If you’re a sports fan, you know James.



The biggest games, the biggest trades, the juiciest rumours - chances are that our own James Duthie is the guy you tuned in to hear talk about them. There are other experts and insiders and analysts, but no one else who can talk about sports with the humour, the knowledge and the charisma James brings to every event he covers.

That all said, he's also a best-selling author. Here's an excerpt from James' new book 'The Guy on The Left,' in stores now and available to order.



In this chapter, James recalls 'Golden Sunday' - the final day of the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Games.

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Mid-morning, I leave for the gold medal hockey game. It resembles a scene from The Amazing Race: scramble out of the IBC, grab a waiting car, bail after three blocks because of the traffic, jog the couple of kilometres to the rink, just in time to host a two-hour pre-game show.



Steve Yzerman, Team Canada’s general manager, drops by the set. I find Steve struggles at times in interviews since he became a GM, because he is too careful with his words, trying not to say the wrong thing, instead of just answering the questions. But today, just minutes before the biggest Canadian hockey game since ’72, he is cool and smooth. Stevie Y is always clutch in the big games, I think to myself. Brian Burke, GM of the American team, also stops by. It has been just a few weeks since the death of his son Brendan, in a car accident. He tells me before we go on air he hasn’t slept since the accident. Burke is a hard-ass, and we’ve clashed countless times on air. But we’re friends when the cameras are off. When I interview him, he usually shoots down all my questions and makes an “I want to rip your head off” face for the entire segment. Then, when the cameras go off, he smiles and winks (“Gave you some good TV there, didn’t I?”). He’s a good man with a soft side he tries too hard to keep hidden. And on this, what should be one of the proudest days of his career, he looks broken. As he leaves the set, I have the most unpatriotic of thoughts. Part of me hopes the U.S. wins, just to give him … something.

I turn to the panel and say, “Well, boys, we probably should try not to screw this one up.”

Our set is right on top of the Zamboni entrance at the Canadian team’s end of the rink (for the first and third periods). During the game, we sit in seats with the fans. When a period ends, the set pops out like a jack-in-the-box. It’s a great spot to do TV, right in the thick of the crowd. In fact, fans are so close, they can actually reach over and touch us while we’re doing our panels. Which is awesome, when the fans are, say, the Swedish Women’s Alpine Skiing Team. But not quite as good when they are, say, the Hammered Angry Dudes after Their Side Loses Team. During one post-game show, a large well-lubricated meathead reaches over the railing and unplugs my headset, leaving me with no communication with the producer. So I just keep talking. I almost blow off an entire commercial break, which would only cost the network, oh, a couple hundred grand or so. But it gets Meathead a high-five from his equally sloshed buddy. So it’s worth it, I suppose.

There have been better panel invasions by fans. During the first NHL outdoor game in Edmonton in 2003, a blitzed wannabe stuntman dove onto the set as Gord Miller, Bob McKenzie, and Pierre McGuire were on live. The set collapsed. (Temporary TV desks aren’t exactly built to hurricane-proof standards.) The guy rolled off and was gone before Bob could hurt him. And make no mistake, Bob would have hurt him. In Carolina at the 2006 Stanley Cup final, a fan jumped a fence and ran across our set. We weren’t on air at the time, but a tape of the moment still exists, and it is pure gold. He bumps into a startled Bob, who gives him a hard elbow as he runs away, and then yells, “I’ll kill you, you f&%$ing &%$#!”

Bob is one of the best men I know. He will do anything for you. Unless you run on his set while he’s working. Then all bets are off. Kevin Pratt, one of our long-time NHL on TSN videotape wizards and the official collector of our many bloopers, plays the tape for us every few months for kicks while we’re killing time before a game. I always watch Bob and howl, and Bob always chuckles at me. Because while he is threatening to kill the guy, I don’t even bother to look up from my notes, pressing the talk-back button to our production truck to calmly say, “We might want to get some security.” By now, I’m used to drunken fools who want to be on TV, and Bob’s readiness to pummel them. I still expect to look at Twitter one day and see a tweet from Bob that reads something like, “Stamkos signs eight-year extension in Tampa. Oh, and I just beat a man to death with my iPad. Confirmed.”

