Bernie Nicholls

Foreword

BEFORE MY TRADE TO L.A, I looked at Bernie Nicholls as hockey’s version of Broadway Joe Namath.

Wearing those bright, shiny purple suits and driving to games in a sporty convertible gave everyone the impression he had a flamboyant personality.

That was the impression we had of Bernie since we didn’t spend much time with players on other teams in those days.

But when I got to L.A., and we became very good friends, I learned his personality was almost completely opposite of his reputation. Bernie was quiet, sincere, and very humble. I gravitated to Bernie because he treated people with respect, he was good with kids and never stepped out of line with his teammates.

I knew Bernie could take a lot of pressure off me on the ice, and make life easier in the transition going from Edmonton to L.A. The Kings had finished 18th out of 21 teams, so I knew we had an uphill battle. And coming from a Stanley Cup champion, one thing I learned was you win with 20 guys, and you lose with 20 guys.

My goal was to make Bernie and Luc Robitaille extremely comfortable because I knew their contributions were going to lead to a great deal of success for the hockey club. That’s basically what happened. Bernie scored 70 goals, Luc had 46, and in 1988–89 we went from being a bottom team to a top team.

We could sense the change from Day 1. We were going to compete hard every night and try to make it a new highway for the hockey club. It was a fun year because no one anticipated the club getting to that level.

For Bernie, it was a Hall of Fame year. Simple as that. We’d go into every game knowing Bernie was going to do something really special. You could see Bernie was genuinely excited to get to practice. He was genuinely excited to work on things, and he was genuinely excited to get to the next game. It was infectious for our hockey club.

Bernie and I had fun together. Early in the season, one of the first few games, my kids’ school asked if I’d give an autographed hockey stick for charity. I was walking out of the arena with the stick and Bernie asked what I was doing. I don’t know why but I said, I don’t think you know, Bernie, but I’ve done this my entire career. When I take my pre-game nap I sleep with my stick.

Bernie started taking his stick home after the next game and I never told him the truth until the end of the year. Once he scored 70 goals I started to think maybe I should be taking my stick home every game, too!

We had a lunch routine, too. In those days we’d leave the house at 7:30, get to the rink where there was coffee, practice from 10:30 to noon and by 12:30 we were starving. I’d say, Bernie, I’m going next door to McDonald’s, let’s go! We did that religiously. When something’s working you don’t try to fix it, right?

Just by chance the NHL All-Star Game that season was in Edmonton. It had been a real grinding season to that point, an emotional year with the trade to L.A. And it was really hard for me to go back and play in Edmonton. I never did get comfortable. I never loved it, never even liked it because people there were always so good to me.

It was an emotional three days so Bernie went to our owner, Bruce McNall, and asked if we could take his charter flight to Atlantic City for a day before rejoining our teammates in Boston. Bruce went for it, and it was a really nice break for us.

At that time Bernie was starting to get a lot more attention. There was a lot more pressure and things were building up for him that maybe he had never gone through before with so much media attention. Bernie handled it extremely well, and his mindset never wavered.

Bernie never changed while everyone around him was trying to figure out: Where did this guy who’d been in the league for a few years come from? And now he is going to score 75 goals maybe?

I think it was fun for Bernie. He took it all in, accepted the responsibilities, the challenges and just got better and better. Bernie and I spent a lot of time together just talking hockey and talking about life. He was the exact opposite of what people thought. He was very much concerned for teammates, loved life, and was close to his family.

The following season the hockey club came to me at midseason and said a deal to trade Bernie to the Rangers to improve our team was going to go down. And I remember asking, Are you sure? This is a huge deal because Bernie has been a big part of the success of the team, not only within the group but the fans love him. Are you guys sure you’re making the right decision?

They called back the next day to have coffee, and it was right near the All-Star Game. I remember thinking this is so emotional and so uncomfortable. The one thing I never did in my career was tell management they needed to trade this guy or not trade that guy. It was never part of my makeup.

They sat me down and said to get to the next level we couldn’t win with three or four guys. We needed to have a team. The Kings were getting two NHL caliber players—Tony Granato, who was going to be a mainstay on that penalty-killing unit and second line, and Tomas Sandström, who was a 40 to 50 goal scorer. The deal made sense even if the timing didn’t. Bernie was going to a great organization, a great city, and a very good hockey club. It was emotional for everyone, but at the time the trade made sense for both organizations.

That’s just the worst part of hockey. There’s a lot of times I’d sit there and think, Oh my gosh, it was so emotional when I got traded. But it’s just part of the game. It’s heart-wrenching for everyone, and that was definitely one of those times.

I tell Bernie all the time, you got to go to New York and, more importantly, you’ve got a rule named after you—The Bernie Nicholls rule. Now no one can get traded at the All-Star Game.

I do a lot of charity events and fantasy camps and Bernie is always a phone call away. He’s always there to help anyone. People who attend enjoy the opportunity to play, but they really love to mingle and socialize with the players. They want to hear stories about playing, winning, and all that sort of stuff.

Bernie is exceptional at communicating with the fans and the players at my camp every year. He’s always the first one there and last to leave. Bernie is a special man. He did a lot of great things for our game and he did a lot of great things for me personally.

