Flanker Press Limited
St. John’s
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Fights, film, and folklore / Terry Ryan.
Names: Ryan, Terry, 1977- author.
Description: Series statement: Tales with TR
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200314939 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200314947 | ISBN 9781774570067
(softcover) | ISBN 9781774570074 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774570081 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781774570098 (PDF)
Subjects: LCSH: Ryan, Terry, 1977-—Anecdotes. | LCSH: Hockey players—Canada—Anecdotes. | LCSH:
Hockey—Anecdotes. | LCSH: Television actors and actresses—Canada—Anecdotes.
Classification: LCC GV848.5.R93 A3 2020 | DDC 796.962092—dc23
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© 2020 by Terry Ryan
All Rights Reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.
Printed in Canada
Cover design by Graham Blair
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St. John’s, NL
Canada
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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Industry and Innovation for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.
This book is dedicated to:
Tison Young, who I helped raise, and my beautiful daughter, Penny-Laine, who inspires me more with each passing day.
My friend Keith Walsh, his son Keith Jr., his father, Eugene Walsh, and our pal Billy Humby. They passed away tragically on the Atlantic Ocean on September 6, 2016, when their fishing boat capsized. Billy and Keith were my close ball hockey pals from the tight-knit community of Shea Heights. We were all out together on the same boat just days before.
My friend Dale Hawerchuk, who passed away in August 2020. Dale was a childhood idol but became a good friend. He gave me the opportunity to attend and speak at his awesome golf tournament, and we shared many stories after NHL Alumni games across Canada.
Finally, I can’t forget Greg “Bird Dog” Smyth, my opponent, my pal, and one of the greatest characters to ever lace up skates. His stories are better than mine. Love you, Bird.
Rest in peace, guys.
Contents
Foreword by Ken Reid
Introduction
First Things First
Part I: Fights
Fight, Hits, and PCS
More on Anxiety and Depression
Hardest Punchers
Marc Moro
Ryan VandenBussche
Trevor Gillies
The Life of Riley
Bill Riley
Part II: Film
Please, Have Mercy
The Wild Frontier
Action!
Will the Real Terry Ryan Please Stand Up?
Letterkenny
PART III: Folklore
Lefty Fitzgibbons
Shayne Corson and Darcy Tucker
The Planet Hollywood Story
Darren Langdon
All in a Day’s Work
Saddle Up, Kid
My Last NHL Shift
Grace, Too
The Great Ones
The Last Word
Foreword by Ken Reid
Simply put, I love the game of hockey. The sound of your skates on the ice, that feeling when you actually, even for a beer leaguer like me, pick a top corner and score a goal. But even more than that, even more than the goals and assists, I love the stories. I love the stories of the game of hockey.
If you’re like me, when a game wraps, you can’t wait to crack a cold one, sit back, and let storytime begin. If I’m lucky, I might have my gear off in a half-hour. I’m usually the last guy out of the room. Why would anyone want to leave? You’re laughing, you’re having a few pops, and you’re telling stories. Those stories may be about what just happened on the ice, or they may be about something that happened on or perhaps off ice years ago. Who cares? It’s storytime.
I first came across a guy named Terry Ryan when I was working in Edmonton. I was doing my weekly sidekick gig on Bob Stauffer’s radio show called Total Sports when we took a call from a listener named Terry. This Terry guy was on a roll. He was ranting and raving and giving his two cents—or in Terry’s case, ten cents; the guy can talk—about some pressing matter in the hockey world.
Bob, who is a hockey encyclopedia, asked Terry kind of quizzically if he was the Terry Ryan who used to play for Tri-Cities. Maybe Bob detected a bit of a Newfoundland accent. Terry said he was, and he just kept on talking. I’m not sure if it was that day or maybe a week later, but Bob invited Terry to be on with us every Tuesday.
The three of us hit it off right away. We called it “Train Wreck Tuesdays.” Bob and I would ask Terry and me about the Oilers’ power play to start, and by the end of the show we could be talking about anything—the Newfoundland Senior League, Tony Danza, Degrassi Junior High, you name it. Terry and Bob and I were a train wreck but in a rather delightful way.
