Telling hockey stories for 34 years
When I showed up for my first day at USA TODAY on a Sunday morning in the spring of 1985, I was officially on loan from the Port Huron (Michigan) Times Herald.
I was told to use a desk belonging to staff writer Cindy McConkey, who was off covering a United States Football League game.
Within 60 seconds of sitting down, the phone rang and a familiar voice asked to speak to Cindy.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m told she is on assignment. Can I take a message?”
“Yes,” the man said. “Tell her George Steinbrenner returned her call and I’ll be at my Florida number until Tuesday.”
After jotting down the message, I turned to editor Don Collins and said, “I need to work at a place where George Steinbrenner returns your call on a Sunday morning. How do I go from ‘loaner’ to staff writer?”
Collins laughed. But 14 months later, I was working permanently for USA TODAY. I’ve thought about that day often this past week as I contemplated that my USA TODAY career is ending after 34 years. Friday is my last day.
The details of my departure aren’t interesting or unique. You’ve heard the story before. Shrinking industry. Staff reduction. Many friends have left the business under similar circumstances. Now it’s my turn.
Rather than dwell on those events, I choose to be grateful for the years I’ve had at the nation’s newspaper. From the minute I sat in a USA TODAY desk, I was proud to be Kevin Allen of USA TODAY. I refuse to revise my feelings just because my time is up.
I’ve enjoyed an incredible run. Thirty-three Stanley Cup Finals. Ten Olympics. Pushing 800 NHL playoff games. Except for Zdeno Chara and a handful of others, most current NHL players weren’t born when I started writing about the NHL for USA TODAY.
When Keith Tkachuk started playing in the NHL in 1991, I had already been the national writer for six seasons. Today, his sons Matthew and Brady have been in the NHL a combined six seasons.
As USA TODAY’s NHL beat writer, I’ve been to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Rimouski, Quebec, Tokyo, the Arctic Circle, the Swiss Alps, Austria, Norway, Italy, France, Russia, an ice rink in Mexico City, Fenway Park, Dodger Stadium, Wrigley Field, the Montreal Forum, The Big House, Martin Brodeur’s summer home, Mike Emrick’s TV booth, Maple Leaf Gardens, Boston Garden, Mellon Arena, Chicago Stadium, The Spectrum, Caley Chelios’ radio booth, Chris Chelios’ restaurant, Mario Lemieux’s backyard, Inside the Glass with Pierre McGuire and Bob Hartley’s hometown of Hawkesbury, Ontario.
As the late Johnny Cash would say, I’ve been everywhere, man.
I was in Pittsburgh the night Jaromir Jagr skated through half of Chicago’s team to score a tying goal in the 1992 Stanley Cup Final. I was in Philadelphia in 2010 when Patrick Kane celebrated the Cup-clinching goal that nobody saw. I was in Buffalo in 1999 when Brett Hull placed his skate where it didn’t belong. I was in Norway in 1994 when Peter Forsberg scored the goal that put his face on a postage stamp.
I’ve seen Bob Gainey check, Denis Savard dance and Bob Probert punch like he was Muhammad Ali. I’ve chronicled Nicklas Lidstrom’s greatness, Scott Bowman’s genius, Patrick Roy’s aura and Chris Chelios’ desire to win.
I’ve witnessed Pavel Bure’s explosiveness, Al MacInnis’ sizzling shot, Dominik Hasek’s crazy acrobatics and Steve Yzerman’s ability to lead like he was Norman Schwarzkopf. I swear I’ve seen Connor McDavid fly, Pavel Datsyuk turn invisible and Scott Stevens crush opponents like he was a human compactor. I saw Mark Messier carve opponents like they were Halloween pumpkins and I was present when Sidney Crosby scored a goal in Vancouver that Canadians will never forget.
I feel honored to have covered the NHL when Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux were in the primes of their career. Undoubtedly, it’s a similar feeling for NBA guys covering Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, but I’ve always believed that having players of Gretzky’s and Lemieux’s caliber playing at the same time is something we will never see again.
I don’t have favorite stories. But I do have fond memories, like when I had the scoop on Lemieux coming out of retirement. This was before social media. Scoops lasted more than 45 seconds.
I always had a good relationship with Lemieux. When Penguins VP Tom McMillan told Lemieux I had the story, Lemieux told McMillan to give me 40 minutes in the spotlight before he confirmed it to other entities.
My all-time favorite assignment was going to the Arctic Circle to write about Jordin Tootoo, the first Inuit to play in the NHL, in Rankin Inlet, Nunavut, just below the Arctic Circle. It was July and the ice on Hudson Bay had only melted the month before. On Day 2, I went seal hunting with Tootoo.
As I like to say in telling this story, I am the least likely person in world history to go seal hunting. I visit seals in the zoo. I don’t eat them for Sunday dinner.
But by the end of my time with Tootoo, I was far less sympathetic to the seals. They were taunting us. I swear.
I will remember how hard Teemu Selanne wept after winning his first Cup. I’m going to remember how much fun it was to eat bacon and eggs at Bob Hartley’s neighbors with the Stanley Cup on the kitchen table. I don’t remember if Bob cried when we took the Stanley Cup to his parents’ graves that day, but I did.
I’ve met many memorable folks in my USA TODAY career. No one helped me more on national stories than Predators GM David Poile. Whenever I write about a league-wide issue, Poile always has a well-considered, interesting take. He cares deeply about the game.
This last story offers a springboard for the real hero of my 34 NHL seasons. It’s my wife, Terri. I’ve been with her longer than I’ve been with USA TODAY. Early in my career, a friend asked her how she put up with me being on the road 100-plus days a year.
“I knew who he was when I married him,” she said.
Over the last several months, I’ve been helping my dear friend Mike Emrick write his life story for a 2020 publishing date. We’ve found much commonality with our careers, though his world is broadcasting and mine is writing. We’ve both felt fortunate to have careers that we’ve been allowed to do what we enjoy doing and been paid to do it.
We’ve shared stories about our first jobs, particularly how poorly we were paid. I worked for the Casa Grande Dispatch in Arizona for $180 per week in 1979. Emrick had started for less.
“The joke is on them,” Mike said, “because we would have done the job for free.”
Maybe not for free, but I would have taken $140.