THE MINNOW OF
ALL TRADE BAIT
The NHL trade deadline is one of the most exciting dates on hockey’s calendar. In Canada, deadline day is well on its way to becoming a national holiday. (Or national hooky day, I should say. How many guys come down with an upper-body injury—I mean a cold—on trade deadline day?) The three national sports networks provide wall-to-wall coverage from 8 a.m. EST on, trying to scoop each other on big news—like, say, Sven Butenschoen being picked up by the Blues for a conditional pick. Fans love it because they get to see how serious their teams are about making a run for the Cup. And hey, it’s fun to talk about hockey, even if your team’s not even in the race. Everyone wants to talk about which preening millionaire is going to be shipped out of town because he can’t get along with his GM, or what veteran is going to finally get a shot at a Cup, or which guy is going to a contender as a “rental.” Sure, it’s gossip. Is that so wrong?
It’s a huge day for general managers, because they get a chance to show how brilliant they are by picking up the final piece of a puzzle or perhaps instead by unloading what seemed like an untradeable contract. It’s exciting for the coaches because they get to see if their wish lists have been fulfilled with that puck-moving defenceman or power-play specialist. And it’s a monumental day for the media also. You could argue that deadline day for the sports media is bigger than any other single day of the year. Bigger even than draft day.
You know who else it’s exciting for? The players. That’s right, the pawns in the middle of all of the excitement. You think conversation is intense at the office water cooler on trade deadline day? Try an NHL dressing room. Of course, the players love to see who went where, which teams got better, which teams had a fire sale, what players went to a contender, and what players went to the Islanders. Which team just gave up on a guy they drafted? Did anyone you know get a free pass to the Conference finals? It never gets boring to see a GM absolutely lose his mind on deadline day, potentially crippling his franchise for years to come. Deadline day is a blast, without question.
Some players don’t want to be traded. Those are the guys you see opt for season-ending surgery a week before the deadline. Not exactly elective surgery, but close to it. On the other hand, there are many guys who ask for a trade leading up to the deadline. Players who think the grass may be a bit greener on the other side. And, of course, there’s always a number of pending unrestricted free agents who fully expect to be shipped elsewhere. Guys with some playoff pedigree who have zero chance of re-signing with their non-playoff-bound team. There are guys like Mark Recchi, who just seem to keep popping up on winning teams. And then there are the trades that happen for the sake of trades happening. Teams that pick up players hoping that a fresh start will do them good.
And with that, I must share my first experience of being traded in the NHL. It was March 1998, and my first full season in the league was coming to a close. Since I made it the whole year in the NHL it was a success for me, although I’m not sure you would call it a successful season. Nonetheless, it was eventful. I was a holdout in training camp (against my better judgment) and went on to have my best pre-season ever despite the fact that I only participated in one practice. I started the season on the second line, endured a thirty-three-game goalless drought, was a healthy scratch for the first time as an NHLer, worked my way back to the second line (with Teemu Selanne, although he didn’t get seventy-six goals that season), and was playing the best hockey of my young career as the deadline approached. I felt as if I belonged.
My team that year, the Ducks, did not belong. Not in the playoffs at least, as we were way out of the race at that point. The magic Disney dust that was sprinkled on us the season prior had all but blown away. I’m not sure the exact reason for the huge fall-off from the year before. However—and I’m no genius—I’m fairly certain having Paul Kariya miss the first thirty-two games due to a holdout and then another chunk of games due to a concussion (thanks to a well-placed Gary Suter cross-check to the head) may have had something to do with it. That and the fact that we had only four players hit double digits in goals. But what the hell do I know, except that I wasn’t one of those four players?
