Mr. Hockey My Story (24 page)

For the most part, the new league was populated with career minor-leaguers, NHL journeymen, college players, and eventually even Europeans, who were rare in the NHL at the time. To gain credibility, the WHA also pushed to lure big-name NHL stars away from their current clubs. Looking to make a splash, the new owners dangled higher salaries in front of players who had been underpaid for years. To the consternation of their NHL masters, Derek Sanderson, Mike Walton, Pat Stapleton, Dave Keon, and Bernie Parent were among those to make the switch. The new league even took a run at Bobby Orr, arguably the biggest star in the NHL. By far the biggest get, though, was a pretty big star himself: Bobby Hull. The Golden Jet became a real-life Jet, leaving Chicago to take over as player–coach in Winnipeg. The competition from the WHA did more than annoy the NHL; it also caused salaries to start escalating across the board. The players were happy, but it
actually backfired on the fledgling league, which was financially unsteady from the start. Team finances aside, the WHA offered another opportunity for hockey players to make a living. Still only teenagers, Mark and Marty couldn’t believe they might not have to put their professional dreams on hold any longer.

Colleen and I would have loved to be at the draft in Winnipeg when the Aeros called Mark’s name. When we finally made it to the auction that night, it’s safe to say our minds weren’t on the art. As it turned out, Houston wasn’t done dropping bombs on the league and our family. With their twelfth-round pick, they selected Marty. Both picks were a big gamble for the club at the time. If they were wrong about the legality of drafting underage players, the team would have squandered a pair of valuable picks. If it hadn’t before, the new league had now definitely captured the NHL’s attention. By snatching up the best young players from the junior ranks, the WHA threatened to upset the balance of power in the hockey world. The NHL was worried enough that, the next day, I got a call from no less than Clarence Campbell himself. The NHL’s president spoke to me at length about the ramifications of our boys playing for the Aeros. It would be a heavy blow to the league, he said, as well as something that would potentially jeopardize the entire system of junior hockey. He ended by imploring me to forbid my boys from signing with Houston.

After I hung up the phone, I spent the rest of the day full of mixed emotions. The NHL had been a fixture in my life for more than a quarter-century. I owed the league so much that I didn’t even want to think about the possibility of turning my back on it. Added to which, I never thought it was good business to bite the hand that feeds you. That said, I thought back to my dad telling us kids that if you didn’t look out for yourself, no one else would. In the end,
our decision came down to doing what we thought was best for our boys. I called Mr. Campbell back the next day and told him that I couldn’t ask Mark and Marty to deny themselves an opportunity they’d worked so hard to earn. I wouldn’t have wanted my father to ask it of me, and I wasn’t going to ask it of them. The decision, I told him, would be theirs to make.

For Houston, the move to draft underage players wasn’t a gimmick. They’d scouted Mark and Marty all year and figured our boys had enough talent to make a difference on the ice. To succeed as a league, the WHA clubs knew they needed to build teams around good young players. Our kids were just the first. As far as Bill Dineen and Doug Harvey were concerned, the hockey side of the business mattered more than having a famous last name. As for me, I’d harbored the dream of our boys playing professional hockey for as long as I could remember.

The thought was even on my mind on the night the Red Wings retired my jersey. The club held a big ceremony between periods of a game against the Black Hawks in the spring of 1972. A carpet emblazoned with a big number 9 was rolled out and I was joined on the ice by Colleen and all of our kids except Marty, who had a junior game in Toronto that night. It was an elaborate deal. U.S. Vice President Spiro Agnew even showed up at the behest of President Nixon. When I accepted the honor from Bruce Norris, my only request was that the sweater would be made available if one of my boys ever played with the club. Mark, who’s now a scout with the Red Wings, eventually did just that at the end of his career, but he chose to wear number 4 instead. Of course, he’s best remembered for the number 2 he wore in Philadelphia. The Flyers put that sweater in the rafters a few years ago, making Mark only the fifth player in franchise history to receive that honor.

