Wayne Gretzky's Ghost (31 page)

The Hurricanes called it a miracle. The media said it was one of the greatest comebacks of all time, but the goals were hardly deserving of such glory. It could be said, and will be said, that Brodeur could not be faulted on any of the goals, but it is equally true that goalies end up faulted on all goals. It's their job, after all, their only job, to keep pucks out. Vladislav Tretiak called goaltending the most “noble” position in all of sport. It is also the least understood—“not a job,” the late Gump Worsley said, “that would interest any normal, straight-thinking human”—and, by far, the most critically examined.

Brodeur's impressive catalogue of accomplishments—Calder Trophy as rookie of the year, four Vezinas as the league's top goaltender, Olympic gold medal, World Cup championship, numerous all-star game appearances—always comes with an asterisk in any discussion concerning the best ever. His great fortune and misfortune as a goaltender is to have played all his career with the same team, the Devils, a franchise so dominated by the defence-first, -second and -third philosophy of general manager Lou Lamoriello that it would be easier, some nights, to do play-by-play on paint drying.

One could well relate to Hurricanes owner Peter Karmanos when, during Game 6, the cameras settled on him in the middle of an enormous yawn. Under such coaches as Jacques Lemaire, Claude Julien and, now, Brent Sutter, the suffocating style of the Devils has at times been said to be the real secret to Brodeur's numbers, at least as much as his own impressive abilities.

Hockey fans passionately debate Brodeur's status compared to Patrick Roy, whose regular-season total of 551 wins he passed this season, and Terry Sawchuk, who still holds, if only barely, the career record of 103 shutouts. Both were brilliant in their day, though fewer and fewer even recall Sawchuk's day. The brilliant goaltender died in 1970 following a scuffle with a teammate; he was just forty. His finest moment came in 1952, when he led the Detroit Red Wings to the Stanley Cup in the bare minimum eight games required, allowing a total of five goals and getting four of the wins with shutouts.

But others will argue for any number of stars from the distant and not-so-distant past, including the eccentric Dominik Hasek, who arrived in the NHL well into his career and who won six Vezinas and was twice chosen league most valuable player, an honour that has never gone to Brodeur. Nor has Brodeur ever won the Conn Smythe Trophy, which goes annually to the MVP of the playoffs.

Jacques Plante, Bernie Parent, Johnny Bower, Glenn Hall, Grant Fuhr, Billy Smith, Ken Dryden, Tony Esposito, Worsley, Tretiak … the list of the best ever is as long as fans wish to make it. So passionate are some to knock down competitors for the title there is even a website out there called
brodeurisafraud.blogspot.com
. On the other hand, the
New York Post
calls him “the Gretzky of Goalies” now.

Because of the sheer numbers, it usually comes down to Brodeur against Roy and Sawchuk, with both certain to trail the thirty-seven-year-old Brodeur—who still has three years left on his contract—before this is over. Roy was the mercurial Montreal
Canadiens star who delivered improbable Stanley Cups in 1986 and 1993 but who was testy, self-centred and, usually, a pain to deal with. Sawchuk was legendary for his sourness, his untimely death in a fight with a teammate at a team gathering as telling as anything that can be said about him.

“Toss a cup of rice at Terry and he'd catch it all,” Randall Maggs quotes Ted Lindsay as saying in Maggs's powerful
Night Work: The Sawchuk Poems
. “But he could be one son of a bitch, and kept the others on edge.”

Brodeur, on the other hand, is hockey's most easygoing, approachable goaltender, a rarity in that he happily talks on game days, and a media favourite in that he will still talk, even after a bitter loss. In that, he is likely the best ever.

But as for this year's performance settling any debate once and for all, forget it. That argument is less about best ever than it is forever.