We had a few veterans and pending free agents who everyone figured would be moved for prospects or draft picks. I definitely did not fit on that list as I was just twenty-five years old and starting to hit my stride. Getting traded was the farthest thing from my mind (although every March that followed I was often found in the fetal position sucking my thumb on deadline day). It was a different story for my roommate at the time, Scott Young. Scott was going to be a UFA on July 1, so we just assumed he was as good as gone. Scott was a ten-year veteran, and more importantly a Stanley Cup winner with the Colorado Avalanche in 1996. In other words, the exact type of player teams hoping to make a lengthy run are interested in picking up. I remember hanging out in our hotel room in Chicago just waiting for the phone to ring. I felt horrible for Scott, as he had to sit there pretending to watch TV, when really he was nervously waiting for the hammer to fall. But it never did—2 p.m. CST came and went and our phone never rang once. Scott was relieved, because he had a wife and two kids back in Anaheim and if he had been traded he would’ve had to leave them behind for a couple of months.
That’s the other thing about trade deadline day. Imagine you’re an accountant or a garbageman or a teacher. You’re doing a decent job, you think, but you start hearing rumours that your boss isn’t quite satisfied. Then one day he calls you into his office and tells you that from now on you’ll be crunching numbers (or collecting garbage, or teaching kids) in some other town—where your family doesn’t live and you don’t have a place to live and can’t even find a good dry cleaner. Your plane leaves at eight. Deadline day can be fun for everyone talking about who’s going where, but for the guys shipping out it’s deeply inconvenient at best, heartbreaking at worst.
Once Scott was off the chopping block I decided that a workout would be the best way to relieve the built-up tension of the afternoon. I threw on the legwarmers and was just about to walk into the gym for jazzercise when there was an announcement over the PA.
Would Sean Pronger please report to the front desk?
Remember, this was a time before cell phones had taken over the globe. If someone wanted to get hold of you in the hotel and you weren’t in the room, then to page via the PA was the only other option. Still, I was a little surprised to be paged because there wasn’t anyone who should have been trying to get in touch with me. Perhaps I left my wallet at reception or something, I thought to myself. Not knowing the reason, I jogged over to the front desk.
“Hi there, I’m Sean Pronger. Someone just paged me. Did I forget something down here?”
“No sir, there is a message here for you to call your roommate.”
Oh boy, Younger got traded after all! I grabbed the phone and called up to the room.
“Scotty, what happened? I thought you were in the clear.”
“I am, Prongs. But Pierre called and he wants you to call him back ASAP.”
Pierre? Pierre Page? Our coach? Why the heck does he need to talk to me? We don’t play for another two days. Then it hit me. I was the one who was going to have to pack some bags. Holy shit. This isn’t happening. With fingers trembling, I dialed the coach.
“Hey Pierre, it’s Sean Pronger on the line. I got a message that I needed to call you?”
“Yes Sean. How are you? Have you spoken with Jack Ferreira [Ducks GM] yet?”
“No, I haven’t heard from him.”
“You better call him.”
“Why?”
“Just give him a call, Sean.”
I wanted to know right away. Hear it from the head coach that my services weren’t wanted or needed in Anaheim anymore. But Pierre wouldn’t give up the goods. He didn’t have the courtesy to tell me that I had been traded. My next call was obviously to Jack.
“All right, where am I going?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“For who?”
“Patrick Lalime.”
A goalie? That’s never good. You see, if you’re a forward and you get traded for a forward that means there’s one fewer forward on the team you’re going to. An open spot that, presumably, will be filled by you. But if you’re a forward and get traded for a defenceman or a goalie then there’s no opening created by the departing player. So, either you’re the odd man out on your new team or you get to take another guy’s job. And you better hope he wasn’t a favourite of the players already there, or it gets a little more difficult to fit in.
And just like that, my career with the Anaheim Mighty Ducks was over. In a haze, I shared a cab to the airport with Warren Rychel (one of the all-time characters of the game), who had just been dealt to Colorado. Here’s a guy who once said to Richard Park, after Park played a great first game in Anaheim following being traded, “Parksy, great game kid. Keep playing like that and you’ll have a great career here. Maybe you can open up a couple dry cleaners afterward.” I know that’s not politically correct, but hey—I didn’t say it and Park loved the line.
