PITTSBURGH (Mar. 29) — I knew something was unusual on Sunday morning as soon as I entered Pearson International Airport in Toronto.
As many of you know, I haven’t been attending quite as many Maple Leafs road games this season. Though I’ve missed the routine I had for the previous 17 NHL campaigns – and the competitive edge that went with it – I enjoyed the additional time at home with my family, and absolutely did not miss the crazed travel scene that has almost always, for reasons unexplained, been more pronounced at Pearson. Toronto’s airport is easily the most “unfriendly” of its kind on the NHL circuit, with no comparison to be made between it and the other large facilities in Canada [Montreal, Ottawa, Calgary, Edmonton and Vancouver].
Interminably, Pearson has been a haven for snooty, ill-tempered employees – not all, but many – and it’s a fact of life you learn to roll with as a frequent traveler based in southern Ontario. Frankly, way too many people work there, with not enough jobs to handle. As such, overkill is limitless. At no airport I’ve been to, for example, will you routinely witness 85-year-old grandmothers – incapacitated without a walker – undergoing full-body searches and security pat-downs. The stem of a reporter’s microphone is automatically considered to be a weapon of mass destruction until a physical bag-search is completed [even though, as I’ve been shown at other airports, a microphone looks almost identical under X-ray as it does in one’s hand]. Though most U.S. customs officials are friendly, informative and professional, Pearson has a larger per-capita allotment of power-thirsty demons looking to inconvenience you with the most banal concerns.
But, something was different even for Pearson on Sunday morning. It’s as if the airport was suddenly under Martial Law; the sort of lock-down travelers experience after a botched terrorist attempt somewhere in the world (such as the one last Christmas). Passengers couldn’t walk 10 feet without an “official” perusing the size of their checked and/or carry-on baggage. Children were being told to point out their parents. Whereas I am normally asked to twice show my boarding pass – at the entrance to customs, and then security – there were five requests this time, including two in the customs line-up and one before proceeding to the gate. For the first time in my experience, passengers had to ask permission to use the elevator to the Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge on the fourth floor of Terminal One. Hordes of people were being sent by customs officers to ante rooms for secondary searches.
My previous trip to the U.S. from Pearson had been in the third week of January, when I flew to Tampa for the Leafs’ two-game swing through Florida. It was an absolute breeze, with none of the menial harassment experienced this time.
Passengers flying from Toronto to Pittsburgh have to take a large tram from the main building to a satellite terminal at the far-east end of the airfield. Smaller aircraft, such as Canadair Regional Jets and Dash-8 Turboprops, depart from the sub-facility. Normally, you proceed down a stairway, through a set of automatic doors, and directly on to the tram. On Sunday, passengers had to wait for the driver to open the doors with a security card and then were asked to recite their flight number, destination city, and time of boarding. The whole place was going nuts.
Once I was finally inside the satellite terminal, the real “fun” began. Booked on an Air Canada flight with roughly a dozen colleagues who handle the production and technical aspects of Leaf games on TV, we were scheduled to depart at 9 a.m. Leafs broadcaster Greg Millen was on the flight, as was former New York Islanders star (and hall-of-famer) Bryan Trottier. It was particularly important for this flight to be on time, as the Leafs/Penguins game here was a 5 o’clock start, rather than the usual 7 or 7:30 puck drop.
Boarding the Dash-8-100 aircraft well before departure time, we were greeted by a latter-day Brunhilda. The lone flight attendant – a reasonably attractive woman in her mid-to-late-30s – had only one objective on this day… arguing with passengers. When I bring my bulky equipment bag onto a Dash-8, I routinely inform the flight attendant that it is collapsible, and will fit underneath the seat in front of me. Normally, the attendant smiles and says “okay, thanks”. Not Brunhilda… and not on this damned Sunday. “You’re bombarding me with information,” she snapped. “Just go and sit down.”
Exchanging wide-eyed looks with my colleagues, I did as I was told. Moments later, the attendant came over the public-address system and warned that the pilot would be revving and idling the propellers after powering up, since it was that airplane’s initial flight of the day. We backed away from the gate, and listened as the predicted engine noises ebbed and flowed. Then came a disconcerting span of inactivity for about 10 minutes; the aircraft did not move from its position. Experienced fliers understand this is usually a sign of trouble. Lo and behold, the captain soon informed us that the anti-ice mechanism on the leading edge of the wings was not properly functioning, and he was working on the issue over his radio with maintenance personnel.
“We’ll get back to you in about five minutes,” he said.
Roughly 15 minutes later, the captain forlornly advised us he’d be returning to the gate, as this particular plane was unable to fly. Brunhilda then came on the P.A. system and said that a substitute aircraft would be towed to our gate from the nether regions of the airport and we’d be de-planeing in a few minutes. She proceeded to march down the aisle, wondering if we had any questions. Most of us were mildly perturbed by this malfunction, given the early start to the hockey game. The TV folks were expected to be at Mellon Arena by 11 a.m. I needed a nap, having worked the Leafs-Rangers game in Toronto Saturday night, and gotten up before 6 a.m. to fly here.
