JOURNEYROOKIE
BOWLING GREEN, 1994
I remember my last college hockey game like it was yesterday. We were in Detroit playing the Michigan State Spartans in the Final Five, the CCHA’s playoff weekend to anoint its champion. I was in my fourth year, and if we lost, this game would be my last in college. If we won, we’d be off to the semifinals. We’d had a fairly average year but still managed to qualify for the tournament. We did have some legit players on our team. Anchoring our defence was All-American Jeff Wells and current Pittsburgh Penguins assistant coach Todd Reirden. Up front we had future Hobey Baker winner and NHLer Brian Holzinger. Also up front was another future NHLer, Mike Johnson. Oh yeah—and yours truly.
Even though the Spartans finished ahead of us in the standings I thought we had a shot. On the other side of the red line was a trio of future NHL players (and fellow Canadians)—Rem Murray, Dancin’ Anson Carter, and Steve Guolla. Now is not the time for the play by play, but suffice it to say that the barn was packed, and both teams went at it with everything we had. Naturally, we ended up tied at the end of regulation. Awesome, let’s up the ante a little.
Well, Guolla scored the OT winner, effectively putting an end to my varsity career. I should’ve suckered him in the handshake line.
I recall sitting in the locker room, stunned. Now what to do? For the first time in my life I had no idea what my hockey future looked like. I knew what I wanted it to look like, but there was no sense daydreaming. In any case, from that moment on I was no longer a Falcon. I was the property of the Vancouver Canucks.
However, it had been three years since they drafted me. Brian Burke was gone. I had been watching their depth chart all that time, appraising my prospects of making it in Vancouver. Dan Kesa, Mike Peca, Dixon Ward, Libor Polasek, Alek Stojanov. (Strangely, the highest draft pick on that list is the guy who never made it. Libor Polasek never played a game in the NHL. Dixon Ward, though, went in the seventh round and played more than 500 games. Of course, I couldn’t know that then. I just wanted to beat them both.)
There was nothing in the world I wanted more than to be on that team, but when the hockey operations guys in Vancouver looked at my file, this is what they saw.
• Freshman Year: three goals. Just getting my feet wet. But then, they already knew that when they drafted me.
• Sophomore Year: nine goals. Even though I tripled my total it was a disappointment.
• Junior Year: twenty-three goals. Now we’re moving in the right direction.
• Senior Year: seventeen goals. Anything less than twenty-three was going to be a disappointment. For me, and for the people I wanted to think of as my new employers.
There were a couple of highlights to my final year, including being named a team captain by the legendary college hockey coach Jerry York. I won the Coaches’ Award. I know this is typically given to the “little engine that could,” but I needed to take something positive away from that season. Looking back on my pro career (excluding the NHL), I may have won that award for every team I played on. I’m surprised they don’t call it the Sean Pronger Award.
After we made our way back to Bowling Green a few of us decided it was time to experience how most college kids live. Spring break time, baby! That’s right: A. J. Plaskey, Tom Glantz, Will Clarke, Todd Reirden, and I rented an RV to make the journey south to sunny FLA.
Before we hit the road, I spoke with my “family adviser,” Pat Morris. (Pat’s name may be familiar as a notable player agent with very high-profile clients—like Chris Pronger, for example. But college players can’t have agents, so instead they have “advisers.” Interestingly, many of those advisers magically transform into agents once the players they advise turn pro.) I was calling Pat to see if any possibility existed of signing a contract with Vancouver. Pat informed me the chance could only be described as slim, and that I should go have a good time with my teammates. By “slim” I think he meant to say “none,” but he had to give me a reason to not kill myself with the other college crazies on spring break. He did say I should check in with him just in case Vancouver wanted to sign me after all and send me to the Canucks farm team in Hamilton for the remainder of the season. Of course, this was all before cell phones—so to check in with him, I had to call from a pay phone. I wish I had a snapshot of that call, with me standing in a beachside 7-11 parking lot sporting a cowboy hat, Speedo, and greased up with Hawaiian Tropic oil. Too bad we didn’t have Skype back then! Needless to say, after the first call I knew there was no need for a second call. Can you imagine if they had signed me, fresh off the beach in Panama City? I’m sure the boys in Hamilton would have appreciated the hungover college kid with the sunburn!
When the term was over, the time had come to begin my life as a professional athlete. As it turned out, my new life was depressingly like my old one. Sometimes playing hockey and earning a degree can be tough to accomplish at the same time, and there I was, at the beginning of a Midwestern summer, a couple of credits short—the only professional hockey player in summer school at BGSU.
It was not pleasant. But I thank my lucky stars that I made the decision to stick around for one more term. It allowed me to graduate in August and be only slightly behind schedule. Giving up a summer of fishing and golfing back home may have been torture at the time but it was also one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Lord knows there is NO way I would’ve gone back to school once I left the campus.
At the time, though, I wasn’t happy. If you’ve never experienced a Midwestern summer, I can assure you that the term “hot and humid” does not begin to describe the soul-melting torment of plodding through a summer day in Ohio. So I was already in a perpetually bad mood. Then one day, as I was getting ready for a business writing class, sulking about my situation, and thinking that things couldn’t get much worse, my agent called. Turns out things could get worse. Pat informed me that Vancouver didn’t think I had what it took to make their team in the next couple of years. With the lockout of ’94 looming they didn’t want any extra baggage. (They couldn’t just release me; they had to give the reason!) Missing out on fishing became the least of my worries.
Unrestricted free agency is not necessarily a good thing before you’ve played a game in the league. Still, all was not lost. In July, Pat called me to say the Detroit Red Wings were interested in my services.