During the drive we were both dumbfounded that I was one of the guys who had been traded. He kept shaking his head, telling me “I can’t believe you got traded,” not seeming too bothered by the fact that he was on his way to the airport too. The situation may not have been a shock to him, but it certainly was one for me. I was trying my best to convince myself that things happen for a reason. Pittsburgh must be where I belong. Yeah, right.
As a player, once you get over the initial shock that you’ve been traded it’s kind of exciting to be heading to a new place. Your thinking quickly goes from the team that didn’t want you to the one that did. Next thing you know you’re in a new locker room with new teammates, playing the same old game. For me, the logistics of that first trade were easy. Grab a cab, head to the airport, and catch a flight to Pittsburgh. Pretty simple stuff, really. For the future Mrs. Journeyman, however, things weren’t so easy.
An in-season trade in hockey can be an inconvenience to the player, but it’s always a major monkey wrench as far as the family is concerned. It’s not just a matter of Mr. Millionaire selling his mansion in that place and buying a new one in this place. OK, for some players it is. But for the journeymen of the world things work much differently. And most of the time it’s up to Mrs. Journeyman to pick up the pieces left behind after a trade. These ladies have been through thick and thin if they’ve been with a fringe player from the get-go. Chances are they’ve followed their husbands through the ranks of the minor leagues. If so, then they’ve coordinated numerous moving trucks to pack up a half-dozen apartment/townhome/condos over the years. Not exactly the type of life that is conducive to carving out a career of their own, so most have put their lives on hold to support their husband’s quest to play in the NHL.
It’s nearly impossible for the journeyman family to establish roots in a community. It’s such a transient lifestyle, almost like a fly-by-night business, touching down for a few days in one town before moving on to the next stop. That’s not too difficult on the player because of the fact that his life revolves around the team. Even in a brand new city the player has built-in friends called teammates, and a family of sorts in the team. Nearly 24/7 at home and literally 24/7 on the road players are around each other—in the dressing room, at practice, in games, on the bus, out for dinner, in the hotel. It’s constant. The same can’t be said for our significant others. Sure they can make friends with the other wives/girlfriends, but if you’re new in town it’s not that easy to integrate. For the guys hockey is the bonding point, the reason to be friends. For the wives/girlfriends there may not be a common point. Some are older with teenage kids, some are mothers with infants, and some are just young girls following their boyfriends around. Throw in the language barrier you get with the European players, and sometimes it’s not easy to find a way to fit in.
Obviously, if you’re able to stay in one place for a couple of years there is an opportunity to meet people outside of the game. That’s a good thing for the player and a great thing for his significant other. Talk doesn’t always revolve around hockey and it’s possible to have a life away from the rink and the game.
My wife and I had that in Anaheim. We had friends within the hockey community, and outside of it as well. Mrs. Journeyman was especially happy because there was a group of girls on the team who were relatively the same age and in the same stage of life. And then, BOOM! It all got blown up.
“Honey, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”
“What happened?”
Someone like my wife who has heard it all wants to get right to the point and sees no point in playing games. In other words, don’t try to sugarcoat things.
“We’ve been traded.”
Pregnant pause.
“Where?”
“To a second-place team that’s going to the playoffs!”
“Great. Where?”
“To the east coast.”
“Where, Sean?”
“Pittsburgh.”
Sigh. “OK, should I call the movers or will you?”
Like I said, this wasn’t her first rodeo.
“Let’s not worry about it right now. We’ll keep our place in Newport Beach and get organized at the end of the season. The Penguins are going to put us up in a hotel for the remainder of the year.”
