Reports have stated that Johnny Gaudreau and his brother recently passed away. Details divulging the tragic news have been shared online.
NHL star Johnny Gaudreau, 31, and his brother, Matthew Gaudreau, were tragically killed after the two were struck down by a passing car in Oldmans Township at approximately 8:30 p.m. on Thursday evening, August 29. According to authorities, the brothers were riding bikes on a rural road in New Jersey called Stumpy Lane when the accident occurred.
Johnny’s hockey team, the Columbus Blue Jackets, posted a statement about his demise on X earlier today, August 30. The lengthy message notes how devastated and shocked the team is by the sad news.
Boasting about how incredible of a player and person Johnny was, their statement divulged, “Johnny was not only a great hockey player, but more significantly a loving husband, father, son, brother and friend.”
They go on to highlight how joyful Johnny would be in every game he played—a joy that was felt by everybody else who got to see the late star play. Johnny always brought his A-game and passion for the sport everywhere he went.
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His hockey career took him from Boston College to the Calgary Flames to Team USA to the Blue Jackets, where he served as the team’s winger.
“The impact he had on our organization and our sport was profound, but pales in comparison to the indelible impression he made on everyone who knew him,” mentioned the Columbus Blue Jackets in their statement.
The grieving team went on to reiterate how much the superstar athlete is missed by them and their community and ended their message by asking the public to pray for the Gaudreau family, who are dealing with an unimaginable loss.
The Columbus Blue Jackets also asked that the bereaved family’s privacy be respected. In the same way that Johnny’s hockey team shared a statement about his passing, the Commissioner of the NHL, Gary Bettman, shared some words about the tragedy as well.
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He penned a lengthy message on the official Public Relations website page of the NHL that spotlighted the incredible legacy Johnny has left behind as one of the League’s “brightest young stars” during his impressive 11 seasons in the NHL.
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“We send our most [heartfelt] condolences to his wife Meredith; their children, Noa and Johnny; his parents, Guy and Jane; and sisters Kristen and Katie,” wrote Gary at the end of his statement.
The devastating news of Johnny and Matthew’s passing comes after numerous reports had first announced that the accident had taken place. However, at the time, the two victims had not been identified as Johnny and Matthew yet.
A report from 6abc Action News discussed the scenario and divulged that the New Jersey State Police disclosed that the person who had been driving the vehicle that struck Johnny and Matthew had stayed on the scene after the accident. Authorities also shared that they believed the driver to be under the influence.
X was also ablaze with announcements about the accident. A woman named Elaine Shircliff posted, “Spoke with the New Jersey State Police and was informed they are getting bombarded with phone calls and cannot release any information at this time.”
She added that they could not confirm or deny the rumors that it was indeed Johnny and his brother who were the two victims.
However, on the same day Elaine tweeted her message, another X user named Steve Franklin shared an update of his own. In Steve’s update, he said that his brother, who is a police officer in Salem County, New Jersey, confirmed to him that it was the late NHL star and his brother who died.
After this tweet, Tim Peel, a retired NHL referee, took to X to say, “Reports are that Johnny Gaudreau and his brother Matthew were killed by a drunk driver [tonight]. Please pray that this is not true!”
My Neighbors Left a Note That Shattered My Heart — My Granddaughter Discovered It and Gave Them a Learning Experience
The music I played on my piano was my last link to my late husband. But cruel neighbors shattered that joy with a hurtful message on my wall. When my granddaughter found out, she made things right, leaving those entitled neighbors scratching their heads.
“Oh, Jerry, did you love it today, darling?” I asked softly, the last notes of “Clair de Lune” filling my cozy living room as my fingers lifted from the ivory piano keys. My eyes fixed on the framed photo of my late husband, Jerry. His kind eyes seemed to twinkle back at me, just as they had for over fifty years of our marriage…
Willie, my tabby cat, stretched lazily near my feet, purring contentedly. I reached down to scratch behind his ears, feeling the familiar ache in my chest as I carefully lifted Jerry’s photo.
“I miss you so much, darling. It’s been five years, but sometimes… sometimes it feels like yesterday.”
Pressing a gentle kiss to the cool glass, I whispered, “Time for dinner, my love. I’ll play your favorite before bed, okay? ‘Moon River,’ just like always.”
As I set the frame back down, I could almost hear Jerry’s warm chuckle. “You spoil me, Bessie,” he’d say, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I shuffled towards the kitchen, pausing to look back at the piano, my constant companion these past 72 years.