Terry and I hit it off over our mutual love of the game. I mean, sure, I played Midget C and Terry played in the NHL, but we both loved the game. We didn’t share the same skill set, but we shared the same passion. I dreamt of playing for the Montreal Canadiens—Terry actually did it. I loved watching hockey fights—Terry was actually in them and knew what they felt like. I hated getting benched by my old coach, Paul Landry, in Atom “C”—Terry, on the other hand, knew what it was like to ride the pine in the Show. (He’ll get into that later. We never played “numbers” in Atom “C.”)
And both of us loved, I mean loved, to tell and listen to hockey stories. Now, there is one place in the world that’s better than the dressing room for telling hockey stories; it’s in the basement of a home in Mount Pearl, Newfoundland, shared by Terry Ryan, Sr., and his better half, Gail. It’s the house TR grew up in. Most people call it Senior’s Basement. The basement is an absolute hockey shrine, and for me it’s a little slice of heaven.
You see, Senior played in the WHA and a bunch of minor pro leagues back in the ’70s. He also played in the Newfoundland Senior League, and for some reason, I’m obsessed with all of it. It’s a place where I can hold Bobby Hull’s old stick, look at a bevy of blue WHA pucks, and trade stories of Newfoundland Senior League legends like Billy Riley, Robbie Forbes, Danky Dorrington, Kevin Morrison, and Gordie Gallant. I mention the name Danky Dorrington on the mainland, I get stares. If I mention it in Senior’s basement, I get a story—from both Senior and Junior.
The walls of the basement are also filled with TR’s jerseys and pictures from his time as a pro, including his days with the Canadiens. I remember the first time going to Senior’s place while I was out in Newfoundland for a Heart and Stroke fundraising hockey tournament. We arrived at the house and were greeted by Gail.
Then, Senior appeared at the bottom of the basement steps. I started to walk down to greet Senior, and he walked up the steps to meet me. We stopped there—on the steps—and stayed there for the next ninety minutes. The wall along the steps to the basement was adorned with pictures. Senior and Junior told me about every one. Perfection.
My favourite picture on the wall going into the basement is one of Terry, José Théodore, and Wesley Snipes. Because, of course, Terry Ryan has a picture of himself, a Vezina winner, and Willie Mays Hayes. I should also mention that Terry Ryan has also acted with Aquaman, sat on a Newfoundland cliff with Ethan Hawke, got paid to travel to Scotland with Aquaman (I guess I should mention Terry has been killed twice by Aquaman on the TV show Frontier), and fought a National Hockey League heavyweight with his skates untied, with his eyes full of A535, his belly full of a hot dog, and then moments later courted a young lady from the penalty box. That’s TR.
But I digress. So, when you’re in Senior’s basement, the stories and the beer start to flow. Now, the beauty of Terry’s writing is that his first book, and the one you’re holding right now, are as close as you can get to being in Senior’s basement without seeing Senior dressed in his greenhouse coat and without a DVD of Terry’s old fights playing on the TV set. Get ready for storytime.
There are few storytellers in the game of hockey better than Terry Ryan. Terry is raw. Terry is real. The subjects Terry writes about are raw and real. They can be funny, and they can be serious.
You’re about to read not just about hockey fights, but what it’s like to get absolutely zonked right in the eye with a nasty punch from one of the hardest hitters in National Hockey League history. Why in the hell would you fight a guy without holding a grudge? Well, Terry is going to tell you why.
You’re also going to read about anxiety and depression and post-concussion syndrome—what caused it, how real the pain is, the struggle. You’ll be thrilled with tales and adventures that even the Dos Equis man would admit he could never experience. Yes, it is true—Terry Ryan is actually the most interesting person in the world. He even manages to fit Socrates into the following pages. How TR is that?
And one of the things I truly love about this book—there are very few, if any, numbers in this book. As one of the wisest people I know once told me, “People don’t remember numbers. People remember stories.” Few people remember and tell a story better than TR. Enjoy.
Ken Reid
July 2020
Introduction
Well, here we are again. It has been just over six years since my first contribution to Canadian literature, Tales of a First-Round Nothing, hit the shelves. I’d like to say TOAFRN was an “unbelievable” or “fantastic” experience, but I don’t think I can reduce the whole process down to just one word or even one sentence.