I arrived in Pittsburgh and was introduced to my twenty new friends. “What’s up Jaromir? Hey Hatch. Hi Ronnie Francis, can you sign your rookie card for me? It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Barrasso.” A lot of my new friends on the team were players I grew up watching. I’m sure those guys thought I was some kind of stalker because I just kept staring at them like that kid stared at Santa Claus in Bad Santa. The hardest part for me was trying to act like I was one of them. I’m not sure what they thought of me, or if they thought of me. Pretty much everyone welcomed me to the team, and when they did I could almost see the wheels turning. I’m sure the guys were wondering, “How is this guy going to help us to win a championship?” It’s always intimidating walking into a new dressing room, and this one was no exception. In Anaheim, I’d spent parts of three years with the organization so I knew everyone. Now, I had to go through the whole “get to know you” phase all over again. But like I said earlier, I had the easy job compared to the Mrs.
A week later she showed up late at night and cabbed it to the hotel. Since she was still on PST I decided to go about my business quietly in the morning and didn’t wake her up before I took off to the rink. Upon my arrival back to the plush Residence Inn (yes, we even had a kitchenette), I found her standing over the sink staring out the window.
“Hey babe, I’m home!”
Silence.
“Honey, I said I’m home.”
Silence.
“Hey, what’s up?”
I walked over to her and turned her around. The floodgates were open. Tears and mascara were streaming down her face as she was trying to not fully lose it.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just going to take some getting used to our new place.”
Since she arrived in the middle of the night she had no clue where our hotel was located. Pittsburgh is a fantastic city, but only if you’re staying in Pittsburgh. Our hotel was about ten minutes out of town and in the middle of nowhere. The view from the kitchenette window was of a rusted-out tractor and some knee-high grass that surrounded the complex. In Newport Beach we lived exactly eighty-one paces from the beach, and let me tell you, that water is much nicer to gaze at than weeds.
That’s why players always say “we’ve been traded,” because they know they aren’t the only ones involved in a deal.
My time in Pittsburgh was about as pretty as the view from the Residence Inn.
I played exactly five games during the regular season and then broke my foot. Oddly, it was in the same game that I scored my first and only goal as a Pittsburgh Penguin. Our coach, Kevin Constantine, was adamant about blocking shots and sacrificing our body. So, with time winding down in the third period and us up five to one, I made the ill-advised decision to lie down and block an Ives Racine slapshot. With the game in hand I just had to be an idiot. I broke the bone on the inside of my left foot right near the ball. Not a good place when you need to push off the ball of your foot to skate. There was only two and a half weeks left in the season and I was convinced I could make it back in time for the playoffs. I did not want to miss the first game of the first round. After all, it was against the Montreal Canadiens. How could I not be part of that? I was so desperate to be there for the playoffs that I basically forced the trainer to figure out a way for me to get my foot in my skate. He ended up devising some kind of tape job that he called a “moccasin.” It felt OK, but I had no strength when I pushed off and it was difficult to stop quickly. Not a winning combination when my skating was already a question mark on a good day. I suited up for the first couple games of the playoffs against Montreal but was largely ineffective and eventually scratched for the remainder of the series—and, as it turns out, the remainder of the season, as we ended up losing that series in six games. There were a number of reasons why the Penguins fell to the Habs in the opening round, but the one that really stuck in my craw was that I felt our coach outcoached himself. I’m not sure why Constantine wanted to have our best line go up against their checking line, but he did. Alain Vigneault was the head coach of the Canadiens and he had moved Zarley Zalapski from defence to forward for the sole purpose of checking Jagr. To be Jaromir’s shadow, so to speak. And Constantine played right into his hands. Hey, I can understand if you’re on the road without last change and you don’t get the matchup you want. But at home? Vigneault would send out his hybrid-checking unit and wait for Constantine to send out a line. And time and time again Constantine gave Vigneault the matchup he wanted. At least he could have made him work for it. Anyway, what started out as a new beginning and a shot at Lord Stanley quickly turned into a disastrous finish and a shot in the balls (foot).
