I know I promised something last night about the trade deadline. I went and got drunk instead. Sorry about that. Anyway, I was going to do something tonight, but I got the below in an e-mail from Ed. He was asking if we were still running the T-shirt contest. No we aren’t, but after reading the e-mail below, he’s getting a T. It really says it all. Enjoy.
It’s a ballet on ice, only the dancers hit each other. Teeth fly, the crowd roars in a frenzy, it’s the only time when both teams stand and cheer together. The shedding of the gloves is my favorite part, it’s the quiet silence, before the war.
There is nothing like a good square off, a fighter waves another in, knowing that the punches are about to fly for real, yet..they leave it all on the ice, swing until everything dims, the flashes and plumes of pain blind you, you welcome your 5 minutes of rest afterward..but get ready..because you may have to go at it again later, on another shift, it’s your job. Some guys simply love to fight.
The Goon, the policeman, the enforcer is just some of the names these beasts are labeled.. These Gladiators of the ice are a rare breed, and to pick a favorite isn’t an easy task. I’ve seen a lot of fights, studied them, who is a southpaw, who is the hardest puncher, who is the greatest fighter of all-time ? It’s more than a hobby, it’s a way of life. Being an Atlanta Thrashers fan, I never went to games to see some Russian sniper score a beautiful goal, we have plenty of those guys..
I wanted to see Jeff Odgers or Darcy Hordichuk slug it out with the other teams muscle, or Francis Lessard’s gap toothed smile, the madman who often laughed as he swung till he couldn’t anymore. I think he would have fought the refs if they would have let him. Lessard himself said that he didn’t like to say someone was tough. He didn’t care, he’d fight anyone. He just didn’t care who it was. You wanna go, Lessard would show up, win, lose or bloody draw. They don’t make many like that anymore.
These heavyweights were worth the price of admission, everything else was a formality. The game is great, but the Goons are what makes it special. Even when they lost, beaten, helped off the ice battered and bloody, i felt a mad delight at such a battle.
I’ll never forget a game from years past - in which I saw in person, our resident toughguy Jeff Odgers kayoed by Stephen Peat, I didn’t sleep that night, my hero got slaughtered, the rest of the team was flat, I felt betrayed as a fan. Odgers stuck his nose in every conflict, more times than not, he got the bad end of it. Odgy got his rapid fire swings in, he was never cheated, but the next morning I learned that Odgers had a concussion - but wouldn’t even miss a game, he had new wounds from his exploded nose, his face was a mass of red blooms. I was awe-struck.. I thought he was still in the hospital. I secretly prayed for revenge on Peat and the Capitals fpr pushing us around, but it never really came. That’s just the way it goes sometimes.. they were tougher.
I respect the warriors, these guys have the toughest job in the world. They earn it with busted knuckles and blackened eyes. Some of us bought a ticket to see these thugs “play”. Knuckles Nilan, The Grim Reaper, The Twister, all of the flashy nicknames, faces you’ll never forget, Rocky Thompson, Gino Odjick, a bloody hand waving PJ Stock, winning one for Boston, a tough little bulldog, Tie Domi and his nemesis Rob Ray in their millionth fight against each other,another epic marathon.. the Razor shirtless and trying to score another TKO. Domi’s giant head made of solid bone, it was virtually impossible to cut him, or cause any dents. The Bomber.. Joey Kocur and his donkey punch, minor league legends like Frank “The Animal” Bialowas.. Doug “The Thug” Smith..yeah.. I followed them all.. just wait till Atlanta calls up Myles Stoesz, that kid can really chuck them. Where has David Kaczowka gone.. Joey Teteranko and Bill Huard. These were my heros.. not Mario or Wayne.