—Wayne Gretzky

Introduction

MY WIFE THINKS BERNIE Nicholls is charming and engaging and she has never met him. Because this book project was completed during the Covid–19 pandemic, the interviews were all done on Zoom or speaker phone.

While Bernie and I talked about life in the NHL in the 1980s and 1990s, my wife would hear chunks and snippets of our conversation. It didn’t take her long to formulate an opinion about who Bernie is and what he stands for.

That’s a player who truly loved the game and the people in it, she said. When you listen to him tell his story, you can still hear the excitement in his voice about what it was like to play the game and what it was like to live a player’s life. He seems thankful for the opportunity he had. You can tell he put his heart and soul into it.

That’s what few people understood about Bernie when he played. Behind his pink suit, top hat, snakeskin boots, sports cars, and a golf cart with surround sound, there was an athlete who was as dedicated to his work as any master craftsman.

Some people viewed his usual carefree, joyful attitude as a sign that he wasn’t working hard enough to be the best. But nothing could have been further from the truth.

You can be a guy who clowns around morning, noon, and night and still be a warrior when you are on a hockey rink. You can be a guy who can drink a chocolate milkshake while he stretches and still score four goals in a game.

His father, George Nicholls, taught him the value and honor that comes from perfecting the nuances of his sport. George spent hours in the family kitchen showing Bernie how to win faceoffs and he preached the importance of shot-blocking, penalty killing, and standing up for your teammates.

He believes in the sanctity of that work with religious conviction. In the best of ways, Bernie spent his entire career making sure his dad was proud of the way he played.

What George didn’t have to teach Bernie was how to score goals because his son seemed to have a knack for doing that on his own. He is one of only eight players in NHL history to score 70 or more goals in a season.

Bernie is a small-town Canadian lad who discovered quickly that he liked to golf, play poker, bet the horses, and run with the celebrity crowd. But once he pulled on his equipment and laced up his skates, he was all business.

Coaches generally appreciated Bernie because they knew they would get a consistent level of play. Teammates liked him because he treated everyone with respect and pretty much liked everyone he ever played alongside.

Teammates also learned that Bernie could be happy-go-lucky most of the time and still play a hockey game as if his life depended on it. One of the constant themes in doing interviews for this book is hearing former teammates saying their perception of Nicholls’ competitiveness changed after they played with him.

Despite registering a 150-point season, Nicholls might be one of the most underrated players in NHL history. He certainly is one of the most misunderstood players the NHL has ever known.

In this book, Bernie shows you what’s behind his curtain. He explains, often with a comedic touch, what it was like to be a small-town boy playing in the NHL. He paints a colorful portrait of what it was like to be in the NHL in the 1980s and 1990s. Most of all, Nicholls provides a frank account of what he was thinking when he was playing alongside Wayne Gretzky, dating Playboy bunnies, and partying with celebrities like Jack Nicholson and Stevie Nicks. Hope you enjoy the read.

—Kevin Allen

Chapter 1

Hollywood Hockey

WHEN I ARRIVED IN Southern California to play for the NHL’s Los Angeles Kings in 1981–82, my story already read like a Hollywood script.

Small-town Canadian boy goes to the big city and discovers a world far more entertaining than he ever imagined. The only difference: my story was not a fictionalized account.

If you had written my tale as a screenplay before it occurred, it would have been rejected as implausible. One minute I am trapping and skinning beavers, muskrats, and otters with my dad in Northern Ontario and shooting my first deer at 15. The next minute I’m in Southern California, scoring goals in the NHL, partying with Academy Award–winning actor Jack Nicholson, beating Tiger Woods at golf, and dating a Playboy centerfold.

In my first full month in the NHL, I registered three hat tricks in a span of 10 days.

I had it all going on in my early years with the Kings. Driving a baby blue Corvette. Roller-skating near Manhattan Beach. Taking batting practice and shagging fly balls with the Los Angeles Dodgers. Eating sushi, roasted artichokes, and clams instead of meat and potatoes. When my parents came to visit, they wouldn’t touch sushi. They couldn’t believe I would eat raw fish. My life seemed alien to my friends and family back home.

My salary was $70,000, but I felt like a millionaire because two summers before I had been carrying heavy blocks and mixing cement to build the foundations of houses and buildings. My wage was $4.25 Canadian per hour. At the time, I told myself I would make sure I never had to work again. That turned out to be true.

I went from living in West Guilford, Ontario, population 70 (20 of them related to me), to living in the bustling Los Angeles area, which boasted almost 10 million residents. I grew up playing hockey on an outdoor rink called Tag Alder Gardens in West Guilford. It had natural ice, created by water pumped in from the Gull River. Fifty-watt light bulbs strung down the center of the rink kept it lit. I’d shovel off the snow and skate every night, no matter how cold it was.

Now I am playing hockey in Los Angeles where the average January temperature is in the high 60s and some days it’s in the high 70s.

I had never flown on an airplane or been to the United States before I was drafted by the Kings.

