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B Sides: Where's Wayne's Semenko When He Needs One?

Brandon Ferguson, Opinionated Assmonger

If there’s one thing you don’t do to
Canada, it’s fuck with hockey. Those of us
who don’t write for the sports sections of
the myriad fanatical Canadian newspapers,
and those of us still left uneaten by TSN’s
Bob McKenzie, can accept defeat. Hey,
hockey’s a game; it sucks that we lost but it
wasn't our year.

Our backline was depleted by injury and
so we were defeated by better (and

.younger) talent. Oh well. Our forwards
seemed slow and were unable to hit the tar-
get. Observing that the bigger ice and
insane amount of hockey these players
have played so far may have contributed to
their sluggish performance in Turin would
be on the mark, but would rob the
Russians, Finns, and Swiss of well-deserved
victories. Declaring that Canada has, for the
second time in a decade, completely aban-
doned the game it invented would be asi-
nine, yet there’s still a kernel of truth to it.
Blaming Todd Bertuzzi is pretty much par
for the course, so go on, indulge.

But saying that Wayne Gretzky is to
fault for his inability to orchestrate a gold
medal performance from the press box
rafters would be flat-out wrong. Are we
only now realizing that the man isn’t God?

Gretzky, as you may know, és, for all
intents and purposes, a Canadian God. At
17, he signed with the Indianapolis Racers
of the fledgling WHA, before being sold to
the Edmonton Oilers. He’d win the rookie
of the year award that year, finishing third
in league scoring. The next year, he and the
Oil Slick joined the NHL, where he tied for
first in league scoring and won the Hart
Trophy as MVP...at the age of 19. He won
9 Hart trophies, 10 scoring titles, set 40
regular season records, 15 playoff records,
and remains the only player to ever collect
over 200 points in a season—and he did
that four times.

Not bad for a kid from Brantford,
Ontario, who weighed maybe 170 pounds
soaking wet.

He gave hockey a legend, he gave
Canada a hero; he brought hockey to the
US when he was traded to LA, he brought
class and humility to everything he did. For
a man who holds the kind of sporting
records where, if you were to add the totals
of second and third place all-time, they
would still be comparable to Gretzky’s
marks, he had nary a harsh word nor an air
of aloof arrogance towards anyone.

The meanest I’ve ever seen him was in
Salt Lake City when he said the pressure
was “a crock of bull.”

Crock of bull? I’ve literally said more
vulgar things in my sleep.

In a world where Barry Bonds brow

beats all comers, Michael Vick gives out
herpes like his little brother collects felony
charges, Eli Manning throws a temper
tantrum until he gets to play where he
wants, and where nearly every single bas-
ketball player could buy and sell a Virgin
Island but instead plays video games and
smokes herb, Gretzky’s a man you could
hang your hat on—sturdy, dependable,
driven, and...tall.

But, more than anything else, Gretzky
understands the lost art of picking your
spots (insert Michael Vick joke here). When
the chips were down, Gretzky could pick
you up—Gretzky’s perfect drop pass to
Mario Lemieux in the 1987 Canada Cup
comes to mind.

The past three months has seen
Gretzky endure more than his fair share of
personal trauma: his mother passed away
one week before Christmas; his grand-
mother followed shortly after; Rick
Tocchet’s gambling ring has forced Gretzky
to deny every accusation thrown his way;
his wife has been implicated as a gamble-
holic; the Phoenix Coyotes have reinvented
suck; and now his Team Canada has come
home an offensively impotent loser (hard
to swallow for the man who made offense
an option).

At a time where we should be offering
prayers and space to our most revered of
national treasures, out of shape hacks from
sea to sea are ripping him apart. What
makes this all the sadder is that the normal
fervency with which nerds (writers) attack
jocks (athletes) seems misplaced—Gretzky
himself could hole up in a high school
locker for weeks and still have space to

spare in there.

In The Province sports section, a notice-
ably flabby Ed Willes chastised the Gretz
One for his selections, his leadership, and
his scandal-plagued presence. He resisted
the urge to blame Gretzky for his mother’s
and grandmother’s deaths, barely. Surely,
the greatest hockey player to ever lace up
the skates could’ve done something. ..to
cancer.