“What would I do without you?” I murmured, running my hand along its polished surface.
That night, as I lay in bed, I whispered into the darkness, “Goodnight, Jerry. I’ll see you in my dreams.”
The next morning, I was lost in Chopin’s “Nocturne in E-flat major” when a sharp rap on my window startled me. My fingers stumbled, the music cutting off abruptly.
A red-faced man glared at me through the glass. He was my new neighbor.
“Hey, lady!” he shouted, his voice muffled. “Cut out that racket! You’re keeping the whole neighborhood awake with your pathetic plinking!”
I stared at him, shocked. “I… I’m so sorry,” I stammered, even as a small voice in my head protested. It was barely 11 a.m., and none of my other neighbors had ever complained before.
The man stomped away, leaving me trembling. I closed the lid of the piano, my sanctuary suddenly feeling tainted.
The next day, I closed all the windows before sitting down to play. The music felt muffled and constrained, but I hoped it would keep the peace.
I was barely ten minutes into Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” when my doorbell rang insistently. With a heavy heart, I answered it.
A woman with pinched features glared at me. “Listen here, old lady,” she spat. “The grave’s calling, and you’re still banging on that piano? Cut the noise, or I’ll report you to the HOA!”
It was only then that I understood she was my new neighbor’s wife.
I felt like I’d been slapped. “I… I closed all the windows,” I said weakly.
“Well, it’s not enough!” she snapped, turning on her heel. “Quit making noise with your stupid piano!”
I slumped against the door frame, tears welling in my eyes. “Oh, Jerry,” I whispered. “What do I do?”
I could almost hear his voice, gentle but firm. “You play, Bessie. You play your heart out. Don’t stop… for anyone.”
But as I sat at the piano, my fingers hovering over the keys, I couldn’t bring myself to press down.
Days passed, and I tried everything. I taped cardboard over the windows, played only in short bursts, even considered moving the piano to the basement where it might not be heard.
But nothing seemed to satisfy my new neighbors, the Grinches, as I’d started calling them in my head.
The thought of being separated from my cherished instrument, even by a flight of stairs, made my heart ache. This piano wasn’t just an object; it was an extension of my soul, a living connection to Jerry and our life together.
Forgetting about those bothersome neighbors for a moment, I lost myself in the music as I played the piano that night.
The next morning, I stepped outside to tend to my small herb garden. The sight that greeted me stopped me cold.
The cruel words “SHUT UP!” were spray-painted across the wall in angry red letters.
I sank to my knees and wept. “Jerry, I can’t do this anymore.”
That day, for the first time in decades, I didn’t touch my piano.
As night fell, I sat in Jerry’s armchair, clutching his photo. “I’m so sorry, my love. I just don’t have the strength to fight anymore.”
The shrill ring of the telephone startled me from my thoughts. I fumbled for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Mom? It’s me,” my son Jacob’s warm voice filled the line. “How are you doing?”
I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “Oh, I’m fine, sweetie. Just a quiet day at home.”
There was a pause. “Mom, you don’t sound fine. Is everything alright?”
I sighed, debating whether to burden him with my troubles. “It’s nothing, really. Just… some issues with the new neighbors.”
“Issues? What kind of issues?”
I found myself spilling everything… the complaints, the threats, the vandalism.
“I don’t know what to do anymore, honey. I feel so… lost.”
“Oh, Mom, why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could have helped.”
“I didn’t want to worry you. You have your own life, your own problems.”
“Mom, you’re never a burden. Never. Your music has brought joy to so many people over the years. Remember all those Christmas parties? The school recitals you played for? You’re not a nuisance… you’re a treasure.”
“Listen, I’m going to call Melissa. She’s closer. Maybe she can come check on you. And we’ll figure this out together, okay?” Jacob finished.
As I hung up the phone, I felt a small flicker of hope. Maybe I wasn’t alone in this after all.
Days crawled by. My piano sat untouched, gathering dust. I felt like a part of me was withering away.
One evening, a loud knock startled me from my melancholy. I opened the door to find my granddaughter Melissa standing there, her face glowing with a warm smile.
“Surprise, Nana!” she exclaimed, enveloping me in a tight hug.
As she pulled back, her eyes widened in horror. “Nana, who did this to your wall?”
I burst into tears, the whole story spilling out between sobs. Melissa’s expression darkened with each word.
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