This is the diary of Chris Chelios.
I’m getting a little ahead of myself here. Back to the present. I’m pedaling my ass off in the sauna; holy hell is it hot in here! I’m free to write in my, uh, diary in here since no one else seems interested in staying in shape, those lazy bastards. I’ve got my privacy in here, so I can write and watch “Never Been Kissed.” Hell, how I love that movie. That teacher guy fucking worships me, it’s wonderful. I have a little reputation of being Mr. Hollywood, I mean, it’s not my fault Hollywood loves me! I just have that star quality; I’m so charismatic that the camera loves me. Do you want to know how it all started? Well…back in the day, when I played in Chicago, I used to frequent the Oprah show. Me and that bitch are tight. I never met a woman that could down so much chili in an hour. That’s how we met, she walked into my world-famous chili bar one night, and as they say, that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Anyway, it just so happened that as I was sitting in the audience and the camera panned over me one day. After that, the offers started rolling in. Movies, TV, commercials, I’ve done it all. You may remember me from such films as - D2: The Mighty Ducks and Slap Shot 2. Must be you can’t make a hockey sequel without the Master of Defense. I don’t want to jinx anything here, but I might have something in the works with Warner Brothers. Oops, I’m getting a little sidetracked again. It’s so fucking hot in here I can’t think straight! I’m sweating like Patrick Roy in Colorado after Lady Liberty’s flame was extinguished in Game 6 of the Western Conference Finals. One might even say that I’m brown and sticky. I have a little secret to reveal about that one, too. You might think it’s my Greek heritage that gives me my flawless brownish complexion, but oh no. I just so happen to own another mansion in Malibu where I leisurely lounge next to the Norris Trophy-shaped pool while perfecting my fabulous bronze tint. Thank God for those two weeklong West Coast road trips in the winter, so I can replenish my glorious tan. I start to lose it in those bleak Michigan winters, and I don’t want my secret leaking out. Although a real man isn’t afraid to admit that he enjoys the sensations that the warm sunlight provides.
Since I love the West Coast and my hometown of Chicago so much (what up Chi-town!!) one might ponder how I ended up in Detroit. It wasn’t the Quest for the Cup that enticed me, oh no, it was really Kid Rock, who offered me a chance to sing backup. That greasy longhaired trailer trash bastard never held up his end of the bargain. (Note to self: Talk to Dad) I always said I’d never play here, and there’s two main reasons behind that: Steve “The Fucking God of Hockeytown” Yzerman and the Swedish Prick. Here’s a short history lesson, kids, on why I hate the Fucking God of Hockeytown. I mean, I never had a problem with the guy. He played in the West, I played in the East - we were both on Original Six clubs. It all started when I was traded to Chicago in the off-season, back when the Wings were known as the “Dead Things.” Being in the same division, we saw each other a lot more often and were bitter rivals. Well, one game in Detroit during the 1992 season, I was in the neutral zone defending against the fucking bastard who was trying to live up to his Captainship - and all seemed to be going just fine. As I turned to dump the puck into Detroit’s zone, I felt the massive blow of the God of Hockeytown’s stick on the back of my leg. In horrific pain, I fell to the ice. I waited for the whistle, but it never came…and that low-life little fucker picked up the puck and skated in alone on a breakaway to score. Let’s just say, I was pissed. Here he was, celebrating at one end of the ice while I was laying in excruciating pain at the other. As I limped off the ice towards the bench, I heard a snicker of delight behind me, and there stood Mr. Innocent himself. Steve Yzerman is one of the dirtiest fucking players ever to play the game. His secret is that he commits his fouls when the ref’s back is turned. Although I still played in the majority of the games, I was never the same that season. But I showed him. I came back in the ‘94 season to triumph and take home yet another Norris Trophy. No one keeps the Master of Defense down. Defense = C2 - that’s Chris Chelios baby!
As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had to go and mess up my knee, he found the whole Nagano fiasco quite amusing. Here I was, Captain of the USA team, and those hooligans of hockey players had to go and screw everything up for me. I still to this day suspect my good buddy Brett Hull was the mastermind behind the operation. You can imagine the reception that Stevie gave me the first time our teams met again. For years he left taunting messages on my home answering machine and voice mail, not to mention my e-mail. But, that’s since been taken care of. (Thanks again, Dad)
The 2002 season got off to a flying start, when I persuaded my bud Brett “The Hooligan” Hull to come to D-town. It was also cool to have Mr. Dominik Hasek in town, who I once played with in Chicago. Mr. Hasek was in net the night of the Yzerman debacle, and remains the only witness to the crime. It was nice to have some allies on the team. I was feeling better than ever, the knee was in superb shape, and the team was kicking some major ass. I was selected as a reserve for the All-Star game. Note the bitterness. I was, once again, named Captain of the American Olympic squad, not to brag of course. But I have to ask, was there anyone else that was truly as qualified? This time, to insure there was no repeat of the Nagano disaster, I cordially invited Mr. Brett Hull over for dinner at my mansion, where my father and his associates had a nice sit-down with the hooligan. Let’s just say, after that, Brett was slightly less rambunctious. That’s all I have to say about my Olympic experience that year. Seeing Steve Yzerman with that shiny gold emblem hanging around his neck still makes my blood sizzle. The game was fixed, I tell you. FIXED. And the picture? The picture that everyone in Hockeytown just loved so much? The one after the gold-medal game with the four Wings standing together? Mr. Yzerman was the one who prompted the photographer to take the picture. Notice the smug expression on his face, that dirty little sonofabitch. I urge you to take a closer look at that picture and notice who is wearing the “C” on his jersey. Yeah, that’s right, Yzerman. Take THAT.