Even with the bitter end to that season, I had a pretty great summer. There were two things I had wanted to do for a long time and I was over the moon to be able to cross them both off my list in short order. And I know I had the right agent, because he was involved in both. I have to say that for a player of my calibre I overachieved in the agent category. It may well be that having a decent hockey player for a brother may have helped me land a superstar agent. But my status didn’t stop Pat Morris from going beyond the call of duty.
The first thing he accomplished on my behalf was to convince the Penguins that I was an essential part of their future. There was no need to hold out that year—long before I could develop another ulcer, the Pens put an offer in front of me. I had spent the entire season in the league for the first time in my career and I had arbitration rights, so perhaps they thought it would be best to lock me up for an entire year. And if that didn’t floor you, perhaps this will.
The contract was a one-way deal. A first for Sean Pronger.
I closed another deal that summer, but one with a considerably longer term and no free-agency provisions. That’s right—I finally made an honest woman of Mrs. Journeyman.
In order to avoid the paparazzi that would constantly hound us we decided to have the wedding in our hometown. The royal wedding was going to be held in Dryden, Ontario, Canada. The who’s who of the NHL made the trek to the Great White North for the big ceremony: Chris Pronger, the best man (but not better man!), and yours truly, the handsome groom. What a star-studded affair! Also making the trip up to the mill town was none other than Ari Gold aka Jerry Maguire aka Pat Morris. In defence of everyone who didn’t make the wedding, Dryden is not an easy place to get to. For most it requires a couple different planes and a rental car— or, in Pat’s case, a Greyhound.
For Pat, the only people he knew in town were in the wedding. Obviously, he knew his star client, me, and his star client’s brother, Chris. But he was also close with our friends and my parents. Unfortunately for him, we were all involved in the wedding and couldn’t show him everything that Dryden had to offer.
About a half hour before the ceremony, the groomsmen and I were in a heated game of euchre in the church basement. My parents were busy entertaining our out-of-town family members. And my soon-to-be wife was at the Riverview Lodge (Hotel) with her bridesmaids and parents. Since Dryden is such a small town, there are really only two places worth staying at. One of them, the Holiday Inn Express, doesn’t have a restaurant and so couldn’t accommodate the reception even though it is a fantastic place to stay. (Shameless plug: Did I mention I’m also part owner?) So that leaves the beautiful Riverview Lodge.
When my wife-to-be came down to the lobby to meet her parents for the drive to the church, she noticed Pat floating around the lobby.
“Pat, is everything all right?”
“Yeah, I was just going to call a cab. How far is the church anyway?”
“Pat, it’s fifteen minutes from starting, we only have one cab in this town and I doubt they’ll be here in time.”
“Oh. Is the church close enough to walk to?”
“Why don’t you just hop in with us?”
“Really, you don’t mind?”
“No, get in.”
So, in the car over to the ceremony is my father-in-law, my mother-in-law, my wife-to-be, and … my agent. How fitting. On the drive over, Pat dramatically reached into his coat pocket and, without missing a beat, pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I guess this is as good a time as any to go over the prenup!”
Needless to say, everyone in the car burst out laughing.
If only more players were lucky enough to have an agent who would watch their back all the way to the altar! Training camp, 1998. I thought I had solidified myself as a legitimate NHL regular. I showed up to training camp in great shape. I took it upon myself to go find a place to live. Presumptuous? Maybe. But I figured that’s what you did when you hadn’t spent a game in the minors the year before. I was a regular, so like any other full-time NHLer I was going to find a place to live in the NHL city that I was playing in. Maybe I wanted to give them the impression from day one that I intended to be there. Perhaps I thought it would be easier for them to send me down if I was staying at a hotel. It’s also possible I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
As training camp began I could tell where they planned to use me—they wanted me to be the checking centre. Yep, the Penguins slotted me on the third line and my role was to play against the other team’s top line and shut them down. This was A-OK by me. I just wanted to play. As camp progressed I thought I was doing the job. I’m not sure how, with all that had already happened in my short career, I allowed myself to feel comfortable. Because as you may have guessed, my job wasn’t as safe as I thought it was.