Like I mentioned many times before, I never thought those stories would ever make it to actual print. I wrote them down early on because I’m an only child and had a somewhat traumatic experience leaving home at only fourteen to move across the country. I was lonely and always enjoyed reading and writing—I looked up to the hockey writers as much as the players—so, documentation of the world around me was no doubt therapeutic at the time.
As my life progressed, my passion for writing was fuelled by my thirst for unique experiences and the good fortune of being in a position to meet some truly interesting people. The fact that thousands of folks actually spent good money and time to read about my life was incredibly humbling. It was well-received for the most part and connected me with fans, friends, and even family all over the world I’d likely never have had any kind of relationship with otherwise.
Many junior-aged players reached out to me with questions about billets, homesickness, or mental strength in the game. Fans have approached me on the sidewalk to comment on the state of their favourite teams. Reporters from all over the world have chimed in on some of my stories, and whether they agreed or disagreed with my stance on something, we’ve for the most part had great banter that I appreciate.
I’ve guested on some podcasts like the world-famous Spittin’ Chiclets and have my own now, called Tales with TR, on the Hockey Podcast Network. Numerous senior hockey players from around Canada looked me up to enlighten me about some legend of their local league, and we have cracked a beer over the phone as I absorbed whatever tantalizing tale I may have heard that evening.
I have had public speaking engagements, and not just regarding the great game of hockey! My friend and uber-talented artist of many forms, Dave Bidini, and his good pal Mark Mattson, asked me to be a spokesperson for the Lake Ontario Waterkeeper Foundation, which ended up being one of the highlights of my semi-charmed kinda life. It has been a thrill to be a part of something bigger than sports and to be immersed in a positive-minded, philanthropic community with so much diversity: global artists and creative minds worldwide getting together with a common greater goal.
I’m giddy as I write this, because LOWF led to my meeting the iconic Gord Downie—but I’m getting way too far ahead of myself. I’ll get to all that later. The point here is that the book changed my life in more ways than one, to put it mildly, and secured my connection with many fans of the wonderful game of hockey.
I still play senior hockey for the St. John’s Caps of the East Coast Senior Hockey League here in Newfoundland and Labrador, and at forty-three, of course, the end is near! I feel limber enough to play, though, and have a great time playing with and against younger players of a new generation. My body doesn’t hurt any less, but I keep the pain in check with ice bags, stretches, and an overall preparation that didn’t exist in my twenties. I eat well, and once I am warmed up, I feel pretty good out there.
To be honest, I’ve been playing around injuries since I busted my ankle in 2001, so it ain’t my first rodeo, so to speak. The minor sacrifice of playing with a bit of arthritis is outweighed by the whole routine of, let’s face it, competition. I wouldn’t enjoy just hanging around a dressing room with random dudes—it’s attacking a situation as a group and trying to achieve success through unity that feeds my addiction. Mental focus plus athleticism plus camaraderie. It’s a beautiful combination.
I wasn’t entirely sure how to go about this process the second time around, to be quite honest. I selectively picked stories for the first book that made sense given the context of the complete work. If you read it, you know that even though there are some funny and racy chapters that get a lot of attention, they really are only a small part of the book as a whole, which is about a boy as he uses hockey to navigate through life. Hockey success leads to everyday success, and the better teammate you are, the better person you’ll be outside the dressing room. Everyone has their own path. Mine may not be agreeable to all of you—that’s okay, diversity makes us stronger—but sports provided me with a certain moral compass with which to navigate through this curious life as we learn from our experiences.
The culture of the game has changed a great deal in the short time since Tales of a First-Round Nothing was published in May 2014. Should we ban fighting completely? What constitutes a headshot? Should we remove open-ice hitting? Who should kneel during the anthem? Social media is swift, and one day’s silence can be contrasted by the next day’s Twitter storm about a player’s post-goal celebration or, hell, even the colour of a dress!
My life has also evolved. My lovely wife, Danielle, is now my lovely ex-wife, Danielle—but we have grown as people, and we get along better than ever in some ways. Tison is now twenty-one, looks more like his dad, B. J., every day, and is ready to start his own adult journey after playing a couple of seasons for the St. Paul Junior “B” Canadiens of the North Eastern Alberta Junior B Hockey League. Little Penny-Laine isn’t so little anymore. She is ten and is enrolled in music, dance, and theatre classes, plays soccer, and practices gymnastics.
