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jstewismybastardson
Lord Shitlord aka El cibernauta
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Mike Keenan, The NHL's Last Great Asshole Coach
Early in my career, we had back-to-back games in Calgary and Vancouver. We flew from Calgary to Vancouver after the game, and with the time change, it was still after midnight when we got to the Westin Bayshore hotel. With a game against the Canucks the next night, we were supposed to go directly to our rooms. But players always liked going out in Vancouver because the Roxy was a favorite player hangout. We were only going to Vancouver twice a season, so you couldn't waste a trip. Several of the guys, me included, took the elevator to our rooms and then took the stairs back down to the ground floor and fled out the side door.
Several beers later, it was past three in the morning, and I returned to the team hotel by myself. I was standing in front, wondering whether I was walking into a well-executed Keenan trap. Had he paid the night manager to keep a list of players coming in late? Would there be an autograph seeker waiting for me by the elevator to essentially ask me to sign my own death warrant? Would Keenan himself be standing watch? Anything was possible with Iron Mike.
Wanting to avoid any possibility of a Keenan ambush, I went around the side of the building to find the loading dock. That was locked down tight, as was the entrance to the hotel kitchen, which was on the same side of the building. But as I inspected the area, I noticed a ventilation grate; and peering through it, I could see into the hotel's kitchen. Back then, hotels were still issuing metal keys, not key cards, and I used my key to unscrew the grate. Within a couple of minutes, I had the grate removed and was scooting through the air duct, attired in a suit. I ended up breathing in plenty of soot and dust, but it was a small price to pay to pull one over on Keenan.
Once in the kitchen, I grabbed a ham sandwich and a Bud Light and took the service elevator up to my floor. I remember sitting in my room at four in the morning, munching on my sandwich and sipping my beer, feeling like I had just pulled off the crime of the century.
Early in my career, we had back-to-back games in Calgary and Vancouver. We flew from Calgary to Vancouver after the game, and with the time change, it was still after midnight when we got to the Westin Bayshore hotel. With a game against the Canucks the next night, we were supposed to go directly to our rooms. But players always liked going out in Vancouver because the Roxy was a favorite player hangout. We were only going to Vancouver twice a season, so you couldn't waste a trip. Several of the guys, me included, took the elevator to our rooms and then took the stairs back down to the ground floor and fled out the side door.
Several beers later, it was past three in the morning, and I returned to the team hotel by myself. I was standing in front, wondering whether I was walking into a well-executed Keenan trap. Had he paid the night manager to keep a list of players coming in late? Would there be an autograph seeker waiting for me by the elevator to essentially ask me to sign my own death warrant? Would Keenan himself be standing watch? Anything was possible with Iron Mike.
Wanting to avoid any possibility of a Keenan ambush, I went around the side of the building to find the loading dock. That was locked down tight, as was the entrance to the hotel kitchen, which was on the same side of the building. But as I inspected the area, I noticed a ventilation grate; and peering through it, I could see into the hotel's kitchen. Back then, hotels were still issuing metal keys, not key cards, and I used my key to unscrew the grate. Within a couple of minutes, I had the grate removed and was scooting through the air duct, attired in a suit. I ended up breathing in plenty of soot and dust, but it was a small price to pay to pull one over on Keenan.
Once in the kitchen, I grabbed a ham sandwich and a Bud Light and took the service elevator up to my floor. I remember sitting in my room at four in the morning, munching on my sandwich and sipping my beer, feeling like I had just pulled off the crime of the century.