What? Steve Yzerman’s team? Me and Stevie Y? OK, I’m listening.
He said nothing was in writing, but their assistant general manager Doug MacLean wanted to talk contract. I remember giving Pat very specific instructions: “Whatever he writes down on paper, SIGN IT!”
A couple days later, Pat followed up on his earlier shot in the arm with a shot to the groin.
“Doug got fired.”
“Are you kidding me? Let me guess. They don’t want to sign me now.”
“Good guess. Sorry, Sean. We’ll figure something out.”
That second blow, along with the blistering heat, did not deter me from academic glory. In August 1994, with a grade point average slightly higher than my IQ, I graduated from Bowling Green State University.
One thing I’ve found in life—and you may have noticed it, too—is that beer often can make things seem better. I’m not sure why this is, but it’s a phenomenon I’ve observed enough times that I can confidently declare it to be true. In a fantastic twist of fate my graduation was on the same weekend as Bowling Green’s Hockey Old Timer’s Golf Outing, better known as the HOGO. It’s the annual golf tournament for BG Hockey Alumni. One of BG’s greatest alums, Dave Ellet (who was still in the NHL at the time), was attending. The drinks started flowing early that Saturday afternoon. I had just graduated and had no idea what the fuck I was going to do with my life, but I couldn’t care less at that moment. At about six o’clock (or four hours into the shift) Ellet decided to call his good buddy Garry Galley. Galley (another BG alum who was in the midst of his NHL career) was in Ottawa at the time. Ellet told Galley about all who were in attendance and requested his presence at the party. That night! I will save you the trouble of googling the distance between the two cities and tell you that it’s at least a seven-hour car ride. And, I can assure you, there are no direct flights. After Ellet hung up, he said, “Galley’s coming!” Of course no one believed him. Who in their right mind would jump in a car at 6 p.m. on a Saturday night to drive seven hours to go to a party? Especially given the fact that everyone there was leaving the next day. Ellet was so convinced his good buddy would show up that he passed around a hat to take bets. He said he would match any amount thrown in. If I’d had any money I would’ve bet it all he wouldn’t show. Yet at precisely 1:30 a.m., guess who kicks in the door? Garry freaking Galley.
Ellet hugged him like they both had just been freed by hostagetakers, then started cackling about the money he’d just made. From there the party really took off. My convocation was the next day, and I barely managed to lurch to the ceremony.
After the epic graduation weekend I had a couple weeks to myself, and went home to Dryden for a little R&R with family and friends. I felt I deserved it after spending three months in summer school while all my buddies were golfing, fishing, and not living in 120-degree humidity. The time back home gave me an opportunity to think about my options. With no teams calling, I guess these options were few—and one of them was to pack it in. But at the age of twenty-one, that didn’t seem right. So quitting was an option I didn’t consider.
I decided to head back to Bowling Green to skate and train with some of the pros who were down there. I had about three weeks before training camps opened, so there was a little time before I ran out of time.
I’ll never forget the morning I left Dryden. My only plan was to make the twenty-hour drive to Toronto to see my girlfriend (now Mrs. Journeyman), spend a day or two there, and then head to Bowling Green. Outside of that, I had no idea where I was going or what I would be doing. My mom and dad were in the driveway in their housecoats, my mom was crying, and they both gave me the biggest hug ever. Being young and stupid I just kind of smiled at them and told them not to worry. I’d be OK, I said. Now that I have my own kids, I know what those tears and hugs were about. Watching your kid drive off with nothing more than hope and ignorance couldn’t have been easy.
My three weeks of September skating with the likes of Chris Tamer, David Roberts, Denny Felsner, Pat Neaton, and Brett and Todd Harkins, to name a few, must have given super-agent Ari just enough time to call in all of his favours. After muddling through all of my one tryout invitations, I decided to attend the Las Vegas Thunder training camp. Looking back, it may not have been the best opportunity for an unproven rookie fresh out of college. The following players were already signed to a contract with the Thunder: Jarrod Skalde (100+ NHL games), James Black (350+ NHL games), Alex Hicks (250+ NHL games), Andrew McBain (600+ NHL games), Marc Habscheid (340+ NHL games), Bob Joyce (150+ NHL games), and Darcy Loewen (130+ NHL games).
Imagine what it’s like for a kid fresh out of school to walk into a dressing room full of men. Even if I had just been there to play some pickup, I’d have been respectful to a room full of guys who were bigger, hairier, and certainly more covered in scars than anyone I’d ever played with. Add to this the fact that these guys aren’t playing for their school jackets—they’re playing to pay their bills. You walk into a room like that, and suddenly your choice of careers seems a lot more real. Job number one, though, is just to figure out where to sit.
Still, I realized right away there was no point in overthinking things. If I had really run the numbers, and calculated that I’d staked absolutely everything on beating a bunch of seasoned professional hockey players out of their jobs, I probably would have turned around and left the rink. But all I could think about was playing hockey, so that’s what I did. And a week in, the young, tall, slow, skinny kid fresh out of college was having a pretty good camp. I think I scored in every scrimmage we had. Even with the abundance of NHL experience there still were one or two spots open on their roster, and even though the team was located in Vegas (there is more than a little gamble in my DNA), I was managing to show up on time, compete hard, and catch the coach’s eye.
(Side note: We stayed at the Imperial Palace for training camp, and every morning the fine folks at the IP gave out a free ace with the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. That’s right—a playing card with your Cheerios. So, why not sit down on the way to practice and let the ace play a few hands? A no-brainer, right?)
Anyway, back to training camp. Things were going pretty well and I liked my chances of making the squad. If I were a betting man (OK, back then I was a betting man), I would have set the odds at three to two that I would be on the opening-day roster.