On December 30, 2009, Martin Brodeur shut out the Pittsburgh Penguins 2–0 for his 105th career shutout, setting a new all-time professional hockey record. On April 6, 2010, he recorded his 110th career shutout and his 600th career win by defeating the Atlanta Thrashers 3–0. The New Jersey Devils, under new head coach John MacLean, launched 2010–11 disastrously, in dead-last place by Christmas. Brodeur was among several players taking blame for subpar play. After MacLean was replaced by Jacques Lemaire (back on the Devils bench for the third time), the team began a rise through the standings that very nearly took them into the playoffs. Brodeur played well in the new year, but his overall statistics remained disappointing. In May 2011 he turned thirty-nine
.

H
e declines to speak on the matter, it being a personal and rather sensitive issue. But Ron Hainsey, fine stay-at-home defenceman with the Atlanta Thrashers, has a problem with today's NHL—he can't get a nickname.

He cannot because, under current hockey nickname protocol, he already comes with one, there being no known diminutive for Hainsey and tacking on the
de rigueur
“y” or “ie” on Hainsey sounds, well, just a bit goofy. And so, Hainsey must live with the fact that he alone is nicknameless on a team that boasts a “Stewie” (Anthony Stewart), a “Laddy” (Andrew Ladd), a “Burmy” (Alexander Burmistrov), an “Eags” (Ben Eager), a “Kaner” (Evander Kane), a “Sopes” (Brent Sopel), a “Litts” (Bryan Little), a “Bolts” (Eric Boulton) and so on and so on down through the roster.

In modern hockey, if you know the last name, you can guess the nickname. “There's no creativity,” moans Steve (Stumpy) Thomas, one of the last of the truly great hockey nicknames.

Thomas, now forty-seven, works as a player development consultant with the Tampa Bay Lightning following a shining twenty-year NHL career that included stints with a half-dozen teams including the Chicago Blackhawks and Toronto Maple Leafs. Thomas got his famous moniker when the Leafs called him up from the St. Catharines Saints during the 1984–85 season. He made the mistake of walking through the Leafs' dressing room in his undershorts and veteran Bill Derlago took one look at the short, stocky Thomas and announced to the rest of the team that the new rookie “looks just like a stump.”

“I have never been able to shake it,” Thomas says with a laugh. He immediately began answering to Stumpy fully aware that if he fought it, “they'd just come up with something more dastardly.”

Thomas now works for a team where one of the game's most exciting new stars, Steven Stamkos, answers to “Stammer” and
sometimes to “Hammer.” The Lightning's other star, Martin St. Louis, is—prepare for it—“Louie.” The lack of creativity Thomas mentions is endemic to hockey circles. Sidney Crosby remains “Sid the Kid” even as he enters veteran status. Alexander Ovechkin is “Ovie.” Patrick Kane is a “Kaner,” too.

Here, the modern Ottawa Senators are “Alfie” and “Spez” and “Kovie,” a far, far cry from the Sens of old: “One-Eyed” Frank McGee, Frank (The Pembroke Peach) Nighbor, “Fearless” Frank Finnigan (also known as “The Shawville Express”), Fred (Cyclone) Taylor, Reginald (Hooley) Smith … Goaltender Percy LeSueur of the old Senators was dubbed “Peerless Percy” by Malcolm Brice, the sports editor of the old
Ottawa Free Press
, and it seems most of the great nicknames came about that way; the gift, desired or not, from the local sports press.

The great Montreal tradition of nicknames—Maurice (Rocket) Richard, Bernie (Boom Boom) Geoffrion, Jean (Le Gros Bill) Béliveau—all came from reporters. The last brilliant Montreal moniker came courtesy of
Sports Illustrated's
Michael Farber, who was working for the Montreal
Gazette
when he happened to cover a game between the Habs and Leafs in Toronto. Goaltender André Racicot let in a goal on the first shot, the third shot and then a long shot, all early. Farber tabbed him “Red Light” and the name stuck.

Reporters weren't always particularly original—any player with Native heritage became “Chief,” all Campbells became “Soupy”—but they were far superior to most of what passes today for clever.