Why not hockey, you ask? Well, I’ve always said it’s the team aspect of sports I think is healthy to learn as a kid; the sport or group is irrelevant. (Sacrifice leads to success, like blocking a shot, for example, and it provides goals, which even if not fully achieved—making the NBA or the WNBA, for example—provide the path to meeting new people and installing virtues like focus and work ethic.) On top of all this, I have since done some stand-up comedy, won a ball hockey world championship in Bermuda and I have also been working in the film industry since then, which could all be books in themselves!
In the pages ahead, I’ll address some issues that never really fit into the context of my first book. Back then, I didn’t want to delve too far into the issues of concussions or fighting because they require a little more time and attention than I cared to give in my first personal memoir. But this time around, I’m going to touch on those topics while dedicating some ink to some of the more unique players I had a chance to battle with and against. I’ll also weave in some experiences that have shaped my life in the past few years from my work in TV and film. And of course some plain old hockey stories. It’s going to be a similar style with a slightly different context.
In short, it’s different but more of the fucking same, I guess. If you didn’t like the first book, don’t waste your time. Take a pass on this one. Save me the frustration of reading a shitty uninformed comment on Amazon and go buy a book about lentil soup, fidget spinners, or whatever the hell floats your boat.
For the rest of you, sit back and enjoy the ride. This is Tales with TR: Fights, Film, and Folklore.
First Things First
Okay, one thing I would like to do before I get into my stories is make one thing clear—I loved playing for the Habs. Because I can be opinionated and have a knack for telling a yarn (commonplace amongst my fellow Newfoundlanders), I get invited on a lot of radio shows and podcasts. One question that comes up a lot is, “Why didn’t you stick in the NHL?” You see, as a result of my non-illustrious career with the Habs, many fans assume I am real bitter. I alluded to all of this in Tales of a First-Round Nothing, of course, but in case I wasn’t clear . . .
I’m a pretty big sports fan, and my favourite team in any sport was always the Montreal Canadiens. I admired the organization as much for the multitude of championships as I did for its rich history and impact on our sport and country. I have come to realize I like simplicity in the game, and I like leaders—guys like Jean Béliveau and Bob Gainey are at the top of the totem pole when it comes to class, professionalism, and attitude.
My father, an ex-pro who knew how a dressing room should be run, showed a fondness for these kinds of guys and always made sure to point out why they were so great. His speeches on the subject went on for hours—anyone who knows my dad knows I am not exaggerating one bit—and they made an impact on my young mind. While I don’t claim to be a legendary leader like those Habs legends, they influenced me in more ways than one.
Gainey reportedly played with two separated shoulders in the 1986 playoff run, for example—one that saw the Habs hoist Lord Stanley’s Cup for a record twenty-third time—but it wasn’t only the fact that he played injured that was the most impressive to me; it was that he said nothing about it. When asked, he’d always pass any credit off to his teammates, using played-down, typical clichés, never getting too high or low.
Béliveau, God rest his soul, came to many games, and, at least around me, he seemed to be a man of few words at times, but when he spoke, everyone listened. I really admired that and still do. I will never conduct myself with that incredible level of professionalism because I’m too much of a wing nut, but I appreciate having the opportunity to spend so much time with those who did, and I know at least part of it rubbed off on me, and for that I am grateful.
When I got drafted to the Habs in 1995, Patrick Roy was still in Montreal, and I got to hang out with him for a few days in and around the famed Montreal Forum. It would be the last year the iconic Forum would host Habs games and also the final season Sir Patrick would strap on the pads as puck-stopper for his hometown team. Mike Keane, owner of three Stanley Cup rings with three different teams, was captain, and watching his work ethic alone was an education in itself. Mark Lamb, who had a few Cups with the Oilers of the ’80s, had breakfast with me and Lyle Odelein a few days in camp, and I was impressed by his humbleness and approachability.
