I am not sure the moment when I cooled toward baseball. Maybe it was the batter, hitting a double, who slid into second, politely avoiding bumping the second baseman. Dusting himself, the two laugh with conspicuous gold chains, two buddy partners, having both invested in Uber’s IPO.
Detroit Red Wings legend Ted Lindsay wasn’t like that. He wasn’t anything like that. Yes, Lindsay eventually fraternized with the Toronto Maple Leafs, but only after his career ended. Yes, he adamantly believed players should be fairly compensated for their play. Ted Lindsay sacrificed more than anyone to elevate NHL salaries.
But Ted never confused any of that with hockey. In fact, he respected the competition as much as anyone who ever played in NHL history. Lindsay was the living embodiment of everything fierce, classy, tenacious, aspirational, and triumphant for the Detroit Red Wings. His brand was mucking ruggedly in the corners and winning an NHL scoring trophy. Small in stature, he was larger than life.
How do I know Ted respected hockey? Walk a little with me on this one. In college, I played Senior B hockey for a bar sponsor. Yes, Beer League hockey. I thought the “B” in Senior B stood for Beer.
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When the Detroit Red Wings Alumni team came to Grand Rapids to raise funds to grow amateur hockey, they played against us, Grand Rapids Grotto. We were like the Washington Generals as the foil for the Harlem Globetrotters. Knowing we were seriously outgunned, we brought in three players from the AHL Muskegon Mohawks for a semblance of credibility. Because I was right wing and Ted was left, he was my wing assignment all night. Ted and I competed hard, but got on well.
We could skate faster than they but no human being could ever skate as fast as they could pass. As Mickey Redmond likes to say, binga-banga-bong. Vulcanized rubber chimed of our posts and crossbar all night long. We would have lost much worse than 12-2 without help from the goal iron.
Planting myself squarely in the slot before goalie Normie Smith, Black Jack Stewart administered a gentle reminder tap upon me with his stick up where the sun doesn’t shine, well, just because. Lining up for the face-off, Ted flashed his signature crooked grin, and offered, “Mr. Stewart takes exception to anyone wearing your color standing too long in what he believes is his own space.”
It was real hockey. I wasn’t close to threatening their net, but at least I’m on their radar, I thought. Ted’s gnarly network of facial scars, resembling the street map of Paris, vividly reminded us of his hard decades in the hockey trenches. Those scars made his easy, beaming smile incongruous and disarming. What can one say about a full-blooded warrior being so joyous? I want to be like that.
We hoped to make the game at least respectable. Maybe even competitive, we dreamed? Not so fast. The yawning chasm between an NHL player–even one who is 50–and us was canyon-like. So we were disappointed in ourselves for not having given those paying customers a better game.
We shuffled to the Holiday Inn conference room on 28th Street for an apres-party, offered for the players. I ducked inside, my head sagging. I clearly didn’t belong there. Intimidated by his legend, it was Ted who approached me, “What’s the problem?” Again, that crooked grin expressed through 600 stitches.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why hang your head?”
“Umm… We didn’t play very well.”
He poked my chest with his finger, “You guys did just fine.”
“Right,” I countered, “it was embarrassing to lose 12-2.”
“Nobody likes losing,” he said. “But what impresses us is playing just as hard in minute 58 as in minute two, especially as a game is out of reach. You did that.” I didn’t know how to answer him.
Before walking off to make another beer leaguer like me stand taller, Ted gave me a parting shot. “You know, if you got a shave and a haircut, you’d actually be a pretty good hockey player.” Lindsay was old school. Like I said, he respected the game and respected anyone who respected the game.
The older I get, the more I love hockey more than any sport. Even now as the Detroit Red Wings falter badly, I still adore the game. Why is that, I wonder?
Lindsay’s passing clarifies it for me. I am attracted to athletes more skilled than those in any other team sport, who are genuinely humble, who elevate competition above preening the self. Ted Lindsay was everything I love about NHL hockey. I invite you to tell your children all about Terrible Ted. I pray that more like him will keep NHL hockey alive.