Good thing the casino wasn’t taking bets.
You see, a little thing called the ’94 NHL lockout happened. Obviously, throughout the summer I had followed the progress of the negotiations (as closely as one could when reading the Bowling Green, Ohio, sports page). However, since I wasn’t under an NHL contract at the time I underestimated the impact the lockout would have on me if they couldn’t reach an agreement. As you can imagine, Vegas was a popular spot for a lot of NHLers to go to keep their “game” sharp. Let’s give a great big Las Vegas Thunder welcome to Ottawa Senators thirty-goal scorer Alexei Yashin, and to 1994 third-overall pick Radek Bonk. (But hey, I’m hardly the only hockey player in the world who’s lost a roster spot when Alexei Yashin swans in at the end of camp.) Let’s give a big Las Vegas Thunder goodbye to Sean “Do Some Research before Attending Training Camp” Pronger!
Still, I kept plugging away until the last day of camp when they finally put me out of my misery with “the tap.” GM Bob Strumm and coach Chris McSorley read to me a script I would come to learn all too well: “Sean, you had a great camp, but your flight leaves at 6 a.m.” Is there a worse flight in the world than the 6 a.m. flight out of Vegas? As a matter of fact, yes: it’s the 6 a.m. flight out of Vegas after you’ve just been kicked in the balls.
Since I managed to do just enough for Vegas management to keep me around for the entire month of September, I missed everybody else’s training camp. Over the next two weeks I did the best I could to work out every day AND stay off the bottle while I waited for all the offers to pour in. All two of them. Again, I did have a third option—but as you’ll read time and time again, I was just too stupid to quit.
So. I could play in England with my old Midget coach, or play in Knoxville, Tennessee.
My first question was, “Knoxville has a team?”
(Yeah! We have uniforms and everything.)
After conferring with my trusted adviser Mr. Canadian (Molson, to those of us close to him), I decided it was not time to head overseas just yet. I wanted to give it a try in North America. Looking back, I have to question whether Mr. Canadian had any clue what he was talking about. But he was a damn fine companion, and one hell of a listener.
So I decided to take my talents to Knoxville, home of the Cherokees. I knew absolutely nothing about the league or the team when I got there. I was expecting a bunch of felons on razor-sharp blades carrying weapons. The salaries in the East Coast Hockey League are not what you would call “lucrative”; I made $500 a week and the team paid for rent. But at the time I thought I was rich. And that’s how I ended up in the farmhouse.
A CHRISTMAS STORY
When I arrived in Knoxville I knew almost no one. The good news was that most of the players on our team were fresh out of college or junior and didn’t know anyone either. There were a couple of familiar faces, though. Doug Searle was at camp and I had met him a couple of years earlier when he was a teammate of my brother’s in Peterborough. And because Knoxville was affiliated with Las Vegas, the coach, Barry Smith, had seen me play in training camp with the Thunder. Remember, I had played pretty well in the “mean nothing” games in Vegas, and Smith obviously witnessed them. I do recall a conversation in his office where he told me he didn’t think I’d be with them that long; he thought another IHL or AHL team would sign me quickly. But in the meantime he was happy to have me.
As I’ve explained, most players, me included, don’t aspire to play in the ECHL. The East Coast Hockey League is the minor league’s minor league. It feeds into the American Hockey League (AHL) and, back when I was playing, the International Hockey League (IHL), which folded in 2001. If you’re in the ECHL, something has gone wrong. (Unless it’s a lockout year, and you’re a millionaire looking to stay in shape.) However, after the initial shock of my situation subsided I started to settle in.
I got to know the guys on my team, and realized that although this wasn’t anyone’s dream it was our reality, so we might as well have fun with it. And that right there is the hook. It’s why the ECHL is commonly referred to as “Easy Come, Hard Leave.” The money isn’t that great but it’s enough to have a good time. You’re usually in your early twenties, so how much cash do you really need? You’re playing with guys that are between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five. Most of them aren’t married, and if they are they don’t have kids. Add that up and it equals no responsibilities. So really, all you need to worry about is practising, playing, and knowing which bar has the best happy hour on which day. As with a majority of the minor leagues, in order to maximize attendance most of the games are played on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. That left Sunday night and most weekdays to do some team bonding. Guys typically met up after practice, grabbed a little snack, and then tried to figure out the optimal number of beers to consume before dinner. Sure, we were professional athletes (sort of), but we were also young and wanted to have some fun. When you don’t have wives or kids, your teammates are your family and support system. We were young men with many free nights. That adds up to more than the odd pint.
Life isn’t too complicated. Then you find out you can stay there in the summer and do some part-time work and a couple hockey camps. Then life gets really easy. No responsibilities, playing hockey for a living, part-time job in the summer. Hit repeat on that a couple times and the next thing you know five years have gone by and you’re a lifer in the Coast! The trick is to always remember in the back of your mind why you’re there. It should be a stepping stone. I knew if I got too comfortable I wouldn’t be making the next step. It would’ve been so easy to fall into the trap. I had high hopes for myself, and I was eager to prove I was better than the ECHL. I was excited for the season to start. I was on a mission.
