It all seemed so simple when we received our December schedules. One particular practice was going to cause a problem, and it would have to be adjusted: Dec. 24, 11 a.m.
It jumped right off the page. It wouldn’t work.
In 1984, the NHL allowed for exactly one day off over the holidays, and that was Christmas Day. Most teams practised the day before, and there was a full slate of games on Boxing Day.
Our Philadelphia Flyers team was off to a terrific start that season, having been totally revamped the preceding summer after the retirement of Bobby Clarke, our iconic superstar. Clarke had taken over as vice-president and general manager, and hired a young, mercurial coach in Mike Keenan. The roster was the youngest in the league, with a couple of teenagers and plenty of twentysomethings. And we were good. Led by star goalie Pelle Lindbergh, we were 16-4-4 in early December.
A progressive mind in the coaching world, Keenan had introduced the unusual idea of providing us with a full schedule at the start of every month, detailing every aspect of what lay ahead. Changes were rarely made. We had our routines and we stuck to them. And therein was the problem looking ahead to Christmas. That practice on Dec. 24 wouldn’t allow for those who lived within easy flight distance to sneak home for 36 hours to see their families.
Our trio of Toronto-area youngsters, who had all surprisingly crashed into the NHL ahead of plan, approached me when the December schedule came out. Derrick Smith and Peter Zezel, both 19, and ringleader Rick Tocchet, all of 20, were pleading: Would I, as captain — albeit only in my second year in the league — go see Keenan about changing that practice so they could fly home and see their families? What the heck, we were winning. What better time to ask for a favour?
I discussed it with our leadership group and we all thought it was a reasonable request to move the practice up to 8 a.m., enabling guys within a moderate travel distance to slide home. Our coach wasn’t quite as receptive, but after a long silence stated that we should keep winning and he would consider it.
We did our part and kept winning. Mid-month, Mike let us know the 8 a.m. practice was confirmed. Flights were booked and the guys were fired up. It was a small victory in our world, but an important one.
Everyone showed up at the rink early on Christmas Eve, coming off a strong win over divisional rival Washington the night before. Our practices under Keenan were short, spirited and always intense. We practised like we played. Hard. That day was no exception, and everyone pushed. We understood the staff had done us a favour and we returned it with our effort.
The final drill was one of the coach’s favourites for conditioning: a 12-minute aerobic skate that started with 12 pucks at centre ice. Keenan brought out a big boom box and Christmas carols were turned up to full volume. As each minute elapsed the whistle would blow, the coach would fire one of the pucks into a net and we’d all reverse direction, hooting and hollering as we went. As the pucks dwindled, the pace increased. Aerobic became anaerobic, and guys were literally sprinting through the last few laps, leaving everything we had out on that ice surface.
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The final whistle blew and we gathered at the centre dot. Our coach simply pointed to the end of the rink and said, “Line up on the goal line.”
What followed was one of the most vivid 45-minute memories of my entire playing career.
In a scene straight out of the movies — Herb Brooks had famously skated the 1980 U.S. Olympic team in a similar manner — our coach buried us.
In shocked disbelief, we sprinted hard to reach oxygen levels we didn’t know we had. The cursing grew louder, all directed at the Grinch in the middle of the ice.
Players cramped up, dropped to the ice between repetitions and struggled to put one skate in front of the other. We had given him everything we had in the first 45 minutes, and he had dared to take what we didn’t know we had in the last 45. In a surreal scene with the music still playing, our coach blew a final whistle, called everyone together and said: “Expect the unexpected. Merry Christmas.”
And he skated off.
The mad scramble that followed would have been comical had we not been so furious. Flights were made with minutes to spare, players racing to the airport hopeful that their next two days weren’t already lost. Those of us who stayed in town eventually peeled ourselves off the ice, heading for cold tubs or hot tubs or physical therapy on exhausted bodies, bypassing the pizza and beer that the optimistic captain had ordered to start the mini-vacation.
Mike knew a number of our young guys were going home for the first time as NHL players, and he was going to control the narrative. Rather than tell everyone at home how great life was in the NHL, the players relayed in detail that morning practice and their coach’s message.
Not a single Christmas Eve has passed without me thinking about that practice. That day has never left me. Expect the unexpected. Who knew that in 2021 that simple statement would become the norm.
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