The NHL season resumed. At one point, Scotty decided to experiment with Sergei Fedorov, Russian superstar, on defense. At first, I was a bit skeptical. I mean, seriously, you can’t pair just anyone with the Master of Defense. After the first game I played with Sergei, I was stunned at his masterful skills - although no one can compare to the Master of Defense and his three Norris Trophies. (Should’ve been four!!!) I have come to the conclusion that on any given day, I would much rather play with Sergei than the Swedish Prick.
As you all know, our future Hall-of-Fame team cruised into the Finals. Those mountain goat bastards posed no threat to us. We were just toying with them. Anyways, in Game 4 of the Finals, Jiri “Chelios” Fischer pulled a Steve Yzerman and went mid-evil behind the net when the refs weren’t looking. A father can’t be responsible for every move his son makes. (Notice: the nine-month old grandson) But all kidding aside, the little guy has never made me prouder. He learned well from his old man.
So we went on, won the Cup, you know the rest - it was on TV. But the problem with TV is that you never really see what goes on behind the scenes. Take for instance the parade, from all appearances it looked like a great, splendid time. And it would have been if it had not been for the on-going feud with Steve Yzerman and myself. Did you happen to notice that Mr. Yzerman had a nice convertible all to himself, whereas myself, I had to ride shotgun with Brett Hull. Not that I don’t love the guy and all, but damn, sometimes a guy just wants to bask in the glory and have it to himself. Usually, I keep my contempt buried within my tough hockey player exterior. Noticing my dampened spirit, Brett jumped off the tailgate and scored us some brewskies. But due to the alcohol that I consumed along the parade route, my tongue had a mind of its own. When I stepped up to the microphone with my son by my side, years of repressed memories flooded back, and I took a stab at Mr. Yzerman and his so-called American citizenship as I proclaimed Brett Hull and myself the lone Americans on the team. But of course, Stevie stepped forward to rebut my claim, and all of Hockeytown thought it was funny and a joke, but I know the truth.
Well shit, was I ever rambling. Hell! I missed the rest of my movie, too. Well, I guess I’ll be heading home then, since my workout is about over.
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As Mr. Chelios headed out of Joe Louis Arena and to his car (which had just been featured in a new commercial), he noted with disgust that Sean Avery was making out with a 15-year-old high school girl. Avery’s jersey, that had once clad the young girl, was now tossed to the ground. On his way home, he pulled into a McDonald’s drive-thru and ordered a Big Mac and fries.
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“Good thing I spent that extra twenty minutes in the sauna!” Suddenly, a familiar tune came over the radio waves. “I love this song!!” He exclaimed with delight as he began to sing along with his favorite artist, Pink.
“Get this party started on a Saturday night
Everybody's waitin' for me to arrive
Sendin' out the message to all of my friends
We'll be lookin' flashy in my Mercedes Benz
I got lotsa style, got my gold diamond rings
I can go for miles if you know what I mean
I'm comin' up so you better you better get this party started
I'm comin' up so you better you better get this party started”
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He pulled into the winding tree-lined driveway that led up to his illustrious mansion, and parked his car in the enormous garage. Walking into the house he threw his keys next to the blue-glass colored vase that he had been presented with after an appearance on “The Best Damn Sports Show Period.” He had made Fisch glue each blue shard of glass back together, after he shattered it on the show, once again proving that he was the Master of Defense.
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As a nightly ritual I kiss each of my children goodnight after a game. Walking in to Fisch’s room, I stop and lovingly admire the man that my little boy has grownup to be.
Although I must say beds were cheaper when he was smaller and not 6’5. Bending down, I lightly brush the flowing, curly locks away from his forehead; with the loving care only a father could posses. I gently placed a tender kiss against the warm flesh of his forehead. Before leaving the comforts of the room, I stroll over to little CJ’s (Chris Junior) crib and smile at the innocence that radiates from one so young.
the sensitive, caring Master of Defense.