I didn’t know much about Knoxville before I arrived and in fact was unaware hockey lived in such parts of America. And, let’s be honest, in Knoxville hockey was a ways down the depth chart when it came to most popular sports. The list started with college football and after that included high school football, Pop Warner football, and so on. If you didn’t know (and I didn’t, before I got there), Knoxville is where the University of Tennessee is located. Tennessee Volunteers football is like religion in that town. And if football was religion, Peyton Manning was the Pope. I couldn’t believe the number of houseboats that would make their way down the river on Volunteer game days. And I really couldn’t believe the number of newborns who were being named Peyton in honour of the Vols’ QB. Those people in Knoxville were flat-out crazy about football. So at best, they were mildly psychotic about hockey. The fans appreciated hard work and physical play, and the crowds loved the odd scrap. The arena we played in was average to above average for the ECHL. It definitely had an old-school feel to it. Attendance was decent and beer sales were excellent. Knoxville Cherokees games were, if nothing else, a party.
Of course, parties often end in fights, and more than a few Cherokees games featured classic line brawls. They may be a thing of the past in the NHL, but back then, in that league, there was probably a brawl every ten games or so. I don’t know if it’s the atmosphere in those old barns full of beer-fuelled fans, or rosters made up of guys willing to fight their way up to the next league, or whether it’s just lack of discipline. Maybe it’s all those things. Maybe more. But my dominant memories of those days involve guys squared off around the ice, gloves and beer cups strewn everywhere, and fans up on the boards cheering on the mayhem.
The first game of my professional hockey career was one to remember. I had two goals and two assists and was named first star. It was one of those games you don’t want to end. Everything went right. If I had a cell phone back then I would have turned it on post-game and waited for the teams to start calling. Unfortunately I didn’t, and apparently no GMs knew the number to the pay phone outside the dressing room.
It also could have been that everyone at the NHL level was dealing with the lockout. Gary Bettman, the owners, and the NHLPA executive committee were trying to hammer out the issues of cost certainty, revenue sharing, and the granddaddy of them all—the implementation of a salary cap. Some players took off to Europe to stay sharp, some sat tight, and some went to the AHL and IHL to specifically take away a job from me. Many of the stars (the guys who didn’t have to worry about money) did some PR for the NHLPA. Remember the Four-on-Four Challenge? That threeday tourney in Hamilton raised a bunch of money for charity. Meantime, Wayne Gretzky and some select friends took off on a World Tour to play exhibition games to try to keep the players in a positive public light. And I just kept grinding away in the ECHL. (I can remember checking the Knoxville paper to get updates on the NHL lockout. Yeah right! As far as Knoxville was concerned the ECHL was the NHL, and if they never did work out a deal most of the people in Knoxville wouldn’t give two shits. It was almost like being in hockey’s version of solitary confinement with no communication with the outside world.)
As the season got going, I quickly realized that pro hockey was different from college. In college there’s a lot of excitement and energy because you play only on the weekends and the season lasts only six months. The pro game was more businesslike. You didn’t celebrate the wins for long or lament the losses for more than an hour. There was always another game coming up. It was a job. It was also a whole new routine for me. I’d usually get to the rink about an hour and a half before practice so I could sit and listen to some of the exploits from the night before. We’d practise for about an hour. After practice I’d hit the gym for forty-five minutes to an hour and that was the end of the workday for me. Sometimes I’d go home to relax, other times I’d go catch a movie. It took some time to stop feeling like I always had some place to go and something to do, but it was definitely a welcome change. In college, we had classes from 9 a.m. until 2 p.m. and then we’d go to practice. We’d practise for a couple hours and then lift weights for an hour. After that we’d eat dinner and go to another class or to study hall. Not a lot of downtime. Now, it was all about managing the downtime (which basically amounted to figuring out a way to stay out of the bar during daylight hours).
I’m not sure if it was an East Coast League thing or a Knoxville thing, but when we went on the road we travelled in style. We didn’t use your standard hockey-issue Greyhound, we used a tour bus. That’s right baby—we rolled in Bon Jovi’s tour bus, or maybe it was some country music dude’s ride. These buses usually had two card tables in the front, twelve bunk beds in the middle, and a huge wraparound couch in the back. We had so many rookies on the team I even got a bunk. Most of the time, however, I would hang out on the back couch and watch movies. My favourite bus rides were the ones on the way home after a successful road trip. When we won three games in three nights that bus really became a big-time rocker’s tour bus (minus the hot chicks and drugs). The music was cranked and there were plenty of beers to go around.
In keeping with our rock star lifestyle, one night when a bunch of us went out to celebrate Halloween at least one of us may have had a little too much to drink. In fact, this particular player may have had more to drink than he could hold down as he sat in the back of another player’s car on the way home that night.
In the morning, like the professionals we were supposed to be, we showed up for practice, perhaps a little worse for wear. After the usual drills, just when we were expecting to be dispatched to the showers, where our recovery would begin, the coach skated our balls off for forty-five minutes. At the end of our torment, he called us all in for a little talk. We were heaving and gasping, and he was leaning on his stick in the thoughtful pose made famous by Ken Dryden. He gave us a short lecture on being game-ready, but couldn’t help breaking into a wry smile at the end.
“By the way, boys,” he said in his best deadpan, “next time I’d advise you to clean the puke off the car before you come to practice.” (A valuable lesson for all athletes.)
I didn’t think about it at the time, but in Knoxville I was starting to become a pro. I was also having a good time doing it, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I was playing well. Life was pretty good. And it was about to get better with an early present from Saint Nick.
In December of ’94 I was lying on the couch admiring the way the lights were catching our newly decorated Christmas tree (Bud Light cans make for festive ornaments!) when I got a call from my agent, Pat Morris. I figured he was calling for his 3 percent of my $500, but he actually had some news. Pat informed me there was an NHL team that wanted to sign me when the lockout ended.
“Excuse me, Pat,” I said, “but I thought you said an NHL team.”
“I did.”
“Which team?”
“I can’t tell you until the lockout is over.”
