Simply the Best: Ruslan Salei

By Sergei Olekhnovich

This book commemorates a great Belarusian hockey player, Ruslan Salei, as well as the Lokomotiv Yaroslavl players, coaches and Yak-42 crew who perished in an air crash at the Tunoshna Airport. But it's not a requiem book. It is about life. It tells the life story of the best player in history of Belarusian hockey, his rise to prominence with the National Team, his struggles on and off the ice in his pursuit of stardom in North America s National Hockey League, his courtship and eventual marriage to the love of his life, Bethann, the joy he found in fatherhood and so much more on and off the ice, in a good man s life that ended in far too soon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781947165960

Book preview

Best

1

Childhood

(FROM LATE MAY TO early July in 2003, Belarussian hockey fans witnessed history. For the first time ever, the Stanley Cup Finals were broadcast live on Belarussian TV. Thousands of Belarusian fans defied their normal routine and woke up at 3 A.M. in order to watch native son Ruslan Salei and his Anaheim Mighty Ducks battle the New Jersey Devils for hockey’s greatest trophy. For seven memorable nights, Vladimir Novitski and I broadcast the series between the Mighty Ducks and Devils from the Minsk TV studios. We ardently supported our Anaheim team, but in the best-of-seven series, New Jersey eventually prevailed, winning Game 7 by the score of 3-2.

Our disappointment was immense, but still, we could only guess what the Mighty Ducks’ players and coaches were feeling after falling short by a single goal from winning the Stanley Cup. Perhaps home ice was the deciding difference. Because the Devils had more points in the regular season, they played four games at home, including Game 7. The home team won every game in that series.

In that series, Ruslan Salei solidified his standing as the best hockey player Belarus had ever produced. Here is his story.)

I became interested in hockey in the first grade at school during a rather ordinary childhood. At about age four or five, I had two close pals named Shurik (apologies, but I cannot remember his surname) and Sergei Zubik. We spent a lot of time together, sometimes joined by my older brother, Vadim. Shurik was a tricky little guy, while Sergei was much simpler. Later I made friends with other guys. One of them was Vitalik. He and I shared the same dream—to own a toy called "Za rulem," like a bike-race set. It cost about 26 rubles, which was a considerable sum of money in those days of the Soviet Union.

(Vitalik and he were very good friends, Ruslan’s mother, Tamara Gavrilovna, recalls. The two even decided jokingly never to get married so they could spend all their time together.)

At the time, I didn’t have much else to do, and I really wanted that toy. My parents could never afford to buy such an expensive item on their salaries, so I had to find ways to get the money myself.

Vitalik and I developed a business plan of sorts; we would collect used glass bottles and return them for the deposits until we gathered enough kopeecks (roughly pennies in Soviet currency) to buy the toy. In order to make our dream come true, we set up a small firm. It was a serious business. As we were gathering bottles, we occasionally even had clashes with competitors—people involved in the same kind of activities. Even then, in the late 1970s, there were controlled territories from which interlopers were ousted. But near our house, there was a stadium where a couple of empty bottles could be found every day.

Some bottles were returned for 12 kopeeks a piece, others for 20 kopeeks. Milk bottles were worth 15 kopeeks each. It was also possible to scrounge 3-liter glass jars off my parents; they were worth even more. We would cash in the bottles at a small facility near our family home on Yanki Mavra Street. My older brother, Vadim, and sister, Anzhela, helped us out, occasionally giving us a ruble or two.

Eventually, we scratched up the necessary sum and bought the toy for 26 rubles. At that time, it was my biggest and most precious purchase. The only thing is I cannot remember is how long it took me to reach the goal, but it was quite a long time, several months for sure.

I never liked going to kindergarten. It was just across the street from our house, and I was always shouting and crying when Mom took me there. I didn’t care to communicate with kids; I was kind of a sulky, lone wolf. I don’t even know why, but I cried a lot in kindergarten. It was probably because of my strong attachment to my parents, my brother, and my sister. Being far away from them was like being alone, I thought.

The other kindergarteners were harsh and sometimes even rude. One child would pull me by the ears and another would hit my fingers with a ruler. Sometimes my mom would even go to the kindergarten and tell them off for treating me like that, especially when I returned home with slightly torn earlobes. The children did not simply pull my ears, but also tweaked them. It was a sadistic environment.

Another significant memory from when I was a child was when I scalded my leg. At those times, white linen was boiled in big vats called vyvarki, if I remember the term correctly. I was playing with toy cars in the bathroom, moved backwards and either stepped in a bucket with freshly boiled water or bumped against it, and some of that very hot water poured over my legs. The scald was rather serious. I remember how my mom took olive oil (an extremely rare product at that time) out of the cupboard and rubbed it over the burn. The next thing I remember is lying in bed. For some reason, both my legs were bandaged and mom and dad were holding my ankles. And if they stopped doing that I would begin to shout and cry.

One time in kindergarten, I caught epidemic jaundice from a girl named Natasha Pavlova. We were friends, and I cared for her. I remember that childhood experience in every detail: some strangers came, washed our whole flat—literally every nook and cranny—and disinfected all my toys. It was simply outrageous for me! I couldn’t understand what was going on. After that I was taken from my home and admitted to the infectious diseases hospital and had to stay there for 27 days completely on my own—without my mom, dad, brother and sister. My parents and Vadim and Anzhela still visited me, but I could only see them through the window which was true torture for me. On top of that, I had injections four times a day. I didn’t fear the injections, themselves, but I feared the nurses who gave them. Once they entered the ward, all the kids—and I was no exception—began to tremble with fear because of those injections.

