Mr. Hockey My Story (21 page)

Early in their careers, rookies often needed to be schooled quickly on what was acceptable and what wasn’t. Many were so eager to make an impression that they’d fly around the rink with little regard for anyone. Sometimes they’d even look to earn their stripes by taking on an established player. As one of the guys near the top of that list, I knew that tolerating such behavior was just bad business. When Stan Mikita was coming up with Chicago, he had to learn that lesson the hard way. Stan turned into a great hockey player, but in his early days he took a little too much advice from Ted Lindsay, who by then was a veteran with the Black Hawks. Ted had Stan running around high-sticking guys. Regardless of what worked for Ted, that wasn’t going to play for long. One night, Stan caught me in the mouth with his stick. He drew some blood, which never made me happy. Back on the bench, his teammates told him he shouldn’t
have done it. Apparently, he wasn’t worried. He claimed there was no reason to be afraid of an old guy like me. Stan had a lot of moxie as a kid. Nevertheless, for the rest of the game he kept a close watch on me, just in case I had any bright ideas. He told me later, “I wasn’t a dummy. I kept my eye out for you, and nothing happened.” The next time we faced Chicago, I kept to myself. Another game went by with nothing from me but a smile. One more game passed and I still had no problem with Stan. It wasn’t until the next time Chicago visited Detroit that I found my moment.

Stan was chasing me in our zone when I picked up the puck and hit Alex Delvecchio with a long pass that sent him in on the net by himself. As everyone else chased the play, Stan and I were left alone at the other end of the ice. He might have forgotten about the high stick, but I hadn’t. I glided up next to him, pulled my hand out of my glove real fast, and popped him right between the eyes. He went down like a sack of potatoes. His teammates had to carry him to the bench. After the trainer gave him some smelling salts, the first person Stan saw when he came to was Denis DeJordy, Chicago’s backup goaltender. Stan asked him what had happened. Denis just said, “Number 9.” It was a real “welcome to the NHL” moment for Stan. I don’t think he found it too funny at the time, but he laughs about it now. What’s even better, Alex scored on the play and I ended up with an assist. I didn’t even get a penalty. The referees hadn’t seen what happened and I couldn’t think of any reason to tell them. I understand that some people might frown on what they consider to be a cheap shot on Stan. To my way of thinking, though, it was just payback. If Stan hadn’t touched me, I would have left him alone. I think the rest of the Black Hawks got the message loud and clear as well. If someone took a run at me, he’d better be willing to accept what happened in return.

•   •   •

A
s younger players like Stan Mikita, Bobby Hull, Jean Béliveau, and Frank Mahovlich came into their own in the early 1960s, I managed to keep myself near the top of the scoring table. It helped to have Sid Abel behind the bench. He took over as coach after Jimmy Skinner stepped aside in 1958. The 1958–59 season was a rough one for the Wings, and it turned out to be the first time in my career that I missed the playoffs. If the experience taught me one thing, it was that sitting at home in the spring wasn’t something I wanted to do again. Fortunately, Old Bootnose, as we called Sid, managed to right the ship. His style of hockey suited my game well. By 1961, we were even back in the Stanley Cup finals. We couldn’t finish the job, though, and wound up losing to the Black Hawks in six games. Despite that disappointment, a deep playoff run offered some hope for the following season. Our optimism, as it turned out, was misplaced. The 1961–62 season wound up being a dud. For the second time, I found myself on the sidelines watching the postseason as a spectator.

That dismal season turned out to be all she wrote for Jack Adams. Bruce Norris decided that the club needed a change, so after thirty-five years with the Detroit organization, Jack found himself where he’d put so many of his former players—on the street. The general manager’s job was given to Sid, who also stayed on behind the bench. I don’t think it’s the way Mr. Adams envisioned leaving the organization, but it was probably fitting given all the times he’d reminded a departing player that NHL hockey was also a business. Norris did see to it that Mr. Adams landed on his feet after so many years with the club. Following his retirement, the NHL Board of Governors named Mr. Adams as the first president of the Central Professional Hockey League. This was a new league designed to
serve as a farm system for the NHL. In its first year, I think it had six teams: Omaha, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Tulsa, Minneapolis, and St. Paul. Mr. Adams was happy to get the job. Although he was sixty-seven years old, I don’t think he was ready to step away from the game.

