I couldn’t decide on an approach for this critical Coyotes column. It paralyzed me for a full week, and I knew that when I ultimately sat down to write it, it would be in the wee hours of Thursday morning when my mental, emotional and social batteries were empty after experiencing the team’s final game in Arizona. 

How do you capture the death of a franchise that has forged 28 years worth of stories? How do you bring to life the scores of eclectic and vibrant personalities you have met along the way? 

How do you capture the sorrow of a fan base that has endured so much hardship, yet always persevered? How do you chronicle the end of your dream job?

I wasn’t looking for that answer when I called Shane Doan early Thursday afternoon, but I should have expected him to have an answer.

“I think the best thing you can do, Craig, is give them your personal experience,” Doan said during a lengthy and gut-wrenching conversation. “The most personal message is the most impactful message. That’s the one that everyone relates to.”

They say your life flashes before you right before you die. Maybe the same thing happens when the team you have covered for so long dies. Or maybe those memories came flooding back because of the throngs of fans who found me in Mullett Arena’s makeshift press box to say thanks for connecting them to the team. Or for keeping them informed for so many years. Or to share their personal stories, whether it was a Day-1 season-ticket holder, a 32-something attorney who started playing hockey as a kid because of the Coyotes, or an elderly woman whose greatest source of joy during chemotherapy was the chance to cheer on her Yotes.

Cynics will tell you that the Coyotes didn’t give us enough memories because they only won three postseason series in 27 seasons. I beg to differ.  

I was there when Mike Gartner scored his 700th career goal. I was there for the first Whiteout at America West Arena. I was there when Jeremy Roenick returned for Game 7 against the Blues with his jaw wired shut, blowing snot out of his nose just so he could breathe. 

I remember Nikolai Khabibulin’s smoking breaks out the back door at the Ice Den. I remember Teppo Numminen’s grace on and off the ice. I was the young reporter so enthralled with Keith Tkachuk’s crisp and stylish white dress shirt that I had to ask what he paid for it.

“Buddy, you don’t want to know,” he said.

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I interviewed Danny Briére outside the team bus in Denver, tears streaming down his face as he discussed the trade that would send him to Buffalo. I belly-laughed at countless versions of Where’s Whitney? I witnessed the had-to-be scripted drama of Doan’s first hat trick. I smirked at the inevitability of the Vrbackhander in shootouts. I chronicled the string of powerful storylines in the team’s march to the 2012 Western Conference Final.

I marveled at Conor Garland’s mastery of edges. I sat on the edge of my seat when Brad Richardson and Michael Grabner hopped over the boards for the PK. I chuckled whenever Dave Tippett called Mike Smith: “Schmitty,” or whenever André Tourigny said “opportunity.”  

I shut up and listened whenever Brad Treliving told tales. I built a Don Maloney glossary with former azcentral Coyotes beat writer Sarah McLellan that included the names, Anton Vermette and Michael Boedker.

I sat in Glendale City Council chambers, wishing for a trap door when long-winded, ill-prepared citizens took the mic. I sat in Tempe City Council chambers hoping that I’d never have to cover the government angle again.

I built sources in the league, the agent ranks, the NHLPA, the current and former player pool, the current and former coaching pool, and the current and former executive pool. I tapped sources in the Coyotes community whose expertise helped me navigate offshoots of the beat I never dreamed I’d have to cover. 

Through it all, I built more and more sources. I built more and more relationships. I built more and more friendships; more and more connections to intelligent, funny, good people.

As I watched the final act play out on Wednesday, I thought how sad it was that owner Alex Meruelo missed all of those opportunities to connect with his stakeholders, just as he missed the game on Wednesday night. That investment could have paid dividends and maybe we would not have arrived at this sad place.

More than the results, the Coyotes experience was always about people. It was always about relationships. It was always about community. 

That community won’t die with the death of the Coyotes, but there will be no gathering place to build more memories like this powerful, final night. The reality of that loss had me down until I ran into a longtime usher who urged me not to mope about what was lost.

“Remember what you gained,” she said.

It was a stupid little dream to cover the NHL, but in working this beat for nearly the entirety of the Coyotes’ existence, I learned that it wasn’t so much the game I loved that kept me coming back. It was you, the people I met.

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Top photo via Getty Images

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