Flying with the Rich and Famous: True Stories from the Flight Attendant who flew with them (10 page)

We had two giant ice chests belted in the last row. One was full of beer, soda, and water and the other held Haagen Dazs ice cream bars. By the time those boys got to the airplane, not only were they famished, but parched. They could down a beer or soda in thirty seconds and a single can was rarely enough. Eventually I learned to just stand in the back of the cabin and chuck cans to the players as they boarded—beer if they won - soda if they lost.

McNall had a rule: if they won, the players could drink alcohol, and if they lost, then no. I understood that well enough but it was difficult if the team lost because this rule didn’t apply to the entire plane. The front of the plane (like first class but the seats were the same) was designated seating for management and doctors, press, and the like. The back of the airplane was for the players. The galley and bulkheads separated the two sections. I had a hard time with the players not being able to drink in the
back when the front was having a good ol’ time, and especially when Wayne Gretsky was up there drinking with them.
Uh, isn’t this a team sport? Oh, and aren’t you a coach? Maybe you screwed up?
I always felt sorry for the players. After all, they were the ones out there getting their teeth bashed in and sweating and bleeding all over the back of the airplane. If they couldn’t drink, the others should at least show some respect. Or, I could take matters into my own hands and sneak wine from the front of the plane and give it to the players who pled with me.

The players would have showered and changed but they would not have had time to address all their injuries before boarding. Many of them would strip down to their undies in order to ice up all their hard-hit body parts or abrasions. There were many times when I would giggle to myself, thinking that no one would believe I was flying across the United States with a bunch of charming naked men begging for alcohol (again, the problems of flying the rich and famous!).

Our star player was “The Great One,” Wayne Gretsky. In 1988, Bruce McNall engineered a purchase of him for a whopping fifteen million dollars (an unheard of amount at the time) from the Edmonton Oilers (who we would come head to head with over and over again), along with Gretsky’s good pals, Marty McSorly and Mike Krushelnyski. Wayne Gretsky always said he would come only if McSorly and Kruschelnyski came with him, but I’m not sure he had a vote in the matter or what the truth was. All I know is the entire country of Canada was mourning the loss of their national treasure. And they were pissed at us for taking him.

I have read this trade was institutional in bringing hockey to the forefront of otherwise ignorant fans and changing the future of all of hockey competition in the Northern Hemisphere. It certainly shook the ignorance out of me. And it must have had some indirect responsibility for the rise of the San Jose Sharks, the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim, and probably others as well.

Apparently Wayne Gretsky was afraid of flying. The pilots on the JetStar told us they were taking Gretsky with them for the next flight instead of him traveling on the 727 with the rest of us. The JetStar pilots wanted to put Gretsky in the jump seat between the two of them and explain how an airplane flies - the theory being that understanding would relieve his anxiety. It must work, because we never heard anything about his fear of flying after that. Or maybe they made this up so Gretsky could fly in the JetStar?

All the players were adorable, but I was totally enamored with Marty McSorly. He was also a fan favorite and came to the Kings with the label “Gretsky’s Bodyguard.” McSorly was the rebel, the fighter, the one always in the penalty box; he made hockey interesting. He had Gretsky’s back and my attention. He always sat with Steve Duchesne (who would go on to win the Stanley Cup during his final season). I called Duchesne “Douchebag” and McSorly “McSourly.” They would sleep with
their heads propped up against each other, with a pillow in between—it was just too cute.

Our goalie, Kelly Hrudey—what a sweetheart—seemed too nice and reserved to be a hockey player, but he was much more than that. He was an unbelievable hockey-puck-stopping-goalie-guru. He was instrumental in the Kings progressing into the division playoffs, as I suppose they all were. And it was hard not to drool over Luc Robitaille. He was so appealing, especially when almost naked. (He holds the title of Stanley Cup winner 2012 as President of Business Operations for the LA Kings.) Then there was Rob Blake and Tony Granato, I mean the list goes on and on. I adored each and every one of them.

