Mr. Hockey My Story (19 page)

In the 1956 off-season, Lindsay bumped into Cleveland Indians pitcher Bob Feller, who was also the president of the Major League Baseball Players Association. The chance encounter tipped off Lindsay to the contract that baseball players had just received from their owners. Wanting to learn more, Lindsay met with the lawyers who had negotiated that deal. Over the course of several meetings, they concocted a plan. At the All-Star Game that next season, Lindsay approached Harvey and they came up with the seeds of what
would become the NHL’s first players’ association. A select group of veteran players quietly signed up nearly every player in the league. When they were finally ready, Lindsay held a press conference to tell the world—and the owners—about the new association. It went poorly right off the bat. The owners were furious. In Detroit, Jack Adams was apoplectic. At a hastily convened team meeting he spat words like “loyalty,” “family,” and “betrayal” at us. He wanted to bully us into feeling guilty about turning our backs on the league’s benevolent ownership. In reality, the owners felt threatened by the new association. It wasn’t until years later that we learned how intent they had been to break it up.

The league launched a coordinated campaign to feed misleading information to the press, the public, and even the players. Teams in each city cracked down on anyone who was perceived to be sympathetic to the cause. In our dressing room, that started with Lindsay. In the summer of 1957, he was shipped to the Black Hawks along with Glenn Hall. On paper, the deal didn’t make any sense. Both players had been First Team All-Stars the year before and Ted had been the league’s second-leading scorer with 85 points. Of course, on-ice performance wasn’t the point. Over time, nearly everyone considered to be a ringleader in the new players’ association was either traded or drummed out of the league. Not even Marty Pavelich, who wasn’t particularly active in the players’ association, was spared. Mr. Adams made Marty, who was Ted’s good friend and business partner, into an example by demoting him to the minor leagues. Marty wasn’t having any of it. With Ted in Chicago, no one would be around to look after their business interests if he left Detroit. He refused to accept the unjust transfer and instead, at only twenty-nine years old, went into a forced retirement. It was dirty pool by Mr. Adams, but he didn’t care. The owners were
playing hardball. Rumor had it that Marguerite tried to oppose the trades, but she was railroaded by her brother into standing pat. She gave up her executive duties shortly after and that was the last we saw of her around the Red Wings.

Around the league, other teams were doing their part to break up the players’ solidarity. The players’ association eventually fought back by filing an antitrust suit against the owners. Our locker room wasn’t sure that was the best move. A lawsuit seemed like a precursor to a strike, and we believed that further negotiations were in order before we went that far. Before choosing to support the antitrust suit, we wanted to know more about its potential consequences. After a team vote, we decided not to strike. Without a mandate from one of the league’s six teams, the players’ association was put in a tough spot. The solidarity didn’t last much longer and the association disbanded after the owners made a few face-saving concessions and some vague promises to treat us better in the future. Looking back, it’s easy to say now that we should have shown more resolve when the owners tried to crack us. I also accept that the situation might have turned out differently if I had taken on a larger leadership role. To be honest, though, I know that my heart wasn’t in organizing my teammates and fighting the owners. I just wanted to play hockey. Today, players are willing to stand up for what’s right, and I admire that. The waters were much murkier in the 1950s. Strikes were considered to be almost a communist activity. That was a tough perception to overcome. As someone who played in that era, I can also say that we weren’t nearly as well equipped to understand the bigger picture. It makes me happy to see how much things have changed.

As a footnote to all of this, I should probably add a word about my relationship with Ted Lindsay. Before he was traded to Chicago, our friendship had been deteriorating for some time. In
our early days with the Red Wings, we were as thick as thieves. Not only did we room together at Ma Shaw’s, but he was also in my wedding party and I even lived in his house after he married Pat. I have some remorse about how things turned out, but I also know that nothing lasts forever. Not even friendships. The cracks in ours probably started when we went into business together. Ted said some things about me to our partners that were hard for me to get past. I’m sure I did some things he didn’t like too much, either. After his trade to Chicago and the whole rigmarole with the players’ association, mending fences became that much harder. Our relationship deteriorated further when I was in talks to return to the Red Wings shortly after he took over as the team’s general manager in the 1970s. We’re civil enough when we run into each other but, given the number of differences we’ve had over the years, our contact is limited to a handshake. That doesn’t stop me from smiling when I think about the good times we shared, but they were long ago. In the years since, I’ve had plenty of time to consider the nature of friendship. These days, I think of Ted as someone I once played with on a line and not much more.