Even without Mr. Adams in the fold, it was still business as usual for the Red Wings at the rink. I had another good year on the score sheet in 1962–63, ending up with 38 goals and 48 assists for 86 points. The tally was good enough for top spot in the league and my sixth Art Ross Trophy. The hockey writers also saw fit to award me my sixth Hart Trophy as the league’s most valuable player. I’d also won it in 1951–52, 1952–53, 1956–57, 1957–58, and 1959–60. Both were records that stood until the 1980s, when a young guy named Wayne Gretzky came along and broke them. I had some good years after that season, but it was the last time I won either trophy. By the end of the 1962–63 season, my career goal total stood at 540, only 4 shy of Maurice Richard’s all-time record.

Sitting so close to the Rocket’s career mark gave me a lot to think about in the off-season. He’d been out of the game for a few years after retiring in the spring of 1960, but I knew he was fiercely proud of his goal-scoring record. Given our history against each other, he couldn’t have been happy to see me closing in on that. During our playing days, it would be fair to say that I respected the Rocket but I never liked him. I’m sure he felt the same way about me. It would be lying not to admit that I wanted to take the record away from the Rocket almost as much as I wanted to become the new leader for career goals myself. After I retired, our hard-line stance on each other ended up softening considerably. I couldn’t have pictured it when we were battling in the 1950s, but over the
years the Rocket and I actually started to see eye to eye. As hard as it might be to imagine, we even became friends.

However, any thoughts of future camaraderie with my former adversary weren’t in my head when the season began in 1963. I started off well enough, netting 2 goals in our first game. I added another in our second, which brought me 1 goal shy of the record. I don’t know if it was the pressure or what, but with the magic number at 1, the goal-scoring gods decided it was time for a drought. I suffered through the next four games without a goal. It was a long two weeks. I was more than ready to put it behind me by the time the Canadiens came to town on October 27. I generally didn’t pay too much attention to the press, but the chatter had become hard to block out. My teammates were feeling it as well. They just wanted me to pot one to get it over with. I finally did us all a favor halfway through the third period. Bill Gadsby sent the puck to Bruce MacGregor, and he passed it to me in the slot. I flicked my wrists like I’d done a million times before and watched the puck sail past Gump Worsley and into the back of the net. The Olympia went nuts. I think the fans wanted me to score worse than I did. They gave me a standing ovation that lasted for a full five minutes. I don’t know how many people are lucky enough to experience something like that, but it’s a feeling I’ll never forget.

As tough as it was to tie the record, breaking it was even harder. Back in 1952–53, when I fell 1 goal shy of equaling Richard’s mark of 50 goals, some pundits chalked it up to the pressure of the situation. I can’t say I ever agreed with that assessment. Chasing number 545, though, was another story. The pressure was on. I felt it and so did my teammates. As had happened a decade earlier, they started passing up their own chances to score in order to set me up. I appreciated what they were trying to do for me, but I think some
of them forgot that we still had games to win. Despite all of their passes, I went dry for another two weeks. It was the longest five-game stretch of my career. It took another visit from the Canadiens to once again break the tension.

Whenever I hit a slump, I tried to get back to thinking just enough but not too much. Hockey moves so fast that you have to react to what’s happening in the moment, regardless of whether you had a plan beforehand. I was able to stay in the sweet spot most of the time, which was lucky, because searching for it wasn’t fun. Looking back at the chase for number 545, I know now that I was far too deep inside my own head. As the slump went on, I started thinking about all the things I knew about putting the puck in the net. I even thought back to playing goalie as a kid. I remembered that I had the most trouble making saves on low shots. Raising the puck is just doing most goalies a favor. When it’s in the air, they can choose to stop it with their body, glove, or blocker. For a shooter, the next best target is high in the corners. When I coached at camps, I’d tell kids to practice taking low, hard shots just above a goalie’s ankles, as well as hitting the top corners. Since it had worked for my entire career, it was what I fell back on to break out of my slump. What I wasn’t doing at the time, though, was remembering to see what the puck sees. Doing that allows you to simply take what’s given to you. That’s how I got number 545.