The bosses seem a little nervous about me hosting this show. They warn me several times to “resist the smartass” in my commentary. To which my comeback is, “So you want me to play giant inflatable beavers…err…straight?”

For the gold medal game, two of Vancouver’s finest are flanking the panel, ostensibly to protect us from the drunks. Reality is, they’re protecting the drunks from Bob.

The atmosphere in the building that Sunday is equal parts electricity and anxiety. This historic, euphoric time for our country feels like it hinges on 60 minutes of hockey. Yes, it has been an incredible Olympics for Canada, but if there is no gold today, it still will feel like a failure. That isn’t fair to all the other athletes who have done the country so proud, but it is reality here in Canada.

I spend a great deal of time trying to decide what to say in the opening 30 seconds I get at the top of the show, just before puck drop. You’d like to be deep and eloquent and poetic before this kind of moment. Steve Dryden, TSN’s managing editor of hockey and the brains behind much of what we do on the panel, sends me a few thoughts about how rare it is for a country’s culture to be so intertwined with a singular sport. I put some of that into my own words and use it … but I decide halfway through the intro that all this deep thinking really isn’t me. So I cut it short and end with three simple sentences.

“This is Canada. This is hockey. This is for gold.”

A 2–0 Canada lead halfway through the game temporarily eases the national anxiety, but shift by shift, the Americans chip away at Team Canada’s (and the country’s) confidence. When Zach Parise scores with 24 seconds left to tie it 2–2, 18,000 fans, and about 25 million more at home, primed for the party of their lives, sit in stunned silence instead.

During the commercial break before the overtime intermission, it hits me. Pretty much every person in the country is watching us right now. I turn to the panel (Bob, Darren Pang, and Nick Kypreos from Sportsnet - remember this was the CTV/Rogers Olympic Broadcast Consortium) and say, “Well, boys, we probably should try not to screw this one up.”

We don’t. And neither does Canada in overtime. They dominate play early, but the game falls into a bit of a conservative lull a few minutes in. So much so that my eyes drift to my phone. My 10-year-old son has a big playoff game back home (the minor hockey scheduler who picked that time should be fired), and I’m eager for updates. As I’m quickly scrolling through texts, I hear the one word that will become synonymous with this moment:

“Iggy!”

The building is so nervous, so quiet, that from our seats right behind the U.S. net, I can clearly hear Sidney Crosby call for the puck from Jarome Iginla, who has dug it out of the corner. I look up from my phone just in time to see Crosby, maybe 30 feet away from me, slide the puck under Ryan Miller, and into…history. Bedlam.

Sorry, Mom, but I believe the only two words that come out of my mouth are “holy shit.” (Thankfully, Chris Cuthbert, the guy calling the game, has a slightly better choice of words with his historic, perfect “golden goal” call.) I’m not sure if mine is a primal reaction to the weight of the moment, or because I almost missed it trying to get an atom hockey score.

I was in grade 1 in 1972, and only have faint recollections of watching TV in our school gymnasium when Henderson scored against the Russians. Not even sure if that memory is real. I might have been making caterpillars out of egg cartons at the time in art class. We did that a lot. So I am instantly determined to soak up every second of our generation’s version of “The Goal.” I just stand and watch. Those “no cheering from the press box” lessons are too ingrained. But this is one of those few times you wish you could suspend those rules. My old journalism profs will wince when I say this, but I want to go nuts like everyone else. I want to jump on backs and pour beer over my head and generally be…Canadian. You can’t live in this country and not be bursting. But instead, I just soak it up for about 30 seconds and then start getting ready for the post-game. That is the thing about our business. There is no savouring. You watch history happen and then almost instantly start trying to figure out what you are going to say about it.

"I look up from my phone just in time to see Crosby, maybe 30 feet away from me, slide the puck under Ryan Miller, and into…history. Bedlam."

I’m not sure what I said. I still have never watched the tape. I’d just get mad about some dumb comment I made, or some smart one I didn’t. Doesn’t matter anyway. I could have read my grade 12 trigonometry textbook aloud and no one would have minded. Canada was in the best mood of its collective life.

We do about an hour of post-game, and then it’s time for more wind sprints. I have about 10 minutes to get over to BC Place for a live shot with Lisa to preview the closing ceremony.