There were six or eight of us in the ward; relatives brought me a lot of tasty food, and I always shared it. But my ward mates would steal it, too! I remember returning after treatments to find that all the yummy things had vanished into thin air. Eventually, I uncovered one of the petty thieves, although the guy denied everything. But I got back at him, in a kid’s way, of course. One night he went to the bathroom. I followed him quietly, and locked him in. Hospital bathroom doors could only be locked from the outside. I intended to let him out after a while but I came back to the ward and fell asleep. I suppose the guy went into hysterics after he couldn’t open the door. Being locked in the bathroom for the whole night is not much fun. In the morning the mischief was investigated, but I was never identified as the culprit.

2

School

WITHIN A FEW YEARS , Shurik, Sergei and I had scattered to the four winds. I entered School #7, located on Pushkina Avenue, although Vadim and Anzhela attended School #38, closer to our house. At first, School #38 would not admit me. Either the deputy principal or the principal—I am not sure who—explained to my mom that they could not do it because only seven-year-olds were admitted. I was born in November, so in September I was still six.

However, I believe there was most probably a different reason: Vadim studied there and behavior-wise his reputation wasn’t very positive. The school simply found a formal reason to refuse. Had I already turned seven, the principals wouldn’t have gotten around my admittance so easily. But School #126 didn’t accept me either, so eventually, I entered school #7, situated a little further away from our home.

As for my first start of school, I only remember only that first graders were photographed, and I had a bouquet of gladioluses. I remember that when in kindergarten, I wanted to go to school very much. But my brother and sister told me I was seriously mistaken and would regret going to school instead of kindergarten. My response to Vadim and Anzhela was, I hate kindergarten and the kindergarteners who pull me by the ears and slap me with rulers.

My first teacher, Liliya Vodopalova, treated me very well. Perhaps, I was one of her favorites. But just like my brother, I had discipline issues. I was reprimanded constantly for talking with my classmates and misbehaving during breaks. Study-wise, there were no problems whatsoever, but the teacher often reported on my behavior, and my parents made me pay for it.

When I was in the first grade, my mom always took me to school. I had afternoon shift then. She came home to have lunch, and afterwards, on the way back to work, she took me to school. Luckily, it was in the same direction. At the entrance, she would always remind me, God forbid you get reprimanded today! You alone will be to blame! It was rare, though, that I managed to comply with her instructions. Basically, I was reprimanded about every other day. And at home, sure enough, I got it, though most of the time it was a moral admonishment. My parents hardly ever whipped us.

Once, however, a few years after first grade, I got it in the neck. Mom was finally driven crazy by reprimands in my record book. But later, as it turned out, she worried a lot about raising her hand at me. And I held a grudge against the whole world and promised never to talk to my parents again—a natural reaction of a child with hurt feelings.

(In the third or fourth grade, Ruslan, according to memories of his classmate Andrei Tkachev, had his first serious school fight. His opponent was a bully, Alexei Sychev, who picked on his peers, often for no reason. Once he had a skirmish with Salei, too, which was over in mere minutes and resulted in a clear victory for Ruslan. Sychev’s face was bloodied. The guys fought in a rest room, and no one else was let in. Ruslan’s reputation and influence among classmates grew even more.)

As an elementary school pupil, I also remember an episode when Mom and Dad took me to a summer camp. I guess it was my summer holiday after the first grade. Just like in kindergarten, I couldn’t be on my own. Apparently, it was still difficult for me to become friends with other kids. So, when left there on my own, I simply wept. I survived a week at most after which Vadim took pity on me. He came and took me from the camp after saying to my parents that I had enough already.

(As opposed to Vadim, who was a bit of a madcap, Ruslan grew up a calm and neat boy, says Tamara Gavrilovna. His school uniform lasted a whole year. We bought him only one suit, while Vadim needed at least two. Coming home after a school day, Ruslan would take off the uniform first, hang it in the wardrobe, wash his hands, and only then go to eat.)

3

Football, Karting,

Hockey!

BEFORE HOCKEY I WAS into football and karting, although it may well be that football and hockey were parallel for some time. And karting—which I went for in September when school began—wasn’t approved by my parents at all. I don’t remember even why I decided to go in for karting, probably some of my pals or classmates invited me. I practiced a month or two, not more. Mom didn’t support the idea because commuting there took long; it was almost across the whole city. Moreover, practices were in the evening. I always came home after dark. Sometimes I had to go to the Borovaya District which is beyond the city line. But when winter was coming and it was getting dark really early, Mom strictly forbade me to go in for karting.

(We delicately explained to our son that we could not take him to Zelyony Lug (the northernmost district of Minsk), Tamara Gavrilovna says. Nor was it a common practice at that time. Ruslan got it all right and in a while told us he had been admitted to a hockey school. I asked, ‘Where is it located?’ He told us it was in the Sports Palace. Clearly, there were no objections either from his father, Albert or me. It was in the city center and not far from home.)

When winter came, I decided to learn to skate. However, I did not have good skates and, in addition, stores were seriously undersupplied. They only had short skates with low, speed-skating-style boots. I remember skating in them once, but they provided absolutely no support for ankles, so I hated the experience. I could hardly do anything.

The solution to this problem was a matter of good luck. I discussed it with Anzhela and her then-boyfriend, Vladimir Tsynkevich. He said he either had actual hockey skates or could get them somewhere. And Vladmir brought me Czechoslovak Botas—at that time probably the best skates you could buy in the Soviet Union! They were size 43, though, and you can imagine the foot size of a seven-year old—I had to fill the extra boot space with newspapers and wear several pairs of socks. But as soon as I got on the ice wearing them, I skated straightaway. It all happened naturally. Learning to skate in Botas literally took me two