Flying over the Great Western Forum as I descended into the Los Angeles International Airport for the first time, I saw the palm trees and the Hollywood racetrack and thought: This so fucking cool!

My favorite singer back then was Hank Williams Jr. My favorite song was A Country Boy Can Survive. But I was thriving, not surviving, in Los Angeles. I was in love with the great outdoors and viewed myself as a hunter as much as a hockey player. My two goals in life were to play in the NHL and take down a moose.

The embarrassing truth is that I didn’t know Los Angeles had a hockey team when the Kings drafted me. But it only took me a day or two in the Southern California sunshine to warm to the idea that I could love the West Coast as much as my former neck of the woods.

I would have time to bag the moose later.

By my second NHL season, I dressed like I had stepped out of the Miami Vice television show. I paid $1,800 for a pink silk suit. My wardrobe included Izod shirts, black and white boa constrictor boots, cowboy boots made from ostrich, and snakeskin shoes. I also wore a striped suit with a top hat. That was my gangster look.

Almost from the moment I set foot in Los Angeles I wanted the coolest and funkiest outfits. My suits were all custom tailored. Pricey high-end stuff. I don’t know where I got that from. It wasn’t my dad. I’m not sure he owned a suit.

My teammates’ attitude was, What the hell is he going to wear next?!

I had one suit that looked like the sleeves were partially cut off. My wardrobe included some flowered vests.

Not everyone could pull off dressing the way I did. I was willing to try, and it worked out for me. Still today, when I see someone sharply dressed I stare at them. To me, clothes are fun. I feel good when I look good.

Sometimes I wore sneakers with my suits. Kings Hall of Famer Marcel Dionne was bothered immensely by that fashion statement. He thought the team should fine me for the sneakers, but that never happened.

When I landed in Southern California for the first time, I stayed in a hotel that was nine miles from the Culver City practice facility. It was a simple drive from the Marriott Hotel to the rink for my first practice. The Kings didn’t want me going on the freeway. They wanted me to go under the freeway and through Culver City. That’s not what I did. I ended up in Santa Monica, down by the beaches. I had no idea where I was or how to get back. This was before the introduction of cell phones and GPS. I stopped and asked for directions to the Culver City Ice Rink. But the people I approached had no clue Culver had an ice rink.

A drive that should have lasted 10 or 15 minutes ended up taking me more than two hours. That was my introduction to my new team. I was a no-show for my first practice.

I wasn’t the first player to ever get lost driving in Los Angeles. But I seemed to have more crazy things happening to me than the others.

The truth is that I probably had to make a bigger adjustment off the ice than I did on the ice when I arrived in the NHL. People said I was cocky as a player, but it wasn’t cockiness as much as I had scored in every league I played in. In 1978–79, I posted 40 goals in 50 games for the North York Rangers in Junior A hockey. In 1979–80, I registered 36 goals for the Kingston Canadians in the Ontario Hockey League. Then I followed that up with 63 goals in 65 games for the Canadians. In my first pro season, I managed 41 goals in 55 games for the New Haven Nighthawks.

I felt the Kings should have never sent me down. When I looked at our roster, I thought the only reason they demoted me was because I had a two-way contract. The other centers had one-way contracts. That meant the Kings would have to pay them NHL money to play in the American League. My salary was significantly reduced when I went to the AHL.

When I was finally called up, the only reason I didn’t have early success was coach Parker MacDonald did not play me often.

My first NHL game was November 19, 1981, in the memorable Calgary Corral, where the boards seemed five feet high. We lost 6–3. During my first shift, I witnessed Kings defenseman Jerry Korab being rammed from behind into unforgiving boards. A Flames fan banged on the glass to get everyone’s attention. When I arrived at his location, I saw some of Korab’s teeth resting on the ledge of the boards.

Welcome to the NHL. I’d played one shift and I’d already seen a teammate’s teeth knocked from his mouth.

MacDonald was old school and didn’t trust younger players, or at least he didn’t trust me. I didn’t play many shifts. When we went to L.A., I dressed and didn’t play a shift. It wasn’t surprising when I was returned to the Nighthawks.

My break came when MacDonald resigned midseason and was replaced by Nighthawks coach Don Perry. He brought me up to the Kings with me, and he wasn’t afraid to play me.

Goal scorers need confidence. They need to score to gain confidence. I went my first eight NHL games without scoring. My breakthrough came in my ninth game, March 9, 1982, when the Kings played the Colorado Rockies in Denver. With my former roommate Jay Wells in the penalty box for elbowing, I scored a breakaway short-handed goal at 5:35 of the first period. I deked goalie Glenn Chico Resch to beat him. I can document that because someone sent me a photograph of the play.

That goal removed the piano off my back. We won 2–0 and I netted both goals. Resch, a classy player, signed his goalie stick and had it sent over to me after the game.

It was important that my first goals were meaningful. What people never understood about me: winning was more important to me than anything else in sports. No matter what I was doing, I have always hated losing. When I was young, I would be mad if I lost to my mother in cribbage. I love to gamble, but it isn’t about the money as much as it is about the winning. When I beat you in cards, I don’t want your money as much as I want your pride. If