He yells at refs, beats up mascots, fights with fans, takes stupid penalties, quits games, sulks, pouts, and at any given moment he could announce a relapse and be gone forever from hockey. But he’s also our little boy. And we love him.

That was Theo Fleury. I wrote those words about eight months ago. On that night, the Rangers little ball of hate jabbed, dove, whined, clowned, provoked, clawed, and otherwise inspired his team to a furious comeback against the Isles, capped dramatically by his dynamic breakaway goal to snatch the win. And then, with cameras poised to capture his triumphant moment, he wiped the sweat from his brow, flashed his patented semi-psychotic smile—repaired but still haunted by his trademark gap—turned towards the hostile Uniondale crowd, raised his middle finger and flipped them all the bird. (Sigh) That was Theo Fleury.

And now, as the curtain draws to a close on the three-year Broadway run of the Fleury Circus, the normally collective conscience of Blueshirt faithful seems torn between bitter resentment towards the mighty mite and fond reminiscence. We’ll miss him but we won’t. A contradiction? Sure. But what about Theo Fleury isn’t a contradiction?

He’s a 5’6 finesse talent that plays like a 6’5 power forward. His background and lifestyle make him suited for chair tossing on the Jerry Springer Show, but his honesty and up-front nature would drive Oprah to tears. All the qualities that make him a hockey pariah and a volatile teammate are forged from the same passion that may someday get him into the Hall of Fame. He is distracting and competitive, complicated and dumb, frustrating and captivating—usually all in the first period of any given game. He might be the first celebrity athlete in the history of sports that became more outrageous and unpredictable after he sobered up. That was Theo Fleury.

He was not our native son, though the undersized boy from the backwoods of Oxbow, Saskatchewan, was more of a New Yorker than he probably realized. After all, New York is all about contradictions too. Its very name invokes images both positive and negative, from the majesty of skyscrapers to the urine-scented bowels of the subway, from the lush glamour of Park Avenue to the homeless camps in Tompkins Square. Decadent and privileged, yet motivated and resolute. Rude and obnoxious, but creative, crafty and inspiring. Revolting in parts, stunning in others. Expensive, self-serving, arrogant, disinterested—but courageous when it needs to be. That’s New York City. That was Theo Fleury.

New York has had few star athletes like him. He was a rare talent that you simultaneously loved to hate and hated to love. On some nights he was the poster-boy for everything wrong with the Rangers, but on others he was everything right. He had the heart of a bear and the mind of a squirrel. It wasn’t just simply like watching a car wreck—Theo pulled you in to where you felt like you were inside the car. When he performed his infamous “chicken dance” against the Islanders, he wasn’t just playing it up for the fans: he was a fan himself. He was a great character on a team that previously lacked any. He was a highlight reel of the good, the bad, and the ugly. He was a screw-up misfit with a direct cable-feed into the id of every Ranger fan. Hilarious and annoying, disappointing and exciting, problematic and wildly entertaining. That was Theo Fleury.

His tenure as a Ranger, like the record of the team itself, was mostly laughable, occasionally awful, and sometimes utterly amazing. Signed to be a premier sniper, his first season’s goal production only slightly surpassed that of his rookie year, which he accomplished in half the games. His second season saw him on pace to match some career bests, until he suddenly (and suspiciously) decided to check himself into the NHL’s Substance Abuse Program. His third season? A career worst in points—63 total, one less than 1999s disaster—matched by a career best 216 penalty minutes, an MVP award from fantasy hockey, and an Olympic gold medal. Three horrible, embarrassing years of failure and misery, and yet he still led the league in headlines and headaches. That was Theo Fleury.

Were expectations set too high for Theo Fleury? Yes and no. New York expects too much as a fault, but Theo performed the rarest of superstar feats: making an awful team abysmally worse. Was he a classic example of a free-agent bust? Yes and no. He met none of his goals, regressed as a player, bewildered his coaches, and embarrassed the organization. But he also was a great source of entertainment, filled the Garden during the transition from Gretzky to Lindros, and kept the fans on their feet during the games, whether it was to cheer or to boo. Number 14 brought shame and disgrace to the Rangers logo, but no one wore his jersey with more pride. That was Theo Fleury.

His antics—and they were antics—always overshadowed his exceptional play, which only further clouded the dilemma his coaches faced. A prototypical moment occurred on February 26 against the Devils. Down by one with five minutes left in the game, NY’s favorite imp takes a borderline but needless tripping penalty in the offensive zone, then yaps himself into a tizzy to earn another ten minutes of misconduct. At the time he is the game’s most dominant player, with a key hand in both Ranger goals and enough reckless hits to slant the momentum towards blue. Three minutes later the Rangers are awarded a power play, which sputters without its little dynamo. Rangers lose 4-3. The next day Theo is crucified in the media for his behavior—how he could have helped the cause but chose to remove himself via another meltdown—even though the final power play was retribution for the referee’s earlier mistake, even though the inept Rangers only had a chance to win thanks to Theo’s performance. Bench him? You’ll lose. Trade him? Impossible. Digitally edit him from Rangers broadcasts? I’ll turn the channel. Ranger fans hated him because he was undisciplined, uncontrollable, and too unstable to count on. Ranger fans love him because he ultimately got Ron Low fired. That was Theo Fleury.

What will be the crowd reaction when Theo returns to the Garden? I don’t know. Who can know? Even Theo won’t know. Maybe they’ll be boos, maybe they’ll be cheers. Not subject to debate is his impact. He was a unique moment in Rangers history that won’t soon be forgotten. He was a bad high school yearbook picture or a youthful fashion faux pas—things to cringe at in retrospect but are still a part of who you are today. With the new-look Rangers standing on the threshold of success, in a few years the memory of Theo Fleury will seem like useless junk that sits in our garage, utterly impossible to throw out. For three years he symbolized a Rangers team that went from bad to horrible to league-wide joke. But he was a Ranger, through and through. I won’t miss him, but I really will. That was Theo Fleury.

Recent Articles Road Trip Pics

Web Hockeybird.com