Losing, boozing and fear of flying
Former captain and 50-goal scorer dishes on life with the downtrodden Leafs in the ’80s
In 1983-84, I scored 52 goals — which made it 50-plus for three consecutive seasons. This time, though, the elation of the previous seasons was replaced with an empty feeling. In the seventy-second game, on March 14, I scored two goals in a 3-3 tie (yes, there were ties back then) against Minnesota and goaltender Gilles Meloche to hit 50, and then scored two more against Chicago down the stretch to finish with 52. That season I had 93 points, my career best.
You can’t not be happy with scoring 50 goals, but when you don’t make the playoffs it’s not fun, and that year we missed again, finishing with 61 points. Brutal. You come to the rink every day and it’s miserable when you’re losing, knowing your season is going to come to a hard stop.
Hockey becomes a job. I hate to put it that way, but that’s exactly what happens. It becomes a chore to play, not like when you’re winning and having fun. When you play a sport for a living, it is a job, but there still should be some joy in it. That’s part of what drives you. You have to work hard, but you should still be able to enjoy yourself on the ice, at practice, around the room, on the planes — or, in my case, maybe not on the planes …
I hate flying. Always have, always will. It’s a control thing. I like to be in control. I’m not a great passenger in a car either. If someone else’s foot is on the gas pedal and brake, I feel like I’m putting my life in their hands. Then there are the variables that come with flying: weather conditions, human error, mechanical error. I just don’t like it. And five seasons into my NHL career, I’d spent a lot of time in planes.
Wayne Gretzky hated flying, too. He once said it took a lot out of him. Just think what he could have done otherwise! Looking back on those three 50goal seasons — how they came early in my career and on teams that weren’t winning — I know my fear of flying certainly didn’t help my career.
Imagine sitting on a plane for two or three hours, maybe longer, and basically holding on to the arms of your seat with white knuckles, nervous and tense the entire time. Mentally and physically, it feels almost like playing an extra game. You’re exerting so much energy, and sustaining so much tension, that you’re emotionally drained by the time your feet are back on solid ground.
Road trips were terrible. The night before, I’d worry about flying. Every single time. I wouldn’t sleep very much — and I was already a poor sleeper because of my bladder problem — and then I would think about getting on that plane the whole next day. The flight crews would often let me sit in the jump seat with the pilots for takeoff and landing, and that helped a little. But when I came out of the cockpit, my shirt would be drenched in nervous sweat. It was exhausting.
I had my coping strategies. At most NHL rinks, a few older gentlemen are assigned to the visitors’ dressing room, and they help out the trainers with the equipment, loading the truck, unpacking the gear, that sort of stuff. Those guys always had beer stashed away. We had those gentlemen in Toronto, too, and they’d help me out. I would flip them a few bucks and they’d stash a six-pack in my bag. That took a little of the edge off and helped me get on the plane. It was the only way I could cope with all the flying.
But even if I drank four of those six beers, or maybe even all six, it still didn’t make the anxiety go away. I’d probably need 10 to forget I was on a plane. Being drunk on a team charter cost me a $500 fine once. The team kept it quiet, but my self-medicating was noticed — and not appreciated.
In my rookie season, in Vancouver, they would always have one of those plastic garbage bins full of ice and beer after home games. We didn’t have that at home in Toronto, but on the road there would always be a couple of two-fours of beer in the room. That helped get me on planes, but it couldn’t have helped my game.
The Leafs chartered turboprops, those little old Air Ontario Convair 580s and 640s. Vancouver used them, too, when we were on eastern road trips. We’d fly to Toronto, make it our hub, and fly Convairs to wherever we were going (Buffalo did the same thing when I played there).
The thing about those little planes? They couldn’t rise above a storm. If there was crappy weather on the horizon, you knew it was going to be a rough flight. That wasn’t easy. One time we went from Boston to St. Louis, which normally takes maybe three hours, and it took almost five because of headwinds. I was wiped out by the time we got there.
On the best of days, the post-flight fatigue was a problem, because with the Leafs, when we were leaving Toronto, we never departed for anywhere until 7:35 p.m., which meant we’d arrive stupidly late, wherever we were going. But that way Harold (Ballard) didn’t have to pay our meal money. And any travel for team business after 3 p.m. meant he was only obligated to pay a half-day per diem.
When I’d step on one of those Convairs, all I could think was that I loved my wife and hoped someday to see my kids grow up. I understood the statistics, but I didn’t want to be the guy on the wrong side of them. I understood how many flights there were every day and every year, and how many safe landings — people would keep telling me that, trying to be reassuring.
One person who understood me was Rick Fraser, one of the newspaper beat writers covering the team. He was a wonderful guy, a great and fair reporter, and a nervous flyer (who sadly has left us, but not because of a plane crash!). I’d see how nervous Ricky was on flights, when we all flew commercial. (Harold wouldn’t let the media on the charters.)
Anyway, Ricky’s favourite drink was Canadian Club rye and water. On the road, he would keep a bottle of CC in his carry-on, and when he got on the plane, the first thing he’d do was ask the flight attendant for a glass of ice water. One time it was early in the morning, but Ricky still asked for his glass of ice water.
The attendant smiled and said, “Now, I don’t want to see that water change colour.”
Ricky said, “Then don’t look!” Ricky used to say, “I’m tired of people telling me if your number is up, your number is up; there’s nothing you can do about it.” He’d say, “Okay, if my number’s up that’s fine, but what about the guy across the aisle? What if his number is up? How do I fit into that equation?” And then he’d drink his CC. I liked Ricky’s logic.
Flying wasn’t fun, and for a number of years it fit right in with everything else around the team. We just weren’t enjoying the game.
For all three of those years that I hit the 50 mark, it was almost like if our line didn’t score we had no chance of winning the game.
Billy and Danny Daoust and Tom Fergus, the three centres I played with over those years — I had great chemistry with all of them. But a lot of nights it felt like we were on our own.
And I hated losing more than I liked winning. That’s the way I was as a kid; I didn’t like losing at anything.