•   •   •

A
s time went on, the success that the Wings had long enjoyed became frustratingly elusive. The other teams in the league were too good for us to be able to overcome the string of lopsided trades and mismanagement. No matter how tough things got at the arena, though, I could always take solace in coming home to our growing family. I really didn’t get to know my father, who worked all the time when I was a kid, until I was much older. I knew I wanted to have a different relationship with my children. I like to think I managed fairly well for the most part, even if it wasn’t
always as easy to pull off as I would have liked. If I had one quibble with playing professional hockey, it was the amount of traveling. I didn’t mind being on the road, per se, but leaving Colleen and the kids so often was hard. I missed more track meets, hockey games, and recitals than I would have liked, but I always got the play-by-play as soon as I came home. By and large, though, I don’t mind sounding boastful when I say that I think Colleen and I did a pretty fine job when it came to parenting.

Since our first two kids still had all their fingers and toes, we figured the family could survive another addition or two. In the spring of 1959, we introduced Marty and Mark to their new baby sister, Cathy. A year and a half later, we welcomed their little brother, Murray, to the family. Growing up, it was only natural that our kids found themselves around a lot of hockey. They would scamper around the Olympia like it was their second home. I remember toting Mark into the dressing room with me once after a game. We’d had a few losses in a row, which made Mr. Adams miserable. He came storming into the room, hollering and screaming and chucking pieces of orange at us. When he paused for breath, the room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. With the impeccable timing that comes only with being five years old, Mark picked that moment to ask, “Hey, Dad, who’s that big fat guy?” My teammates deserve a medal for holding back their laughter. Mr. Adams didn’t say anything; he just tied up his rant and left the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, everyone nearly busted a gut. About a week later, Mr. Adams informed us that kids would no longer be allowed in the dressing room on game days. The team called it the Mark Howe rule.

Colleen and I gave our kids a lot of leeway in making their own choices. We didn’t believe in punishment as much as in trying
to instill discipline through mutual respect, and figured that guidelines were more effective than hard-and-fast rules. That was our philosophy, anyway. For instance, once they were older, we never had a curfew in place. If they were going to be home later than expected, we just asked that they call and let us know. We did the same for them.

I always hoped our kids would share my love of hockey, but Colleen and I agreed that we’d never push the sport (or anything else, for that matter) on them. They’d have our full support and encouragement regardless of what they chose to do. It would be lying to say I don’t feel lucky about how things turned out. Our three boys took to hockey like fish to water. Showing up at the rink as Gordie Howe’s sons wasn’t always easy for each of them, but they handled it in stride. I would have loved to have seen Cathy with a stick in her hand, too, but women’s hockey wasn’t on the radar like it is now (and, by the way, women today can really play). She preferred running to skating, anyway. I loved seeing her beat the boys in a footrace when she was a kid and then watching her fly around the track as she got older. In high school she ran the anchor leg for the 220- and 440-yard relays (which are now the 200 and the 400). She also ran the 220 on her own and competed in shot put. That lasted only until she dropped a shot and broke all of the bones in her foot. She spent a long year watching the rest of that track season from the sidelines.

Right from the start, Mark, who could recite stats for all the players in the league, was always the biggest hockey nut. He was constantly running outside with a stick in his hand, either to bang pucks against the garage door or to talk a neighborhood kid into playing goalie for him. He really took after his old man that way. Marty always liked the game, but he didn’t approach
it with the same single-minded focus as Mark. He might have loved football just as much, but he was eventually forced to give it up. When he was in high school, Marty’s football coach made him choose between playing in a big hockey game or attending football practice. He picked hockey and the coach dismissed him from the team. I respect commitment, but it seemed clear in that instance that high school football took itself too seriously. The coach should have lightened up. We always wondered what would have happened if Marty hadn’t given it up. He was a heck of a player and I think he would have been good enough to play football in college.