“Screw you. Which team?”
“Honestly, I can’t tell you. It’s in your best interest if you don’t know. But I can tell you that when the lockout ends you’ll be signing your first NHL contract.”
Any guesses as to my next question? Considering I had no heat or indoor plumbing in my luxurious farmhouse, I think it went a little something like this:
“WHEN THE FUCK IS THE LOCKOUT GOING TO BE OVER?”
I must say, Pat is a standup guy. If you ever need to rob a bank, Pat’s your man. He will not talk. And he certainly wasn’t about to let the cat out of the bag just yet. Once I realized that Pat wasn’t giving anything up, there was a call I just had to make. To my parents? you ask. Nope. How about the girlfriend? Guess again.
“Hey Chris, how’s it going? What have you been up to? How’s the weather in Hartford? Staying out of jail? No? Oh well. One more thing … when are you guys going to take the deal so I can get the hell out of here?” About 95 percent of me understood why the lockout was happening and what the players were fighting for. But the other 5 percent wanted the guys in the NHL to come spend a week in the farmhouse and see what life was like on the other side of the ritzy hotel suites and chartered planes.
After I tried to guilt-trip my twenty-year-old brother into talking to the players’ union on my behalf, I did make calls to my parents and the future Mrs. Journeyman to give them the update. Obviously, they were thrilled. My folks had been down a few weeks prior to Pat’s phone call. Fortunately for them they stayed at a hotel and weren’t subjected to crashing at the farmhouse. We had a room for them; shockingly, they just didn’t want to use it. I can still see my mom’s face as I took her on a tour of my home (farm) away from home. The look was one of shock, fear, pity, and amusement. Mrs. Journeyman, on the other hand, did have the pleasure of staying at the lovely chalet on the farm. Not one of our finer moments as a couple. Although, you can be sure it’s true love when she comes for a visit and stays at your house with no heat and no cable and doesn’t give you “the tap” afterwards.
Regardless, my situation wasn’t what you would call ideal, so they all were relieved to hear there might be some light at the end of this tunnel. Again, looking back, I should have known that that light was an oncoming train.
Here was my predicament. I’m playing for the Knoxville Cherokees, and playing pretty well I might add. I have been chosen to play in the ECHL all-star game, which is good. I’ve been told I will sign with an NHL team when the lockout ends, which is really good.
But I want you to put yourself in my shoes for a second. You’ve been informed you’re one step closer to your dream. How would you approach the games? Do you go 100 percent still? Are you the first one in the corner? Do you still want to go to the ice and block that shot? What if that “unknown” team that plans on signing you is watching?
As you can imagine, I was having trouble deciding whether I should go full out or play it cautious. I didn’t want to get hurt and miss my window … again. But I also didn’t want to let the team down.
The funny thing was that once the game started I didn’t think about it. I just played. That was probably the only time my mind didn’t play tricks on me. Off the ice, I was a little edgy. Picture me, if you will, waiting day after day by the phone, hoping for it to ring with news that the lockout was over and I’d be released from prison.
In January 1995, our beautiful Bud Light Christmas tree was still lit up in the corner of the farmhouse. Our plumbing was firing on all cylinders (finally). I was playing great (an ambitious way to describe my play, but I’m telling the story so grant some creative licence, please), and the mice were all dead.
Chris called and delivered the news: He was going back to work. As you can imagine, I couldn’t call Pat fast enough to find out my new area code. And you know what he said to me?
“I don’t want to tell you until I can work out the contract details.”
Now, in his defence, his sense of urgency wasn’t the same as mine. His previous three months hadn’t played out as follows:
• Released by the Vancouver Canucks
• Head faked by the Detroit Red Wings
• Fed a nice “thanks for coming” burger by the Las Vegas Thunder
followed by
• Considering a move to England
• Settling in a state-of-the-art outhouse in Tennessee
• Being informed I’d be released from prison but they couldn’t find the paperwork.
Needless to say, my take on the contract details was as follows: They make an offer, and we jump on it. Pat, again, didn’t budge. And I had to play a home game the next day.
I made it through the game without incident and was working my way through a few Pabst Blue Ribbons when the phone rang. This time Pat had the answer.
“Ducks,” was all he said.
“What?”
“You are now a member of the Anaheim Mighty Ducks!”
You may laugh, but that was one of the proudest days of my life. I couldn’t have been more fired up to call my folks and my girl. And they couldn’t have been happier for me.
My contract was unspectacular, but I didn’t care. After all, I wasn’t in a position of strength when it came to bargaining power. It was a three-year, two-way contract. My NHL salary would be $175K, and my minor league salary would be $35K. (This is actually a pretty common contract, so common the players call it the “John Lilley contract.” It’s the one you get when you have zero leverage.) True, I’d have to start paying rent. But, again, I thought I was rich.
I made plans to get out of Knoxville fast. Problem was, I couldn’t get out fast enough. My flight was scheduled to leave a day after the Cherokees’ next game.
What would you do?
Thank the boys and the coaching staff for the last couple of months, wish them the best, and sit out the game …
or,
Lace up the skates one more time with the boys and play (what you hope will be) your final ECHL game.
The morning of the game I went into Coach Smith’s office to explain what was going on. He was disappointed to see one of his top players leave (shut up; I was one of his top nine forwards), but he was also happy for me. As for playing that night, he left it totally up to me, and added, “If I were you I probably wouldn’t play.”
Well, we were already short a couple of players (I think some Euros tore a heartilage), and I knew he needed me. The fact that he left it up to me meant a lot. Throw in the fact that Pat told me an injury couldn’t undo the contract and I was in.
