To this day, I’m still surprised by the speed of my recovery. As serious as my injury was, the timing also meant that I didn’t miss any regular season games. I was back on the ice and ready to go by the next training camp. The doctors did make me wear a leather helmet for a while, but I was so happy to be skating again that I agreed to it without much fuss. As for the Red Wings, they took care of business while I was in the hospital. It took seven games, but we finally beat the Leafs. In the Stanley Cup finals we were up against the Rangers, who had eliminated Montreal in five games in the other semifinals. It was a hard-fought series that went the distance. Pete Babando finally got the monkey off our backs when he scored in the second overtime of game seven. I was at the Olympia for the game and joined the celebration on the ice in my street clothes. I was happy we won, but I also remember feeling removed from the jubilation around me. I like to earn things, and I didn’t feel like I’d contributed that much to the victory. That said, after years of knocking on the door, the Red Wings had finally broken through. It was our first Stanley Cup together. It wouldn’t be ourlast.
Five
C OLLEEN J OFFA
T o be a good hockey team, you need talented players. I know that’s not exactly a profound insight, but it’s true. Plucky teams without much skill can steal a few games here and there, but they rarely win anything that matters. Having said that, though, you can have all the talent in the world and still not get anywhere if players aren’t willing to put the team ahead of themselves. A good team is just that: a good team. Great teams, without exception, are full of players who care more about the name on the front of their jersey than the one on its back. They come together less often than you might think.
Most professional hockey players have healthy egos. To be fair, they come by them honestly. As kids, they were always the best player on their teams. That all changes when they reach the big leagues and the talent around them catches up. At that point, someguys just can’t bring themselves to accept a lesser role, and they’re the ones who can turn a winning team into an also-ran. It doesn’t matter if it’s the NHL or your local beer league, some guys won’t ever understand that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. They might hog the puck or refuse to back-check. Maybe they chase their own statistics. The really frustrating ones do all of the above and more. The ways in which an otherwise skilled player can choose to play losing hockey are endless. The same holds true across all team sports. It could be hockey, basketball, football, or soccer; the modus operandi of a selfish teammate is the same. For a professional, the motivation to look out for number one is easy enough to understand. During contract negotiations, goals and assists speak more loudly than the number of times you gave up your body to block a slap shot. Regardless of the size of your paycheck, though, your teammates always know who’s in it for the right reasons and who’s not.
In the early 1950s, I played with a rare group of guys who put the team ahead of themselves. It began with stars like Sid Abel and Ted Lindsay and carried all the way down the roster. In those years, there’s no question that the Red Wings were stocked with talent, but that wasn’t why we won. The reasons went beyond our skill on the ice. We were a close-knit bunch who played for each other as much as anything else. You never wanted to look down the bench at your buddy and know that you’d let him down. In the third period, when the game is on the line and you’re dog-tired at the end of a shift, that can be why you dig deeper for the last ounce of energy left in your legs. Winning a championship takes a whole team willing to pay the same price on every shift. The opposite is also true. If you don’t care about your teammates, maybe you don’t dig in to
Five
C OLLEEN J OFFA
T o be a good hockey team, you need talented players. I know that’s not exactly a profound insight, but it’s true. Plucky teams without much skill can steal a few games here and there, but they rarely win anything that matters. Having said that, though, you can have all the talent in the world and still not get anywhere if players aren’t willing to put the team ahead of themselves. A good team is just that: a good team. Great teams, without exception, are full of players who care more about the name on the front of their jersey than the one on its back. They come together less often than you might think.
Most professional hockey players have healthy egos. To be fair, they come by them honestly. As kids, they were always the best player on their teams. That all changes when they reach the big leagues and the talent around them catches up. At that point, someguys just can’t bring themselves to accept a lesser role, and they’re the ones who can turn a winning team into an also-ran. It doesn’t matter if it’s the NHL or your local beer league, some guys won’t ever understand that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. They might hog the puck or refuse to back-check. Maybe they chase their own statistics. The really frustrating ones do all of the above and more. The ways in which an otherwise skilled player can choose to play losing hockey are endless. The same holds true across all team sports. It could be hockey, basketball, football, or soccer; the modus operandi of a selfish teammate is the same. For a professional, the motivation to look out for number one is easy enough to understand. During contract negotiations, goals and assists speak more loudly than the number of times you gave up your body to block a slap shot. Regardless of the size of your paycheck, though, your teammates always know who’s in it for the right reasons and who’s not.
In the early 1950s, I played with a rare group of guys who put the team ahead of themselves. It began with stars like Sid Abel and Ted Lindsay and carried all the way down the roster. In those years, there’s no question that the Red Wings were stocked with talent, but that wasn’t why we won. The reasons went beyond our skill on the ice. We were a close-knit bunch who played for each other as much as anything else. You never wanted to look down the bench at your buddy and know that you’d let him down. In the third period, when the game is on the line and you’re dog-tired at the end of a shift, that can be why you dig deeper for the last ounce of energy left in your legs. Winning a championship takes a whole team willing to pay the same price on every shift. The opposite is also true. If you don’t care about your teammates, maybe you don’t dig in to
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