When Brunhilda walked by, and overheard me make a wise remark about the situation to my seat-mate, she paused and glared at me like my high-school teachers used to. I figured I’d throw a little dart her way.
“Don’t you think this could have been avoided if the company properly maintained its aircraft?” I asked with feigned innocence, knowing I was waving the red cape.
“Oh, so you want the captain to take a broken plane into the air, do you?” she snarled. “Our airplanes aren’t maintained… is that what you think?”
When I raised my arms to my head – figuratively warding off her “blows” – she stomped away, asking other passengers about their concerns.
Moments later, we filed back into the satellite terminal and were told that our substitute plane would shortly be at the gate. We’d be departing in 35 minutes. More than an hour later, the plane was still “on its way”. I passed the time wonderfully, however, by reminiscing with Trottier about his years playing for the great Islander teams of the 1980s that won four consecutive Stanley Cups. He talked about skating alongside his prolific line-mate, Mike Bossy, and squaring off against the other top centre-men of his era – Bobby Clarke, Phil Esposito, Gilbert Perreault, Jacques Lemaire, Darryl Sittler, and others. It was a terrific conversation with one of the best players in the history of the NHL.
Finally, we were informed that the new plane was at the gate, but …“catering still hasn’t arrived and we’re waiting for that.”
“Forget the goddamned corn-chips and just get us to Pittsburgh,” someone bellowed from a few feet away, echoing everyone’s sentiments.
Once aboard the second Dash-8, I passed by my stewardess friend and flashed a quick smile.
“Oh, so you’re still at it, huh?” she snapped.
“Who, me?” I replied, settling into seat 3-A.
“I’ve written you up,” Brunhilda said. “If you keep up this abusive behavior, you won’t be coming with us.”
“Abusive?” wondered a young lady seated across the aisle. “He questioned whether the airplane was being properly maintained and you felt that was abusive?”
“He knows what he said, and how he said it,” ‘ol Bruni gnashed.
Seconds later came the proverbial kiss of death. The captain announced that our flying time to Pittsburgh would be one hour and two minutes, and that “I’m expecting a smooth trip.” A pilot making that proclamation before a flight is akin to a hockey broadcaster mentioning that a goaltender is nearing a shut-out. Invariably, the opposition scores within seconds. On an airplane, it can mean only one thing: Your intestines will be up around your ears.
This particular boat-ride began roughly 40 minutes after take-off. “The captain has just informed me it is very gusty at this altitude and he’s expecting some wind-shear,” Brunhilda announced. “Please keep your seat-belts fastened and refrain from using the lavatory.”
“What happened to the smooth flight he predicted?” asked my seat-mate, rolling his eyes.
As if things couldn’t get worse, our friendly stewardess then sat down in the vacant row in front of me and proceeded to open a can of tuna. Such an act would make me queasy on a smooth flight; I was ready to hurl on this one.
“Um, that’s kind of an unpleasant odor,” I politely said, poking my head between the seats.
“If you don’t like it, too bad, it’s healthy,” she woofed, blowing her fish-breath all over me.
Descending tumultuously through a massive accumulation of clouds, we finally settled onto the runway at Pittsburgh International Airport, 2 ½ hours later than scheduled. Just as the plane approached its allotted stance at the terminal, the skies opened up with a flourish. A 60-meter walk from the aircraft steps to the main building virtually soaked all of us.
Astonishingly, given the build-up of events, our baggage was delivered promptly and I proceeded outside to summon a taxi. Waving at the driver – a large black man – I expected him to exit the vehicle and help load my bags into the trunk. A second wave was fruitless, even though the driver appeared to be looking straight at me. “Dammit, what now?” I asked.
Approaching the side of the taxi, I gently knocked on the driver’s window and got no response. Again, it appeared as if his eyes were open. This meant one of two things: Either he was sleeping like a rock… or dead. It seemed fitting. After all I’d been through, I was now coming upon a stiff in the lead taxi. A second, much-harder knock on the window thankfully garnered a response.
Opening his door, the driver groggily asked, “You want to go somewhere?”
“No, I just feel like aggravating large black men asleep in their cars,” I wanted to reply. Instead, I informed the cabbie of my downtown hotel – directly across from Mellon Arena – a historic building that has been around for 75 years.
“Never heard of it,” he said. “You sure it’s downtown?”
“Why me?” I muttered.
After a 35-minute trek in teeming rain, we pulled up in front of the hotel. I got my bags and checked in to a room on the 17th floor overlooking Mellon Arena, and the Penguins’ future home across the street – the Consol Energy Center – slated to open at the start of next season. As I took my toiletries bag toward the washroom, I noticed a dark object on the floor by the wall. Bending down to investigate, I recoiled in horror.
There, before my eyes, was a badly soiled pair of men’s underwear… presumably from the guest that had the room prior to me.
And to think: This is what I’ve been missing for the majority of the 2009-10 NHL season.
I’m about to skip around the league once again during the up-coming playoffs.
Can’t wait!
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