Only In Amerika

See Darius Drive

Ram your head into large things often enough, and bad things happen. It started last spring in the playoffs as Kasparaitis left Nassau Coliseum after practice during the Penguin series. He climbed into his black BMW, turned on the ignition, cranked up the stereo, began singing along, put that baby into gear, hit the gas, his what-me-worry smile stretching from ear to ear...and slammed into a light stanchion, fairly wilting it. Oh, so that's what you Americans call reverse! Even though Coliseum workers had to bring out a tow truck to disimpale the Beemer from the pole, does it surprise anyone that Kasparaitis didn't even get a scratch?

Several weeks before the parking-lot business, Kasparaitis drove some buddies into Manhattan for a little revelry—and, being way too naive to appreciate when something is clearly too good to be true, found a parking space right smack in midtown. Then they went and did whatever it is hockey players do for fun. When they returned for the car, it was gone. Towed. So the whole crew cabbed it across town to retrieve the thing. The line of scofflaws was long, so Kasparaitis did what any self-respecting New Yorker would do in this situation: He lied. "Must catch plane for game!" he shouted. "Play for Islanders! Plane leaving!" The clerk let him cut the line, and Kasparaitis paid his $200 and beelined it back to midtown.

This time Kaspar the Friendly Host parked near the Waldorf-Astoria. No fool, he left the car where he could sec it, right out there, right next to the curb with the big yellow stripe. He had a good laugh when, walking down the street, he watched a truck towing a BMW that looked just like his. It was funny for about 12 seconds. Suddenly he was racing after the truck for five city blocks, frantically waving a fistful of twenties and shouting, "Stop car! I pay! Have money!" Tough latkes, said the tow-truck driver, and again it was time to meet that magnanimous impound clerk, who wasn't so magnanimous anymore. People are like that. "What happened to your flight?" the clerk asked.

It was a very long wait.

And that wasn't even the coup de grace, which was neither funny nor harmless. One night in June, Kasparaitis drained one or seven beers with friends at a Long Island tavern until the wee hours, then hopped into the ill-fated BMW. Big mistake. It wasn't long before certain blue and red lights appeared in the rearview mirror. Did he signal and pull over? Did he begin sobbing and apologizing to the cops? Nope, Kaspar left rubber, pushing 100 through a small town before finally giving up at 4:25 a.m. His blood-alcohol level was reportedly twice the legal limit, and he's due in court next month. "Stupid," Kasparaitis says, shaking his head. "Very stupid. Bad. Not smart. Could get killed. Could kill other person. Don't like talking about it."

Neither, for that matter, do the Islanders. Arbour says only, "We've talked about it, and Darius knows what to do about it." Pause. "I think."

See Darius Spend

When he stepped off the plane from Moscow last year, Kasparaitis had one jacket, one pair of pants and one mission: to never have one of anything. And he was definitely in a position to satisfy that urge, what with his $450,000-a-year contract. Boy, was he. Armani, Versace, Boss—Kasparaitis was on a first-name basis. On a good day he would toss $5,000 on three or four items before lunch. "I buy everything," Kasparaitis says, banjo-eyed. "Not look at tags. Just buy. Grab dollars, throw them on desk. Say, 'This, this, this. Thank you."

"We never knew Lithuanians dressed so well," says Kurvers.