Until Crosby’s goal, I was concerned about the way the Games were going to end. Lisa and I attended a top-secret dress rehearsal the night before, and it is…strange. The producer is an Australian who thought it would be funny to just throw every Canadian stereotype into his production. So the program is full of giant inflatable moose and beavers, and Mounties and hockey players. While watching the rehearsal, I think to myself: If Canada wins, this will be fine. Everybody will be in a great mood and ready to laugh (plus, the nation will be half in the bag). But if Canada loses that hockey game, this could be a disaster. We know our comedy in Canada, and nothing is funny when you lose to the U.S. in hockey.

The bosses seem a little nervous about me hosting this show. They warn me several times to “resist the smartass” in my commentary. To which my comeback is, “So you want me to play giant inflatable beavers…err…straight?”

At every Olympic opening and closing ceremony, the organizers hand out a booklet that explains each element of the show, so the commentators from every country can explain it to their viewers. But for this show, the notes don’t really let people know this is a tongue-in-cheek celebration of Canada. So while these giant beavers are flying around BC Place, this is the sentence commentators are supposed to read for their viewers: “There are six million beavers in Canada, more than any other country in the world.” So in places like Japan, Chile, and Estonia, I’m guessing the commentators deliver that line as straight as Walter Cronkite. Which is pretty embarrassing. Except Canada won hockey. So now it’s pretty freaking funny.

When the closing ceremony ends, Lisa and I fight through the massive crowd to a car waiting to take us back to the hotel. Lisa jumps in the back, and I, always the gentleman, call shotgun and grab the front. There is a sweet young woman volunteer behind the wheel. As the car takes off, I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath. This has been the craziest, longest, best day of my 20 years in this business. I’m exhausted, exhilarated, and can’t wait to crack open a beer at the after-



WHAM!

He comes out of nowhere. We are going through an intersection on a green light, and he just sprints into our path. We hit him head-on and he flies over the hood and onto the pavement. The driver screams. I’m not sure what I say. Probably “holy shit” again.

This is not happening. The one black eye, the one horrific moment of these otherwise spectacular Games, was the tragic death of Georgian luger Nodar Kumaritashvili in a training run just hours before the opening ceremony. Please don’t tell me we’ve killed another guy 10 minutes after the closing ceremony.

Police and paramedics are literally parked at the intersection when the accident happens. They are sprinting towards us within seconds. After we make sure everyone in the car is okay, I get out to check on the guy we just hit. He’s down and not moving, with a paramedic already over him. A police officer tells me to go back to the car. Lisa is comforting our driver, who is a mess. She has done nothing wrong. This guy ran into us like he was on a kickoff team and the car was the returner.

For the next ten minutes or so, we sit. Our driver sobs quietly as paramedics surround the victim. And that selfish part of me imagines what the morning tabloid headline will be: “DOUBLE MURDER! CROSBY KILLS USA, CTV CO-HOSTS KILL TOURIST!” (Though it probably would have been singular - HOST - as I would have undoubtedly blamed Lisa, and copped a plea.)

But then, like some bizarre SNL sketch, he suddenly gets up. Not even gingerly. He pops up like a wide receiver trying to show the defensive back he didn’t hurt him (a lot of football metaphors in this story … odd). The paramedics try to lay him back down, but he wants no part of it. He runs over to the driver’s side window of our car and yells, in what I believe is a hammered Irish accent, “So sorry, my bad!” And he’s gone! Sprint-limping (limp-sprinting?) down the street, with a paramedic giving fruitless chase.

Just like that, this movie I’m playing a bit part in goes from tragic ending to Seth MacFarlane script. I’m laughing. The poor driver is in shocked silence. Which sure beats the “I just killed a guy” sobs of the last 10 minutes. And Lisa is being a pro, trying to figure out what we do next. Turns out a police officer just asks a few questions, then gives the driver a number she has to call for an insurance report. And it’s done. No corpse, no headlines, and crucially … no missed beer.



I end up going straight from the CTV after-party to the airport, where I pass out on a row of chairs, about 24 hours from the time I woke up. I toss my jacket over my head, but still hear the guy sitting across from me say to his buddy, “Hey, I think that’s James Duthie. He looks … homeless.” Solid analysis, frankly.

Excerpted from The Guy on the Left by James Duthie. Copyright © 2015 James Duthie. Published by Penguin Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.