such a highly functioning alcoholic that my excessive drinking was a secret. Let me put it this way: when I was on the ice I knew who I was, but I didn’t have an identity when I left the rink. I was completely lost, so I did crazy things to try to find out who the hell I was. I had so much money that I could do whatever I wanted, and that ain’t right, either. Money is power.
I hadn’t touched cocaine since Salt Lake, but on February 11, 1992, after a game against the Islanders, we were at the China Club, a bar near Broadway on West 47th in New York. It was where all the famous people went. I was having a drink at the bar when this very attractive lady came up to me. We started talking and she said, “Hey, would you like to come to my bar?” I’m like, “You own a bar?” She was really good-looking, not slutty or anything—dark features, big brown eyes, maybe mulatto, shiny, long, black hair, kind of athletic-looking, tight jeans and a great body. So I said, “Yes, I would like that very much.” She said, “Great, I’ve got a limo outside.” I asked if I could bring one of my teammates with me. “Oh yeah, no problem.” So I grabbed one of the guys—I can’t say who because he’s married—and we pulled up to this huge bar.
We went up to her office and she got a couple of lackeys to bring us some booze. We had a few drinks, and she opened up her drawer and pulled out this nice fuckin’ kit—a mirror and a gold fuckin’ straw. She chopped up a couple of lines, and we partied hard. We ended up going down to her bar, and when it closed we gathered a bunch of random people and went to our hotel, where we rented another room and kept going.
My roommate, Mark Hunter, had been hurt that night and had gone home, so I had a room all to myself. When it was almost light out, this pretty, bar-owning chick and I went to the room and did our thing. She left right afterward because I said, “I’ve got to get to bed. The bus is leaving in a few hours for Washington.”
I slept the entire way, got into Washington, and practised with the team. I felt like fuckin’ death. Death! Because as much fun as coke was, when you’re coming off that shit, you just want to crawl into a hole and die. That feeling, that day, was typical of the way I felt so many times throughout my career. Hung over, either busing it or flying to the next city, getting off the bus and having to practise and watch videos and then go to the hotel and sleep for sixteen hours until the very next morning. Oh yeah.
Toward the end of my career, instead of being just tired, I had periods of really bad anxiety and it got harder and harder to function. It took everything that I had to get through those days. But at the beginning it was so much fun. People wanted to be with me. I was a light, like the fuckin’ sun.