By the end of camp I was moping around on the fourth line. My defined role was not so defined anymore. But I didn’t panic. I tried to stay positive by telling myself it was OK. Just make the team and we can work our way back up the depth chart. Little did I know I was about to face a perfect storm of bad news.
There were a few players who I didn’t think to include in my training camp formula when trying to figure out where I stood on the depth chart. In between stops in the Swiss League was Patrick Lebeau. He was invited to training camp and was looking good. Not only that, he was becoming a favourite with the coaching staff. Not good for any bubble player not named Lebeau. Not only that, after solid seasons in the minors it was looking like Jan Hrdina was ready for prime time. It also didn’t hurt that he was from the Czech Republic. He would fit right in with the seven other Czechs on the team. The storm would continue to worsen throughout camp.
On final cut-down day I wasn’t nervous at all. That, more than anything, should have raised five alarm bells. How the hell was I not nervous on cut-down day? I arrived at the rink, saw my usual fourth-line jersey in my stall, and began my usual routine before practice. Hopeful after hopeful were called into the office to have their careers re-routed. Never once did I think they’d call my name. I remember talking to the boys afterward and saying, “Keep your chin up, you’ll be back.”
Who the hell did I think I was? A thousand-game vet? What an idiot I was to be talking to guys like that. I did not get cut that day. But I didn’t make it to game one either. Two days before opening night, I arrived at practice to the news that Pittsburgh had picked up two players in the waiver draft. Both were forwards, and the kicker: we didn’t lose anyone in the waiver draft. My heart stopped.
This can’t be good. The math isn’t adding up. Dan Kesa and Kip Miller were now members of the Pittsburgh Penguins. I had heard of both players. Kesa was a draft pick of Vancouver so I remembered his name from keeping track of the Canucks depth chart when I was at Bowling Green. From what I was told he was a solid two-way player. (Years later I had a chance to play with Kesa. He is a great guy and great teammate, but I confessed that when he got picked up by the Penguins I didn’t like him very much.) I didn’t know Kip Miller, but I had definitely heard of him and his family. He was a legend in college hockey who hadn’t quite reached his potential as a pro. Pittsburgh was going to help him reach that potential.
As I was processing this news, Mike Eaves came up to me to say that our head coach, Kevin Constantine, wanted to see me. (Translation: He’s not my head coach anymore.)
“Sean, we’ve made the decision to send you to Houston.” Here we go again. “Honey, pack up the new apartment … we’re getting another new apartment!” I wish I could say those were my only two residences that season. But I can’t.
No one goes into a career knowing he’s going to be a journeyman. But by the end, if you’re a journeyman it’s clear to the whole world. Somewhere in between, you realize you’re not being sent down to get a little more seasoning before settling into a job as a full-time NHLer. Then it dawns on you: you’re being sent down because it’s part of your job to be sent down when it suits the big club. Just as it’s your job to be ready to go back up when it suits the big club. That’s the realization you’re a journeyman.
So. That’s what I was. A journeyman. Everybody in hockey knows what a journeyman is, but hardly anyone could define the role if they had to. I was going to try to come up with my own words to break down the definition of a journeyman until I decided to check out Dictionary.com (sorry, Webster’s, it’s 2012) and found that there was no way I could have articulated it nearly as well.
journeyman (n., jur-nee-muhn)
A person who has served an apprenticeship at a trade or handicraft and is certified to work at it assisting or under another person.
Any experienced, competent but routine worker or performer.
A person hired to do work for another, usually for a day at a time.
All three definitions of the noun can be perfectly applied to the hockey journeyman. An apprenticeship for NHL hockey is done in the East Coast Hockey League, American Hockey League, any other minor league, or overseas. As for being certified to work at it assisting or under another person? Doesn’t that scream fourth-liner to you? After all, that’s where the journeyman almost always ends up if he happens to make it to the NHL.