After that season it was time for the Kings to go to spring training in Calgary. We stayed at the Banff Springs Hotel, which was built in 1888 and designed after a Scottish castle. It definitely looks the part. The exterior is dark brick covered in moss with turrets everywhere, resembling what you might
picture while reading a period novel. The interior is a maze. The players were assigned their own floor of rooms, the crew another and so on. The players were forbidden from our floor and the bars and disco. The crew hung out in the disco. When I mentioned this to “McSourly” at a game in Calgary, he decided to sneak into the disco the next night. He and I were dancing up a storm when he got caught. He was fined for his behavior, but as the rebel of the clan, I don’t think he much cared.

One night on the way to the game in Calgary, which was about an hour and a half from the hotel, the pilots decided to go on the bus with the players instead of in the van with the flight attendants. That night it was just us three girls and our male coworker in this huge van they’d given us for our transportation and shopping needs.

We went to the game dressed in all our Kings attire. We were walking, talking, real-life advertisements for the LA Kings. Every part of our bodies that could be clothed, was clothed with
LA KINGS. McNall had changed the LA Kings colors from purple/gold to black/silver to coincide with the LA Raiders that played just up the way at The Coliseum. (At the time, the Kings played at the Great Forum; the Staples Center hadn’t been built yet.) We definitely stuck out in our black/white/silver garb when everyone else was in red and yellow. Canada, being the ungracious hosts they were, sat us way up in the top of the venue. What was overlooked on their part, however, was hilarious. The Calgary Flames’ mascot was a giant red and yellow stuffed flame. He stood right in front of us and totally blocked our view, all while mercilessly taunting us. But, since the huge flame was such an eyesore, he created a ruckus and therefore we ended up getting a great amount of attention and our own free publicity, despite their trying to conceal us in the nosebleed section!

Heading back to the hotel after this game, it started snowing and the road became icy. I was driving like I always did. I learned to drive our motor home when I was all of twelve.
My father taught me how to drive in the snow and ice and how to navigate maps, so I never trusted any other flight attendant behind the wheel—especially in New York where if you weren’t aggressive, you were road kill. I sat a person over each wheel well to create some traction, but we were still slipping and sliding all over the place. We passed all kinds of cars that had skidded off the road into ditches. It took us forever to get back to the hotel, but we made it. The next day I heard that the bus with the players took hours longer than we did!

I am an avid snow skier and have been blessed with many opportunities to ski all around the world. So while on layover in Banff, I took it upon myself to ski Lake Louise Mountain. Since I believed myself to be such an accomplished skier, I decided to go straight to the top of the mountain. That’s all fine and dandy, except for, well, I was in Canada! I never took into consideration that there were not many people on the chairlift, or that I may not be skilled enough to ski ice—a solid sheet of ice, a steep,
unforgiving ice mountain. I got off the chairlift and was basically alone on top of what looked like a dooming glacier. I was freezing and really had no other option than to ski down, but that proved impossible. I ended up taking off my skis, putting them sideways across my lap as I slid down on my ass. I always felt like that was Canada getting even!

Sidebar, skiing around the world can be very interesting. While skiing in Austria once, I discovered that they played classic American Disco in EVERY bar on the slopes. And there was always a tree trunk with a hammer and a box of nails, either in the bar or directly outside the front door. Apparently, so you can see how drunk you are if you can’t hit the nail into the tree trunk. But I can’t do that sober, so not sure how that worked! It was fun though!

Anyway, as the season progressed, the LA Kings made it into the playoffs. That was the challenging part of flying for a sports team. You never knew if you were working the next day
until the game you were watching was over. If the game went into overtime, you were really screwed. You couldn’t go to bed until you knew if you had to get up. You couldn’t plan anything because you never knew what you were doing ahead of time.

My boyfriend was always very tolerant of my wacky schedule, but when the Kings’ games began to dictate my life, and, therefore, his, his patience began to wear thin. Trying to make up for it, I brought home one of the player’s hockey sticks. I told him that it was Kelly Hrudey’s goalie stick because he was a huge fan. I even signed Kelly Hrudey’s name on it, so it looked as if he had autographed it. I only made one mistake: goalie sticks are different than the other players’ and I had just taken the first stick I saw. One would think that as much as I learned about hockey, as educated as I became, as knowledgeable of all the rules I learned, I would have, at the very least, at the very minimum, learned
that
.