Before the game I told the boys it would be my last one as a Cherokee. They were genuinely happy for me. Sometimes in such a situation there can be jealousy and animosity toward the guy leaving, but I can honestly say I felt none of that.
I made it through the game unscathed. In fact, I did much more—I actually had one of my best games in Knoxville, scoring a goal and adding two assists in victory. I played on a line with Pat Murray and Dave Nielsen, and we had a heck of a game. Pat was happy for me, and I couldn’t help feeling bad for him. He was such a great guy, and a great player. He had a real head for the game and a sweet pair of mitts. It would’ve been fun to play with him longer than a couple of games. Pat was in the NHL with the Philadelphia Flyers a couple of years before that season in Knoxville. As a rookie I thought playing in the Coast was a kick in the balls, so I could only imagine how Pat felt. If he was crushed to be playing two rungs below the best league on Earth, he never let it show.
Not to overanalyze things, but I have no doubt that my performance that night had something to do with the fact that the pressure was off. The deal was done and I knew I was going to be moving on, so I could concentrate solely on playing the game. It wasn’t about work or impressing the coaches. It was about going full out for my teammates one more time. Not having to worry about “the job” allowed me to play more freely. You always hear players say they are at their best when they go out and have fun. And that’s exactly what I got to do in that game.
After the game, the lads were loading up the bus for a quick six-hour trip to Birmingham, and I remember thinking to myself that I was abandoning them. You see, when you spend as much time together as hockey teams do you genuinely care about guys you play with. It’s especially evident in the lower leagues because you’re so far down the food chain you take on the mindset of “it’s us versus the world.” It’s that mentality that brings teams closer together. When you watch a guy put his body on the line for the good of the team, it means something. When you watch someone stick up for one of his teammates, it means something. And it’s that aspect of hockey that I love. So, when I was set to ride off into the sunset with my dream still moving in the right direction I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty.
It was a lot harder to leave than I thought. I figured when the time came and I had the opportunity to sign an NHL contract I’d hit the road without a second thought. “See you boys, it’s been real, it’s been nice, it’s been real nice. Don’t call me I’ll call you.” I don’t want to say it was unfair, but most of the guys worked just as hard as me and wanted it just as badly as me.
Still, I did leave.
I was scheduled to fly out at 7 a.m. the next morning, and I still hadn’t packed up my entire life. Keep in mind that my entire life at the time fit neatly into a Jeep Cherokee. The plan was to load up my truck with all my belongings, pack a suitcase to last me a week or so, and meet my new team on the road in Phoenix. You know how when guys make it to the show they always thank their parents for all those countless hours driving them to the rink as kids? Well, my dad seriously one-upped those early morning rink trips. I needed to get my Jeep to San Diego (home of the Gulls, Anaheim’s farm team and my new team). And having only played in the ECHL, I didn’t know that clubs in the IHL took care of stuff like that if you asked them. And even if I did know, I might have been too scared to ask so as not to offend anyone.
So this is where Big Jim (also affectionately known as “Diamond Jim,” because he too likes to partake in games of chance) enters the story. He was to be my vehicle re-locator. No biggie, right?
Well, Dad was in Dryden, Ontario, which is a two-hour drive from International Falls, Minnesota, which is a one-and-one-half-hour flight from Minneapolis, which is a three-hour flight from Knoxville, which is a one-hour drive from the property formerly known as “the farmhouse,” which is a 2,210-mile drive from San Diego.
To top it all off, Diamond Jim had to make the final leg of the trip without any music. I had decided that I couldn’t be without my CDs on the road and packed them in my suitcase. Sorry ’bout that, Jimbo—and thanks, by the way.
Now some say karma’s a bitch, but not my old man. After dropping off my truck and taking me to dinner, Diamond Jim decided to head back to Dryden via Las Vegas. After travelling for the better part of three days, Dad was due for some good luck, and he got it at the craps table. Diamond Jim walked away from the table with ten grand. Pretty good travel voucher if you ask me.
THE GULLS
Of course, when Pat said “Ducks” what he really meant was “Gulls,” the Ducks’ farm team down the highway in San Diego. But that was fine with me. I was part of an organization. I was on a depth chart.
Just where I ranked on that chart was about to become clear.
One of the skills you learn as a journeyman is the art of fitting in. Over the course of my career, I became a master of that art. Come to think of it, I should open a consulting business to educate new players on the finer points of blending in.
It wasn’t always easy, mind you. Even for an experienced journeyman, the hardest thing to do is join a team in mid-season. The players have been together for half a year. Everyone knows everyone. Roles have been defined. Beers have been consumed. The family is set. And then, in walks the new guy.
In this case, the new guy was from the East Coast Hockey League. And a rookie to boot. Not exactly a leper, but close. I arrived at the hotel in Phoenix before the team, so I went to my room to grab a few winks before the team meal. I figured I’d just throw on some jeans and a T-shirt and head down to dinner. Not a good first impression for the new squad. I remember walking into the room and hearing, “I guess it must be a casual dress code in the Coast.” At the time I wanted to crawl into my Canadian tuxedo and hide.
My first game didn’t go much better. The coach dressed me as the tenth forward behind the usual minor league roster of up-andcomers like Steve Rucchin, Jason “Sheriff” Marshall, Denny Lambert, former Leafs pick David Sacco, and Darren “The Gimp” Van Impe. And grizzled pros like Hubie McDonough (legendary IHL scorer), Mark Beaufait (IHL and DEL top scorer), Ron “Dawg” Wilson (800+ NHL games). And who could forget goalie Allan Bester? A bunch of guys making a name for themselves, and a bunch more whose days of dreaming about playing in the NHL are behind them. They still love the game and could make a decent living at it.