I was killing a power play in the second period when Billy McNeill picked up the puck in our end. He broke out with Bill Gadsby on the left wing and me on the right. As he crossed the Montreal blue line, he slid a pass my way, which I picked up just below the circle. Charlie Hodge was in for Gump that night and I snapped a wrist shot between him and the near post. It went in about hip high. As I was coming in, I saw that Charlie was
leaving that space open, so that’s what I took. The crowd at the Olympia went crazy once again. They gave me another standing ovation that seemed to last forever. I don’t know what felt better: the outpouring of appreciation from thousands of fans or the relief of getting the monkey off my back. Either way, it was a moment I’ll never forget. With the big goal out of the way, I also knew my teammates would stop walking on eggshells around me. They’d been treating me like I was a starting pitcher going for a no-hitter. It made for a tight dressing room. After the final buzzer sounded, Henri Richard, the Pocket Rocket, skated over to shake my hand. I’d just broken his brother’s record and he wanted to congratulate me. It was a classy gesture.

As it turned out, after that night the record for career goals had my name on it for more than thirty years. By the time my NHL career ended, I’d scored 801 goals, and 68 more in the playoffs. I added another 174 while playing in the World Hockey Association, plus 28 more playoff goals. As much as I enjoyed holding down the top spot, I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Records, as they say, are made to be broken. It took until 1994 for mine to fall. Wayne Gretzky, of course, was the one to do it. You don’t get called “The Great One” unless you’re something special and Wayne, it goes without saying, was a once-in-a-generation talent. Watching his artistry on the ice was a treat for everyone who loves the game of hockey. If anyone had to bump me down the ladder, I’m happy that it was him. As I’ve always said since then, the way I see it, the record is in good hands.

Ten

T
WENTY
-F
IVE
Y
EARS

W
hen I first made the league as a skinny eighteen-year-old kid, I figured that if I lasted a full season, then for the rest of my life I could say that I had played in the NHL. Once a second season turned into a third, I began to think that a future in hockey was actually realistic. At the ten-year mark, my body was still giving me the green light, so I didn’t see any reason to slow down. Even by year thirteen, when the boosters organized Gordie Howe Night, my legs felt like they had a lot of hockey left in them. As the years passed and questions about when I would hang up my skates started to be asked, I still didn’t give much thought to retiring. As long as I loved the game, played well enough to help my team, and wasn’t cheating the fans, I didn’t see any reason to pull up short. Age just seemed like a number. My body had taken care of me through my whole career, so I knew I could also trust it to tell me when it was time to stop.

I’d long thought that twenty years in the league would be a good milestone to reach. By the end of 1966—wouldn’t you know it?—I was healthy enough that twenty-five years started to seem reasonable. Not everyone appreciated my patience, I guess. My hometown, for one, got tired of waiting for me to retire before it did something nice. On July 22 of that year, the city of Saskatoon decided to hold a Gordie Howe Day to celebrate my career. Tens of thousands of people showed up to a parade and a rally. They even named a big sports complex after me: Gordon Howe Park. For a kid who got into his share of trouble on those same streets, the idea that I’d one day lead a parade through the town was beyond imagining. At the rally, when they turned the microphone over to me for a few words, it was hard to know what to say. It was a special moment and I had to fight to keep a handle on my emotions. Worried that I might lose the battle, I kept my remarks short. Standing there, looking out over the familiar faces from my hometown, I told the crowd it was something I wouldn’t ever get over. All these years later, I can honestly say that I never did.

The celebration that day in Saskatoon also marked the first time in eighteen years I was together with all of my brothers and sisters. Hockey has been so good to me that I don’t often say things that might sound like a complaint. I’ve traveled all over the world. I’ve played golf with presidents and visited with prime ministers. Hockey even helped me to meet my wife. Despite all of that, though, there have also been some sacrifices, the biggest being my relationships with family. I left home to play in Galt when I was sixteen. Since then, my devotion to the sport and then to Colleen and the kids kept me distant from people I should have kept close. I especially didn’t get to know my sisters that well. Sure, I knew them as Gladys, Vi, Joannie, Helen, and Edna, but I didn’t know them like you
should know family. I didn’t know their husbands or their kids. The responsibility for that belongs to me. I wanted to come home more often, but when your career is thousands of miles away it’s easier said than done. I remember being back home at a party once with about forty-five people gathered in a room. I didn’t recognize many of the faces, so I asked one of my sisters how everyone knew each other. She told me I was related to everyone in the room. I only knew about six of them, but they were all cousins. I wouldn’t swap my life for anything, but as the years have passed I’ve come to understand that playing in the NHL involved trade-offs I wish I hadn’t had to make.