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S
hortly after the WHA draft, we called the boys and brought them home to Detroit. The rest of the hockey world might have had a tough time dealing with the idea of them turning professional, but they didn’t share those concerns. The thought of getting paid for something they’d been doing for free for so long was all the convincing they needed. Colleen and I figured we could do more than just give them our blessing. Once their decision was made, we turned our attention to cutting the best deal possible for our boys. I’d spent nearly my whole career earning less than market value and we were determined the same thing wouldn’t happen to them.

As the flap about the underage rule continued, I was logging a lot of time on the phone with Bill Dineen, who was keeping us updated on how things were unfolding on the legal end. The Aeros looked to have a good case, but once lawyers get involved everything becomes a much longer slog. During one of our conversations I finally dropped an idea on Bill that had been spinning in my head since the whole thing had started. I asked him what he thought of three Howes playing in Houston. There was a long pause before he asked me if I was serious. I told him I was. In that case, he told us, Colleen and I should start making plans to visit Texas.

While only a few weeks earlier I had been grinding away unhappily behind a desk at the Olympia, the idea of a comeback suddenly became real in a hurry. When I’d hung up my skates, I’d assumed I was done for good. Two years on, though, the wrist problems that had played such a big role in my decision to retire seemed to be less of an issue. Over time, the surgeries to remove the bone fragments had started to bring more feeling back to my hands. My wrists weren’t exactly healed—they were still sore and
my arthritis hadn’t gone away—but my time away from the game had given the joints time to recover.

The idea of my returning to the ice made Colleen apprehensive from the start. At forty-five, I’d be playing against kids half my age. I also had a list of injuries as long as my arm and I hadn’t played a serious game of hockey in two years. I won’t say I didn’t share her concerns, but I told her I always knew what I was capable of when it came to hockey. I’d have to get back into game shape, but I rarely struggled with conditioning. All of the miles I’d skated on choppy outdoor ice in Saskatoon had built a lifetime of strength into my legs. I knew they’d be there for me if I asked. The bigger issue would come from deeper inside. When I retired in 1971, my heart wasn’t in the game the way it needed to be. After two unhappy years away from the ice, though, I’d come to realize something crucial about myself. I was a hockey player, first, last, and always. The thought of lacing them up in Houston to play alongside my boys made me feel like I was twenty-two again. I couldn’t wait to get back on the ice.

However, before any of the Howes pulled on an Aeros jersey, we still had to take care of the business end of the deal. We invited Doug Harvey, Bill and Pat Dineen, and Houston’s team president, Jim Smith, up to our cabin at Bear Lake. The first thing we wanted to sort out was whether the money would be right for both parties. If the dollars didn’t make sense, there wouldn’t be much point in going any further. We also wanted to get a better feel for the organization and the city of Houston. After twenty-seven years with one club, I knew all too well how big of a say the front office had in your overall happiness. The delegation from Houston ended up checking all the boxes. By the end of their visit, we’d worked out a package deal for the three of us. It would be worth nearly $2.5 million over
four years. Negotiating the contract made me think back to my first year in Omaha. I’d earned $2700 in 1945 and felt like I was king of the world. After taking less than market value for so many years, the Houston deal finally gave our family the long-term financial security I had wanted during my whole career. I liked the contract as a hockey player, but I loved it as a father and a husband.

Following our retreat to Bear Lake, our due diligence continued with a trip to Houston. Before we uprooted our kids from their home, we wanted to meet the owners of this new hockey club and make sure they could deliver on their promises. When the plane touched down, it marked Colleen’s first time in Texas. The Aeros met us at the airport with a limousine and placed yellow roses in our suite, which had a personalized nameplate affixed to the door. That night we took in a baseball game with the owners and their wives at the Astrodome. No papers had been signed yet, but the visit went a long way toward alleviating any lingering doubts. The money was right, we liked the city, and the organization looked to be filled with people of substance. By that point, we’d whittled down our checklist to two outstanding items: a conversation with Cathy and Murray, and another with Bruce Norris. Neither would be easy.