There was a different feel between this team and my squad in Knoxville. It was more serious. Don’t get me wrong—guys still liked to have a good time, but it was certainly a more businesslike atmosphere. I’m sure there were many reasons for that. First off, these guys were older. In the Coast our team comprised mostly young men. The Gulls were made up primarily of men. These guys had wives, families, and bills to pay. There was far more at stake. And since we were just one rung below our dream league, guys wanted to make sure they did everything to get that first chance, that next chance, or that last chance.
And then there was Sean Pronger. The tenth forward. Just hoping to get a shift.
The math is pretty grim. Three lines of three means that if you’re the tenth guy, you’re the odd man out. Most teams used the tenth forward spot to dress their hired assassin—the guy they don’t actually want on the ice that often. But on that night, it was a slowfooted centreman who was not interested in showing off his pillow hands, and didn’t get much of a chance to showcase any other skills. I got to play a little with every line, or every sixth or seventh shift. Nothing makes the new guy feel welcome like sitting on the bench watching everybody else jump over the boards.
The next month and a half was uneventful. I was in and out of the lineup. And when I was in the lineup, I wasn’t really a part of it because I was playing only a handful of minutes a night. Even though I was one step closer to my goal of playing in the National Hockey League it certainly didn’t feel like it. When I was in the Coast all I could think about was making it to this level, but in my dreams making it didn’t mean sitting on the end of the bench trying to figure which line and what position I’ll play next. I may have still been wet behind the ears, but I knew that no one gets called up to the show from the press box either! As bad as I wanted this to work, I wanted to play more. Throw in the fact that I was living in a Travel Lodge across the street from the rink, and at times Deliverance, Tennessee, didn’t seem that bad.
Now, I wasn’t alone at the lodge. There was a grizzled, crusty, veteran member of the Gulls that also lived there—with his wife and three young kids. One night Crusty called and asked me to come down to his room. En route I wondered if I was in store for some rookie hazing. Maybe have a bucket of water tossed in my face or something like that. But no, it was just Crusty and his threemonth-old kid watching TV.
“Do me a favour?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied. I figured I was about to go on an errand for diapers or formula or a flat of PBRs.
“My wife just got a flat tire on the freeway and I have to go get her. Can you watch my kid?”
What the fudge? What do you say to that? Just OK, I guess. Now that I have kids I suspect the old bastard used me so he could go out for a couple beers. Veteran move if he did! Anyway, I felt like the boys in The Hangover when they found the baby. Thankfully, I handled things somehow and Carlos lived to poop his diaper another day. As the weeks went on, I got to know the other side of Crusty. The side that could crush six beers to my one. The side that came out of the gates quickly but wasn’t much for stamina. Again, having kids of my own now, I realize he was just getting those beers in while he could. A life lesson I use to this day. Thank you for your wisdom, Larry DePalma.
So that’s where I was on the depth chart: team babysitter.
From the outside it probably looked like I had it made. I was living in beautiful San Diego, California. Theoretically, I was just one step away from the NHL. All I had to do was roll out of bed, stumble across the street to the rink, and try not to get cut after practice. I would then hit the weights and maybe squeeze in a ride on the stationary bike. After that, it was back to my penthouse suite at the Travel Lodge to have a nap and get rested up before I went to explore San Diego’s finest watering holes. Given the fact that my previous three months consisted of driving to a truck stop to use the facilities, you’d think I’d be a little more appreciative of my current situation. But I wasn’t happy. I wanted to be a hockey player, and I knew if I kept this as my routine I would never get to where I wanted to go. So, I did what I never thought I’d ever do. I called my agent to ask to go back to the ECHL. Can you believe it?
I was in San Diego all of two months. In that span, I played eight games and put up zero goals and zero assists. No, I didn’t exactly leave my mark on the IHL, and I’m not sure anyone except the bartender at Foggy’s Notion noticed I left.
BACK TO THE COAST
At the time, I couldn’t believe I was choosing to leave sunny San Diego to go back to the farmhouse. It was almost enough to make me fall to the floor and suck my thumb. Then Pat, my agent, called.
“Your flight to Greensboro leaves tomorrow at 8 a.m.”
As I reviewed Knoxville’s schedule I realized that Knoxville doesn’t play Greensboro again during the season. “But Knoxville doesn’t play Greensboro,” I said to Pat. (So naive.)
“I know, you idiot. You’re not going back to Knoxville. Anaheim has its own ECHL affiliate in Greensboro, and that’s where you’re headed.” Of course. Since Anaheim’s ECHL team is the Greensboro Monarchs, why wouldn’t I be going there? I am an idiot. When I first decided I wanted to go back to the Coast I was thinking I’d just re-join the old squad in Knoxville. I knew them. They knew me. It would have been nice and simple. In all of my wisdom and preparation before placing my request I didn’t even think to ask a) if Anaheim had an ECHL affiliate, b) where Anaheim’s ECHL team was located, and c) if it would be possible to go back to Knoxville. Chalk that one up to another lesson learned: before you ask to go, find out where you’re going.
Nothing like a cross-country flight to allow time for reflection and re-evaluation. I remember thinking that I was about to join my fourth team and I had only been a pro for six months. Talk about ominous foreshadowing. And I wasn’t forced to go back, I actually asked for it!
My new team was the Greensboro Monarchs, coached by an angry sort by the name of Jeff Brubaker. For those of you who never had the pleasure of watching him play, you should know that his style was a tad physical in nature. Put it this way: he had twenty-five points to go with the 512 PIMs in his NHL career. And he coached the way he played. The Monarchs were a tough, physical team (employing Jeremy Stevenson, Howie Rosenblatt, and Davis Payne, who wasn’t a softie by any measure), and I was supposed to bring a little offence to the squad.