No further explanation needed. I mean, that sums it up just about perfectly.
In this definition I’d like to focus on the second part of the sentence, “usually for a day at a time.” While it’s true that some players are signed to ten-day or ten-game contracts, the vast majority of pro hockey players get deals with terms in years. That said, when a journeyman is called up to the NHL, his stay might be only a day or two depending on the situation. And a week or two if that particular player is lucky. No matter how long the stay, I can tell you that the journeyman is always thinking of his tenure as a day-to-day thing.
For me, season two with the flightless birds began with a flight to Houston and the IHL. After playing sixteen games with the Aeros I was re-called by the Pens and played a couple of games before assistant coach Mike Eaves gave me the tap.
“Coach wants to see you.”
And you know what? I didn’t care. I actually welcomed a trip back to the farm. We had a great team in Houston. There were plenty of solid, veteran guys who had been around and knew how to win. Coaching the Aeros those days were a couple of Daves, Tippett and Barr. Both were quality coaches and even better men. Throw in the fact that I had a very good start to the season and I was actually looking forward to going back. Another thing that didn’t hurt was the one-way contract I was sporting that season. It didn’t matter if I was playing for the Penguins or the Aeros, I was hauling in NHL dollars. That was the only one-way of my career, by the way. And because there was less income tax in Texas than in Pennsylvania, I actually made a little more money in the minors.
(Side story: Making more money in the minors is unusual, but it does happen. During the 2009–10 season, veteran defenceman Brad Lukowich was sent from Vancouver [NHL] to Texas [AHL]. Lukowich was on a one-way contract that paid him a million bucks. In the NHL Lukowich had to pay 14 percent escrow—a slush fund that players must contribute to in case the NHL doesn’t generate enough hockey-related revenue to cover the players’ salaries—as well as British Columbia’s 44 percent income tax. In Texas he didn’t have to worry about the NHL escrow, and since there’s no income tax in the state of Texas he welcomed the demotion to the minors.)
For the first time in my career, getting called into the coach’s office was a no-lose situation. Sent down = happy. Stay up = happy. Unfortunately, Kevin Constantine’s message to me that day was neither.
“Sean, we’ve traded you to New York.”
I was floored. That wasn’t what I expected, to say the least. And for the obvious reasons I thought he meant the Islanders.
“You are part of a bigger trade. We sent Petr Nedved, Chris Tamer, and you for Alexei Kovalev, Harry York, and $15 million in cash.”
Whoa! A blockbuster! And to the Rangers! Constantine was a little puzzled; I don’t think he’d ever seen someone so happy moments after he’d informed them they’d been traded.
The way I figured it, the trade broke down something like this:
Nedved for Kovalev.
Tamer for York.
Pronger for $15 million.
Cut and dried. Simple.
I couldn’t have been more pleased with the news. From Pittsburgh to Manhattan. From the Igloo to Madison Square Garden. And what a star-studded room the Rangers had. Mike Richter, Brian Leetch, Ulf Samuelsson, Kevin Stevens, Adam Graves, John MacLean, Wayne Gretzky … and to top it all off, Sean Pronger. So many of those guys I watched on TV as a kid. Whether it was Officer MacLean scoring the goal to get the Devils into the playoffs, or Adam Graves and the Kid Line winning a Cup in Edmonton, or Ulf versus Neely or Stevens patrolling Mario’s wing on back-to-back Cup champions—I couldn’t glance around the room without conjuring up a memory. And oh yeah, did I mention Gretzky?
And it was New York. Mrs. Journeyman was delighted to be in the Big Apple. You know the saying—happy wife, happy life. It’s a cliché for a reason. And the icing on the cake was that my best friend from childhood also lived in New York City. (Also, did I mention Gretzky?)