Lyle Odelein fit the description “old school” to a tee, and he liked to relax and swallow suds in the evenings—his favourite bar in Montreal for a spell was Cheers on Mackay Street downtown, and he took me there a few times on one condition; I was two hours early for practice and jumped on the stationary bike before any other players even showed up. “Odie” seemed superhuman—I learned how to pick my spots and enjoy the odd evening at the pub because of his advice. Basically, if you go hard at night, you gotta go hard in the morning. There is no easy way. If you can’t handle it, stay the fuck home and play video games. That’s that.
Of course, in the mid- to late ’90s, Rocket Richard and his brother Henri were still alive, and you could feel their presence just by being in Montreal itself, let alone being in the dressing room and seeing their iconic pictures on the walls. We had Jacques Laperrière, Yvan Cournoyer, and Steve Shutt as assistant coaches, so learning was never forced. These guys oozed knowledge, and one felt lucky to be in the same room as them. Béliveau came to some games with his wife, Elise, as did Yvon Lambert, Guy Lafleur, and Larry Robinson. Serge Savard was our GM when I first got there, and in the four years I was with the organization, my coaches were Jacques Demers, Mario Tremblay, and Alain Vigneault. Point here being that all these fucking guys are legends one way or another, and I’m proud to have even been associated with them on a professional level for an extended period of time, albeit if some of it was frustrating at times for me.
I’ll mention this: Réjean Houle, the GM during most of my stint with Montreal, has five Cups, and even though we didn’t always see eye to eye, I respect the man immensely, and any conflict we had—at least from my point of view—is water under the bridge. In the late ’90s, I hadn’t learned how to deal with adversity like I would shortly later in life, and I had my back up a lot.
I had some injuries that were poorly timed, to say the least, and to be honest, for most of the 1996–97 season and parts of the next two seasons, I was also dealing with concussion symptoms, which neither I nor the team had much experience with—the 1990s were a coming-out party of sorts for players with post-concussion symptom and head trauma, and much of the affliction was unknown. There is still a huge amount of learning and research needed when it comes to head injuries, of course (which I’ll get into later in the book), but in 2020, we are miles ahead of where we were back then. I kept a lot to myself, and it led to aggressive actions and terribly negative thoughts.
Mr. Houle, when approached, always seemed compassionate and concerned about his players. As a GM, there were many criticisms, of course, but he didn’t exactly have a Stanley Cup contender to work with, either. A bunch of guys like me, with expectations, egos, and contracts, aren’t always easy to keep happy as a group. Overall, Reggie was fine by me, and I hope he lives to be a happy old man.
Finally, the elephant in the dressing room. The one cat I haven’t mentioned so far is the one I get asked about the most—Michel Therrien. We had a rocky relationship, and if you read my first book or have ever seen me interviewed or listened to my podcast, you know exactly what I mean. The thing is, we did have a lot in common!
I’ve often said Michel has a very competitive nature, is passionate about anything he touches, and he’s stubborn. He played professional hockey, and he also likes to lead. Maybe our views on actual leadership are different? Maybe we see things differently, so our approach isn’t always the same? Maybe our idea of how to be professional and act with class and manners is different—at least it was then. I’m not saying I’m right, and I’m not saying Mike is right (I call him Mike)—I’m just saying we have more in common than meets the eye.
Now, I wasn’t an angel, and my often sarcastic, comical nature wasn’t his cup of tea, so I wasn’t completely innocent here. I like to get the boys going on the bus, and you always have to tread the line with the coaches as they’d be up front listening. I would tread the line, sometimes crossing slightly over it and sometimes not. I’m sure some coaches at times were frustrated, to say the least, but most put up with it and gave me some leash to be me. Not Michel. He hated it.
So, anyway, here’s an example of the two sides of Michel Therrien.
On the one hand, you’ve got my meeting with him near the beginning of my first season. I can’t remember exactly when, but it was within the first ten games. I hadn’t been doing much on the ice, but then again, I hadn’t been playing much, either. I couldn’t really understand it, because I was their first-round pick, but I realized I had to earn my ice time and figured I was being brought along slowly.
As games went on, I played less and less and figured it was time to talk to the coach. The thing is, I never really had gone to a coach to complain about ice time. That wasn’t my style, first of all, and second of all, I didn’t usually have any reason to. Yes, I’d called meetings with the coach—like in junior, if I was depressed or homesick, or if I was getting bad marks, or basically if I needed to play a bit better and get some tips. But I never went in specifically to ask about ice time. I still didn’t want to, so I was kind of relieved when Michel invited me into his office for a meeting after practice one day.