There was just one problem. I was out of shape.
How, you ask? Why? Well, playing three minutes a night every five games in San Diego certainly didn’t help. And to be honest, I got so discouraged during my time with the Gulls that I never felt like putting in the extra work I would have needed to be ready.
My first game wasn’t too bad. I believe we won, and I might have chipped in with an apple. (See? Offence.) The next one was on the road in Raleigh, North Carolina, against Rod Langway and the IceCaps. Yeah, that’s right, Rod Langway. The back-to-back Norris Trophy winner. The Rod Langway who played 1,000 games in the NHL. I grew up watching that guy. And for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what he was doing playing in the ECHL. I never had a chance to ask.
We were on a five-on-three and I was standing in front of the net waiting for a teammate to shoot the puck. Well, he took the shot, and Langway re-directed it right into my face. I went down on impact and immediately knew something was wrong. Luckily, I was able to turn at the last second so the puck got me in the jaw as opposed to the teeth (and no, that’s not what happened to my brother’s pearlies). I thought my jaw was broken. And for some stupid reason, I also thought that when you broke your jaw it became unhinged, like a snake’s, and just dropped. I bounced back to my feet holding my mouth shut. I was more worried about freaking out the fans in the front row than waiting for the trainer to get to me. When he ran out to see if I was all right, I skated past him and headed into the locker room. I raced to the nearest mirror and steadied myself for what was surely going to be a gruesome sight. As it turned out, there was just a lot of blood. And when I let go of my mouth, a funny thing happened: nothing. It didn’t unhinge or anything. However, I could stick my tongue between my bottom teeth, which is something I definitely couldn’t do before the game. I figured I had just lost a tooth. But when I took a closer look, none of my jibs seemed to be missing. Weird.
A doctor finally arrived to examine me. His expert opinion was that the puck had just bruised my face and the impact of it caused me to bite down on my gums. He told me that I was going to be fine. Now, I’m from a small town and I grew up believing whatever the doctor told me. So if this quack said I was going to be fine, then I was going to be fine.
I went back out and finished the third period, overtime, and the shootout. After the game I grabbed the doc and told him that something was really wrong with my face. He got serious this time, because he even pulled out one of those wooden thingies to poke around in my yap. Again, he told me I was fine and that I should just lay off the crunchy and chewy food for a bit.
Thanks, Tips. They teach that at vet school?
On the two-hour bus ride back to Greensboro I tried to wash down a slice of pizza with two pints of my blood and almost passed out from the pain. It was then I decided I needed a second opinion. The next morning I woke up at my new hotel home and my face did not feel any better. I got to the rink and told our own team medical guy that I needed to get my face checked out. And he told me that he would set up an appointment with Dr. So and So after practice.
I was thinking, “Practice? Are you kidding me?”
He wasn’t. So, after enduring practice I went to the doctor’s office and had an X-ray. He looked at the image and took less than a second to declare that my jaw was broken. Unbelievable. Apparently the force of the impact split my jawbone just above my chin, and that’s why I could stick my tongue between my teeth. To top it all off I had surgery the next day to repair the damage and my mouth had to be wired shut. My season, perhaps mercifully, was done.
I had just arrived in Greensboro. I didn’t have my vehicle. I didn’t know anyone. And now I was living in a hotel with my mouth wired shut.
The night after my surgery was one of the worst of my life, because I didn’t heed the doctor’s advice to pick up painkillers before the procedure. Sure I felt fine after the operation, for a while, but then the drugs wore off. I’m not sure how to describe the pain I felt that first night, but let’s just say it’s the kind of pain you feel when a doctor wraps steel around each of your teeth to hold them all in place and then wires the whole thing shut for good measure. I swear I could feel my heart beating in my teeth. And there is no question I thought about busting into a pharmacy to steal some narcotics. I didn’t, and I’m not sure why I’m telling you now that continual hot baths made me feel better, but they did.
When morning finally came, I grabbed a cab to the drug store and basically strangled the pharmacist for my painkillers. Then I went home and blissfully fell asleep.
After waking from my drug-induced nap, I remember going for a walk to the park so I could figure out what the hell I was going to do for the next six weeks of my life. I also wanted to contemplate whether this hockey life was for me.
To make this long story short, the answers to my life questions don’t really matter except to say that I needed to see my girl, my friends, and my family. And, yes, despite everything I still needed hockey.
Finally, for your amusement, I also needed my car. The last time I saw the Cherokee, it was packed with all my worldly possessions in front of the Travel Lodge in San Diego. My Jeep was supposed to be picked up by a trucking company so they could haul it to Greensboro. Only problem was, when I called the trucking company they told me it had not been picked up. Because it wasn’t there.
My next phone call was to the Travel Lodge, which really didn’t help me in my investigation either. Once I finally got them to understand who I was (it shouldn’t have been that hard; I lived there for two months) and what I was looking for (a late-model Jeep Cherokee with my number and initials on the licence plate— shut up, I was young), they told me how sorry they were but the vehicle was not there and they didn’t recall the last time they saw it.
Who knew that Jeep Cherokees were the chosen vehicle of carjackers in California? Certainly not me, until I found out that my wheels had been stolen and driven to Mexico. I’m still a little miffed that a Mexican can somehow cross the border in a white Cherokee with Ontario vanity plates. Regardless, the Jeep was no longer driveable and I was no longer in possession of all my worldly possessions.
It was the perfect end to my rookie season.