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I tried to squeeze past a couple of guys next to one of the hotel’s side doors, but it was pointless. Even the W’s doorman shrugged helplessly at me from his safe position on the other side of the glass. Resigned to wait until the crowd dispersed, I stepped back to take in the scene.
The celeb in question was Wayne Gretzky. I guessed the teenager with him was his oldest son and the worried-looking gentleman at his side was perhaps one of his Phoenix Coyotes associates. After signing a few autographs, Gretzky tried to back into the hotel. The doorman had gotten some reinforcements, and as they pushed their way through the aggressive crowd, a vacuum formed, allowing the three to escape into the interior. The doorman motioned to me, and I barely got inside before the crowd pushed back and the hotel staff barred the entrance.
In the lobby, I stood in line to check in while, a couple of feet away, Gretzky and his son waited for the elevator. I wondered if this would be an opportune time to go over and inform him that we are cousins. OK, not exactly close cousins—his wife, Janet, is my second cousin. Or maybe third. I get confused about the relations not on the regular Christmas card list. Though I’ve never actually met Gretzky, he once arranged L.A. Kings tickets for my family and me. And earlier in my career, I’d interviewed him by phone. My grandmother had called her niece, his mother-in-law, to set it up. Gretzky was gracious and a good interview, but it’s not like we bonded. (“Hey, Kent, you hoser, next time you’re in town, we’ll hang by the pool and crack a few Labatts.”) I was invited to his wedding, but to my regret, I was unable to attend.
Before I could think of a glib greeting, Gretzky and his son stepped into the elevator and were gone. Up in my room, I telephoned my dad and told him what had happened.
“Well, good thing you didn’t say anything.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s probably lost count of all the jackasses who’ve come up to him and claimed to be related.”
Too true. Dodged that bullet. Nevertheless, over the next few days I thought a lot about Gretzky, his incredible career, his unwavering commitment to the Canadian national team, his unusual business acumen, and his quixotic quest to send the lowly Coyotes to the Stanley Cup.
And then it struck me. In the two years since we started this magazine, I’d never come across someone who so thoroughly embodied our mission: a man of extraordinary professional and athletic accomplishment who is also an entrepreneur with great personal style. I knew at that moment that I had to get Cousin Wayne on our cover. But how? My grandmother passed away in 1999, so I wasn’t going to get any family help.
Luckily, I have an exceptional staff to fill in for Grandma. Special projects coordinator Marni Golden and photo editor Edie Dillman hounded the Coyotes’ front office until they yielded. We eventually got a date with the Great One.
Dillman produced the shoot in Phoenix, and Jeff Lipsky, who shot the Kevin Costner cover for our August/September issue, arrived with his crew from Los Angeles. Writer Michael Dolan, who has been trying to wrangle an interview with Gretzky for years, traveled from Brooklyn to pepper our subject with questions between shots. As usual, Gretzky was amiable and charming, but he could give our crew only 15 minutes to get the shot. They scrambled.
And they nailed it. I think we ended up with one of the best covers we’ve produced so far. So thanks, hoser! I mean, cuz. I mean, uh, Mr. Gretzky, sir.
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