Only five weeks had passed since Doug Harvey’s draft-night phone call, but they’d flown by in a blur. Although our minds were made up about Houston, I was hesitant to tell the Wings. Despite all of our recent ups and downs, the team was still the only employer I’d known in my adult life. I hadn’t had much more than the clothes on my back when Jack Adams signed me to my first deal. Hockey and the Red Wings had given me a life. Saying good-bye wasn’t going to be easy. Houston had agreed to let me handle my business in Detroit before saying anything about our deal. They had the press release ready to go; all they needed was my okay. Keeping it
under wraps wasn’t easy. The press could sense something in the air, and it was starting to swarm. Colleen started to press me to tell the Wings to put an end to the circus. It was something that had to be done in my own time, though. I let a few more days pass before finally picking up the phone and calling Bruce.

In the eleven years between 1966 and 1977, the Red Wings suffered through the worst stretch in team history, appearing in the playoffs only once, in 1970. They snapped the dry spell in 1978, but after a quarterfinals loss to Montreal it took another six years for the team to see the postseason again. All of the losing tested the patience of a loyal fan base, which wanted nothing more than to see the club put a winner on the ice. I knew that my phone call to Bruce in June 1973 wouldn’t help matters. When I reached him at his office at the Olympia, our conversation was short and to the point. I told him I hadn’t signed with Houston yet, but I’d made up my mind and I wouldn’t be returning to the club. He said he was sorry the situation had turned out the way it did. I agreed.

When I announced my resignation later that night, I tried to speak honestly about my situation. I told the press that the last few years hadn’t been happy ones for me and I was considering an offer from Houston, where I could play with my sons. The Detroit papers took it easy on me, but they used the opportunity to unload on the organization. As a loyal and longtime employee of the club, it wasn’t how I wanted to leave. Unfortunately, the acrimony ended up taking on a life of its own. When the team handed over my last paycheck, it was for the princely sum of $51. Normally it ran around $2000, but the team had decided to deduct my recent travel expenses. We booked all of our travel, both personal and business, through the Olympia Travel Bureau, which Bruce Norris owned. We always settled up our account promptly, but with me on the
way out the door, they apparently wanted to make sure I didn’t skip town owing them any money. After twenty-seven years of faithful service, being considered a deadbeat felt like an unnecessary slap in the face.

My love for the Red Wings meant that I’d hoped to leave the club on good terms, but sports doesn’t always work out that way. The nature of the job as an athlete is different than trading stocks or crunching numbers. Players and teams often have relationships that are very public and deeply personal. It’s why even stoic athletes will tear up when announcing that they’re switching teams or retiring. I never considered my relationship with the Red Wings to be just about business. It might have drifted in that direction toward the end, but it’s still not how I feel about the team.

Just as hard as leaving the organization was saying good-bye to Detroit. By then, I’d lived there nearly twice as long as I had in Saskatoon. It was where Colleen and I had met and it was the only home our kids had ever known. The first house we bought after we were married was on Stawell Avenue. It was about three miles west of the Olympia and not far from where Colleen grew up. Marty and Mark were both born while we lived there. As they grew we started to feel like we needed more space, so we moved north to Lathrup Village. We had Cathy and Murray while in that house. All of our kids grew up skating on the ice rink we built in the front yard. Once I retired we bought a bigger house in Bloomfield Hills, an uptown suburb even farther north of the city.

When the time came to move to Houston, we had a tough decision to make about Murray. At thirteen, he was coming into his own on the ice and living in Texas, where the minor hockey system wasn’t close to what it was in Michigan, would have killed his chances to follow in his brothers’ footsteps. We’d always given
our children a lot of room to make their own decisions, so we left the choice up to him. It wasn’t easy on the family, but he decided he loved hockey too much to give it up. To our relief, some good friends, the Robertsons, generously offered to take him in. They had five kids of their own and Murray had grown up around their house. Murray was our youngest and leaving him in Detroit was hard, but it’s what he wanted. I didn’t tell him so at the time, but I knew I would have done the same thing if I’d been in his shoes.