Big fat Bob McKenzie called for an all-
out end to professional hockey players in
the Olympic Games, an idea he’s champi-
oned since Salt Lake, because of the rigors
players are put through during such a con-
densed NHL season. A man who sweats
when he so much as sneezes comes valiant-
ly to the rescue of some of the fittest peo-
ple in the world. The players can’t be ~
blamed for not playing; but since Gretzky is
Canada, blame Canada.

And finally, the boy wonder of sports
broadcasting, Bob Costas, took the time to
sit down with a visibly drained Wayne
Gretzky before a roaring fire on a chalet
inspired set to ask the important questions
about Canada’s failure on the ice.

How much of this can be blamed on
personnel choice (read: Bertuzzi)?

How hard was it to come here after
your mother’s and grandmother’s deaths
(they died, you know)?

How much of a distraction was yout
wife’s involvement in the gambling contro-
versy (any stock denials for a disbelieving
American audience)?

There may have been a single, hockey-
related question in Costas’ entire inquisi-
tion; it was about how bad the Coyotes are.

As the Wayner went through his reper-
toire of canned responses, Costas made a
point of helping him out with the lucidity
of legalese. “Now, it should be pointed out
that under New Jersey State laws, placing a
bet is xof illegal, so at this time, there are no
pending charges to be laid against Janet
Jones-Gretzky. Whatever charges are laid,
will be laid against Rick ‘Tocchet, assistant
coach of the Phoenix Coyotes, and good
friend of Gretzky himself.”

Nice, Bob. Isn’t that a lot like interview-
ing Michael Jackson, and repeatedly affirm-
ing that according to the jury’s verdict, MJ
wasn’t found guilty of touching little boys?
That’s right, the legal system, as it stands
now, has currently chosen to not implicate
Jackson in the molestation of innocent lit-
tle boys. The man you see here before me
and the open fire is, in a very technical
sense, #of a child molester.

So...any plans for a new album?

I suppose what pisses me off most
about this whole situation is that my boy-
hood idol—the only boyhood idol who has
become even bigger and better in my eyes
as ve grown into adulthood—has been
raked over the coals to satiate an unknown
audience while promoting the sensationalist
agenda of B-grade journalists too monu-
mentally egocentric to understand the sig-
nificance of this loss.

Canada doesn’t go to war; Canada plays
hockey. We lost this one and that hurts.
Our boys are coming home wounded.
Shouldn’t we be offering them our sup-
port?

 

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Subject: What about Wayne, Bob?

Yes Bob! Hi, Brandon here. ’ve watched you ever since you looked like you were 12. So, well, that could’ve been since

 

 

a

 

 

forever. Nevertheless, do you remember when you sucked? It was a long, long time ago, though not a wrinkle has troubled
you since. Remember when you made figure skating sensational? When you made basketball witty? You weren’t built for
football, but still, nobody noticed. You found a way to make baseball last longer than just the commercial break of another
show. You once left a tip for $3.31 at Stan Musial’s restaurant, in honour of Stan Musial’s lifetime batting average. Bob,
guy, if anything, you were sharp.

So I wondered tonight, watching your lynching of Wayne Gretzky, whether or not it was a voice you heard in your
earpiece that said “Hey, hair products don’t pay for themselves—ask something juicy” or simply a choice you made to ask
about the nitty gritty that only itty bitties ever seem to concem themselves with?

The guy just had his heart crushed. Many times over, The greatest hockey player ever, “If you could go back in time,
what would you have told your wife to do?” Good one, guy.

Bob Costas, I grew up listening to a lot of your calle; I’ve laughed at your on-air jokes. Like John Madden’s irrelevant
commenting on the unseen obviousness of a play that makes him a country-bumphn Anstotle, hke Howard Cosell’s
uncanny ability to sound fresh yet tinny, like Joe Buck's ability to make Barbie’s Ken seem somehow less plastic, you had a
distinct style that was both effective and reassuring

Now...you’re Deborah Noruille to me.

Inside Edition awaits, guy. The greatest hockey player that may ever live—the man who did something better than
anybody else ever had or ever will, times two—was larnbasted by you after his boys broke the heart of the nation that
made him.

Hope the Nielsen ratings offer reach-arounds.
frour brothers and sisters to the north, who just don’t get you any more,

Canada.

—

 

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