So, this particular day, I took my gear off and went in to see him. We had just been on the ice, and other than Michel being Michel, it seemed like a regular day. I was on the third line, I think, with no power-play action, again no reason to really outright complain, but it was a situation whereby I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t playing more.
David Ling, to this day one of my best buddies, was on the team, and he could really snipe. He was on the first line, so a natural fit seemed like me playing with Linger. First of all, he was a shit disturber, and second of all, he was a sniper, like I said. And I was a decent passer, so we complemented each other well. I’m not saying I needed to finish David’s battles—he was tough enough in his own right. But it didn’t hurt that I could throw the mitts, and there’d be a lot of chaos when we were on the ice, so he was a comfortable liney.
I knocked on the door, and Mike motioned me in, and he was sitting behind his desk. I was sitting in a chair alone by itself about ten feet in front of the desk. My chair was lower to the ground than his. I’m not quite positive, but I think this was also a tactic. Michel, at least at the time, loved to have mental dominance over a player.
I went to speak, but then I figured I’d let him talk first, because I was the one who got called in, after all. Mike lit up a cigarette, which wasn’t uncommon at the time, for him. Of course, I think the rest of the hockey world would have considered it ignorant, but who am I to say? All I can tell you is that the head coach of Montreal’s farm team, the Fredericton Canadiens, had called me in the office, and now he was having a puff of a cigarette, and I was a confused kid just waiting to see what he had to say.
Another minute and a half or two minutes went by, and I realized this fucking guy was probably not going to say anything at all. Was he waiting for me to speak? I didn’t know, but I thought it was weird and ignorant to invite me in and have a cigarette and say nothing. So, I figured I wasn’t going to pipe up, but fuck him, I wasn’t going to look him directly in the eye, either. I mean, directly in the eyeball. I stared right into those eyes like I was looking at a fucking magic picture hologram. Just think about it—looking directly into somebody’s eyes for four or five minutes, it’s weird even if it’s your wife or your agent, your mom, your dad . . . anybody. And that’s all the ammunition I had. I knew he wasn’t going to say shit, so there it was.
For the better part of five minutes, or however long it takes to enjoy a cigarette right down to the butt, that’s how long we stared at each other. Finally, Mike put out his cigarette, having smoked it right down to the very butt, and says, “Okay, get out of my office.” I left and had no fucking idea what had just happened, but after that I started playing a little bit more, and yes, I played on Linger’s line.
was
So much happened to me at that particular crossroads in my life, and so much focus gets put on that being a negative time, because I didn’t make the Montreal Canadiens permanently. But there were a lot of things I could have done differently, myself, starting with shaking his hand and telling him exactly how I was feeling. Mike was a guy learning his way in the coaching world like I was learning my way in the hockey world as a player.
Does this change anything that happened to me? Maybe not. Actually, I’m sure it doesn’t, because it happened, and it’s well in the past. What it does, though, I hope, is show that there was a lot of humanity to Mike Therrien. He was learning his craft, and I mine. It’s easy for me to throw a lot of negativity his way because of my career trajectory, but the guy made mistakes, and so did I, I guess. I’ll always say it was my fault I didn’t go back to the Montreal Canadiens camp, and truly it does upset me at times. But I’ve moved on, and Mike has moved on. I have a great life, and I’m happy to be alive; Mike had great success in the hockey world. I can’t speak for his family now, but at the time he adored his kids and pals, and I’m sure he settled down away from the rink.
As I’m writing this in 2020, there are riots across the USA and the coronavirus disease has spread its way across the world. I’m not mad at Michel Therrien anymore—I wish him the best. We as humans don’t often treat each other well, and looking at all the things that are happening south of the border right now, I realize I was pretty lucky in the end. I didn’t like Mike Therrien as a coach, but looking back, he wasn’t as bad as I might let on. I didn’t see things his way, and that’s that.
Mike, I wish you nothing but the best. I can honestly say I look back at those times now with a smile more than anything. Good luck.