LOS ANGELES LAKERS

Though the LA Kings lost in the playoffs, it had been one of their best seasons to date. I was in dire need of some time off, but then I received a phone call: “Will you work the 727 again for the Lakers basketball playoffs?”

“Why, yes. Yes, I will.”

Bruce McNall loaned the plane out to the Los Angeles Lakers basketball organization. It was more fun than work flying the Kings: the Lakers should be a gas, I thought.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I received another call, could I do a seven-day charter to the Caribbean?

That’s one flight to the Caribbean, sit for five days and return. “Oh man. Well, of course, I want to.” I tried to beg off the Lakers’ gig, but I couldn’t get out of it. It’s the nature of this business, and the old Golden Rule to do unto others and all that. So, I flew the Lakers.

At the time, they were in the playoffs with the Phoenix
Suns. After our first flight we very quickly realized that changes were going to have to be made. The players just didn’t fit well in the plane. Legs, arms, and enormous hands were everywhere and I constantly tripped over their humongous, giganotosaurus feet. I actually fell over Vlade Divac’s shoes and landed on top of him. He said something to me in his broken English, but I have no idea what; I never could understand him.

After much discussion, we eventually came to the conclusion that we had to find a way to accommodate the bottom half of their bodies. We accomplished that by taking out every other row of seats, which gave them ample legroom and kept most of their feet out of the aisles. It worked, although I still tripped over size 22 shoes occasionally. Seriously, size 22! Can you imagine?

Because we only had a forty-five minute flight, there was no meal service, just snacks and beverages. What I found amazing was that the players would drain a soda in one
swallow—just one swallow! Again we made adjustments, and served two of everything they asked for. Which slightly worked, although they were still mass-consuming men, kind of like the “Coneheads” on
Saturday Night Live
. I guess that’s why they get paid so well, their food and drink habits must cost a bloody fortune.

MICHAEL MILKEN

One of my first flights on a private jet was on a brand new Gulfstream IV. The majority of private jets in Southern California are located in either Van Nuys or Burbank airports, certainly for convenience to Hollywood, the television studios, and the greater surrounding Los Angeles area. There are some at LAX, but not many because this airport is too large and too busy to be suitable; although, I have repositioned there many, many times to pick up passengers coming in on international flights.

Michael Milken had a beautiful airplane and a gorgeous hangar to house it in at Van Nuys airport. This hangar was the
nicest I had been in (I’m talking millions of dollars nice), even though it was basically an airplane garage with office space. The aircraft was equally as stunning, all white and pale grey leather, very clean and serene looking. It was very neat and tidy and an easy airplane to work, even though I had no idea what I was doing at that time. In those days nobody trained you; it was sort of sink or swim.

I had never heard of Michael Milken and knew nothing about him. All I was concerned with was getting my first private flight over with. I wasn’t confident in my ability to prepare the food correctly or serve him without ignoring him too much or bugging the crap out of him. I was dreadfully nervous, but I didn’t need to be. He was the coolest guy. I don’t know if he sensed my apprehension, but he immediately put me at ease. He was very polite and well mannered, relaxed, and cheery.

Milken later became known as the “Junk Bond King” and was indicted for racketeering and securities fraud. He paid more
than $1 billion in fines and spent time in prison. I don’t know a lot about all the junk bond issue, but I suppose if you’re being sneaky and making an exorbitant amount of money doing it, then you don’t have any right to be in a bad mood.

We flew to Teterboro, New Jersey, which is where almost all private jets land in order to get to Manhattan. There is simply no room at Kennedy, La Guardia, or Newark airports, and you need time slots (a window of time where your arrival is expected) to land. Even if you get in, you could easily be parked in the “north forty,” a van ride away from the FBO, which is problematic for a number of reasons. Plus, if you’re late for your time slot, forget about it.