Born just fifteen months apart, Marty and Mark were close as kids, often sharing a room. Like any pair of brothers, they could also fight like cats and dogs, but their arguments didn’t last long and they were always there for each other when it mattered. One day, when Mark was still only in preschool, I remember him barreling into the house to tell me that a boy was picking on Marty. I was only half paying attention, so I told him that instead of letting some kid beat up his brother, he should clunk him on the head with a hockey stick. I went back to reading the paper, until I saw Mark flash out the door with a stick in his hand. Stupid me: I should have been listening instead of giving him a thoughtless answer. I hightailed it into the street and caught Mark just before he clobbered the kid with his stick. I learned a good parenting lesson that day. But it was comforting to see them stick up for each other when needed. I used to tell them that friends will come and go, but your family would always be there for you. The lesson seems to have stuck, I’m happy to say. Their loyalty also extended beyond their siblings. Mark was still little when he wrote this letter to me while I was on the road.

Dear Daddy,

We had practis at 7 in the morning. Mrs. V. drove us to the skating club. Thursday we are going to bramton. If you win the Stanley Cup we will win in bramton. i am glad you beat up the man in Chicago. He could not beat you up if he tried. i hope you have a happy birthday.

Sincerely,
Mark Howe

I was glad that I beat up the man in Chicago, too. He was a jerk and he’d deserved it. I also thought that Mark’s decision to end his letter with “sincerely” was a nice touch for a nine-year-old.

Our youngest son, Murray, was a good hockey player in his own right, but he never reached quite the same level as his brothers. His mother and I never wanted to discourage him from playing hockey, but we were pretty sure his career path would be away from the ice. When he was little, he just wanted enough space to play with his toy soldiers in a spot where his brothers wouldn’t knock them over. Later on, he was always looking for a place where he could sit quietly and read a book. In school, his report card was filled with As and he was a permanent fixture on the honor roll. Even as a rug rat, he was so crafty and smart we figured he might have a future in law. I remember teasing him one day about sucking his thumb. I told him if he didn’t keep it out of his mouth, it would fall off. He was a sensitive kid and didn’t like being teased by his dad. He was so upset that he went directly upstairs and asked Colleen for my address at the Olympia. She thought it was for a friend who wanted to write a fan letter, so she gave it to him. Little did she know the address was for Murray, and at that moment he wasn’t much of a fan. When I picked up my mail at the arena a few days later, the
handwriting on one of the envelopes looked suspiciously like my five-year-old’s. The letter inside simply said:

Dear Dad,

I do not like you.

Love,
Murray

By the time I confronted him about the letter, he’d forgotten all about it. He didn’t even remember why he’d been mad. Thinking he was in trouble, he became pretty nervous. Credit to my son, though: He kept his composure. He took the letter from me and stared at it like he was cracking a code. His face finally brightened and then he handed it back. “Don’t you get it, Dad?” he asked. “I don’t like you—I
love
you!” After that bit of fancy footwork, we figured maybe politics was in his future. Turns out we were wrong. He went on to become Dr. Murray Howe, MD.

•   •   •

B
efore Murray was even a twinkle, let alone a radiologist, I was lucky enough to share a very special night with the members of my family I didn’t get to see nearly often enough. I’d spent thirteen years in the NHL, but my parents hadn’t had a chance to watch me play professional hockey. My dad worked so much when I was a kid, I’m not sure he ever even saw me play a game in Saskatoon. Parents didn’t have time to cart their children around to games and practices. Kids took care of themselves without nearly as much involvement from parents as there is now. It would have been nice if my dad could have turned up to watch me, but it just wasn’t in the cards. That changed for the better in March 1959, when the
Red Wings decided to hold a night of appreciation in my honor. I was flattered, to say the least. The on-ice presentation happened between periods, and as team officials called me to center ice. I remember thinking how much I would have liked my parents to be there. Even then, I still wasn’t making enough money to bring them to Detroit easily, and they couldn’t afford to come on their own. My mom hadn’t been there since she’d come to take care of me in the hospital nearly ten years earlier. As for my dad, he wasn’t too interested in venturing out of Saskatchewan. Whenever I brought it up, he’d just joke that it would be tough to get away because they didn’t have anyone to feed the dog.