These larger than life characters made it all fun, even though it was brutal when reality hit like a sledge hammer punch thrown from Ryan Vandenbussche . Nick Kypreos laying in a pool of blood, heaving and gasping, I honestly thought he was dead.. the dazed and confused look of another punch drunk combatant, a career ended because of a well placed haymaker, likewise for a Kevin Sawyer being helped off the ice and slamming into the glass because he was so out of it, in a cloud of medical problems from taking one too many.. Twist connecting and sending Mike Peluso into a deep sleep, broken eye sockets, piss on wearing a visor, countless fractures and obliterated facial structures..but they kept fighting, as long as they could, these warriors never hesitated to drop the gloves and settle it like throat locked animals in a scrap to the death. It’s a lost art.. it’s not about money or sport, it’s honor, it’s bravery and valid. It puts people in the stands, it builds a team, it’s real hockey. It’s the stuff of stories and legends, movies and allure, I love writing about it..
It was almost delicate, the hush of the most violent moment, the smacking sound of a fist grabbing purchase, knees buckle, the loser crumples to the ice in a heap, the winner with head bobbed, skates off to cheers, the swoon, the flashes and explosions of another bout distorting his vision as he finds the penalty box, the safe haven where you get free ice for your hands, clenched hands that bleed into your pillow at night. It’s about respect..
My attraction and introduction to this sub-sport was the King himself, the Legendary Bob Probert. It was methodical how he’d dispatch another goon with a violent barrage that few could withstand. I think he had all the intangibles, he was dominate longer, he was vicious in his reign of terror that lasted for more than a decade , he was a deeply troubled athlete and he fought until he was old and gray, still knocking down the young up and coming scrappers, Probert met them all at the gate, he beat them all, and it was he who greeted them with fire.
There was nothing like watching big Bob skate down the wing, and exact revenge on an earlier play, no one was safe, and it was no mercy when he unloaded his assault of swarming ill intent laden punches from the rafters. Probert punched holes in people, he was the complete package at 6 foot 4, a monster, a beast, a nightmare on skates, he could switch hands, he had power in both, he was savvy and smart, and more than durable. He was dangerous, and if his jersey was shed, so be it, it’s a fight, you better be ready when taking on the Champ. His chin was that of a legend in itself, it had its own aura and mystique.. Bob simply walked through punches to land his own, and if you made it to the later rounds with Probie, God help you once he started unleashing more hell he had left in that endless tank of his. He had an uncanny knack and will to win, the killer instinct most lack, he was a fighter, he was the best at it. It was scary when Probie would grin at you, that toothless half snarl, I’ll never forget him beating on Darin Kimble after smiling at him in the brief square off. Welcome to the big leagues kid ya know.. even his stoic glare would send shivers through the opposing team. His fight card will never be matched. Who else has beaten Dave Semenko, Dave Brown, Behn Wilson, every name they threw at him Probert would get his knuckles red with their blood. Splitting helmets and a furious attack, often his fights would rage on regardless. I think it was the only time Bob Probert felt he belonged, he was born to fight. what could they do when Probie would batter their tough guy, or smack their goalie, good luck if a brawl broke out, he’d take on 3 guys at once, bashing the faces in on all of them, and always ready for more.. he was a stalwart lion, I often waited for him to behead someone and skate off with their head, his stolen prize, his message sent.
It was the saddest day I ever had when he retired, the King bedraggled, his crown dusty and long removed, his aged and mangled hands, bruised personal life, scars and once overwhelming glimmer…almost forgotten and still able to capture all the glory he had more than earned. There’ll never be another Bob Probert. In our hearts, he’ll never die. He’ll always be the Champ.
I don’t know much about a favorite, but I know it was more than a pleasure to watch any version of Bob Probert out there on the prowl, The Prime Red Wing or aged Blackhawk.. still hammering people with his massive fists. He never ducked anyone, Probie took on the biggest and baddest, every year, even when he had earned the right to not be the Enforcer anymore, the ageless Goon, the blood-swollen God of hockey fighters, the alpha male, the King, the Undisputed Champion of all-time. Probert was my favorite, he was the best there ever was.
-Edward Moreland