Hockey had such a rich history of nicknames that it is hard to believe it was only a few years back that fans cheered or booed “Terrible” Ted Lindsay, “Fats” (Alex Delvecchio), “Moose” (Elmer Vasko), “The Entertainer” (Eddie Shack), “Shaky” (Mike Walton), “The Golden Jet” (Bobby Hull), “The Big M” and “Little M” (Frank and Peter Mahovlich), “The Roadrunner” (Yvan Cournoyer), “Suitcase” (Gary Smith), “The Hammer” (Dave Schultz), “Battleship” (Bob Kelly), “Knuckles” (Chris
Nilan), “The Grim Reaper” (Stu Grimson), “The Rat” (Ken Linseman), “Cementhead” (Dave Semenko) and on and on and on. There was a time when even the coaches had brilliant tags: George (Punch) Imlach, Clarence (Hap) Day, Hector (Toe) Blake, Fred (The Fog) Shero.

There are today precious few left—Teemu (The Finnish Flash) Selanne is forty but still playing for the Anaheim Ducks, goaltender Nikolai Khabibulin is at times still “The Bulin Wall” for the Edmonton Oilers—but none ever again to compare to Frank (Ulcers) McCool or Lionel (Big Train) Conacher.

There is hope, though, however faint. Christian, the son of “Stumpy” Thomas, is playing for the Oshawa Generals of the OHL, pegged to one day follow his father into the NHL. That would be Christian (Stumpy) Thomas.

“He's got it now,” the original says with a smile.

G
oalies used to be dismissed as eccentrics and buffoons, clowns of the crease. Now they're hired as analysts. What happened?

It is noon at the Corel Centre, and Curtis Joseph, the star goaltender of the Edmonton Oilers, and Jim Ralph, the retired goaltender turned broadcaster, are sitting in a tight corner of the visitors' dressing room, speaking in a language only fellow goaltenders will understand.

“We got a great scam going,” says Joseph, laughing.

“One of these days people are going to cotton on,” adds Ralph, chuckling. “And then it's all over for all of us.”

But it will not be for a long time. For whatever reasons—and there more reasons than there are goaltending styles—the
goaltender seems to have evolved to a higher evolutionary plane than other hockey players. They are presumed by the media to be smart and are quoted widely. They retire and move, seemingly effortlessly, into broadcasting positions until it seems, sometimes, as if the entire world of hockey analysis belongs to old goalies.

Ralph, who hosts the Molstar broadcasts of Ottawa Senators games, is but one of several. Former NHL goaltender John Davidson, who does colour on New York Rangers telecasts, is the most widely recognized on-air hockey personality in the United States. Greg Millen, who played for six different teams, now seems to work for as many broadcast outlets, from
Hockey Night in Canada
to the NHL's own cybercasts. Former Chicago goaltender Darren Pang works extensively for ESPN and other American broadcasters. John Garrett, who played for Hartford, Quebec and Vancouver over a six-year NHL career, is a mainstay of the
HNIC
Western broadcasts. Brian Hayward, who played eleven years in the NHL, was a surprising and refreshing counter to Don Cherry this past spring during the CBC's telecasts of the 1996 Stanley Cup playoffs.

It didn't used to be this way. The current image of the NHL goaltender as articulate, glib, informed, analytical and smart is in sharp contrast to all the notions that preceded this recent development. In past generations, goaltenders used to be known for everything but. They had spectacular nicknames: Frank (Ulcers) McCool, Tiny Thompson, Frankie (Mr. Zero) Brimsek. They got caught up in silly stunts: Toronto's Turk Broda sitting Buddha-like on a weighing scale. They were renowned for their eccentricity: Jacques Plante knit his own underwear; Gary (Suitcase) Smith insisted on showering between periods.

There was Gump Worsley, with his Yogi Berra demeanour and ability to supply the game-stopping quote. (Asked which team gave him the most trouble, the New York goalie didn't bat an eyelash as he answered “the Rangers.”) There was Johnny Bower, going on national television to sing “Honky, The Christmas
Goose.” There was Gilles Gratton, streaking about the ice during practice with nothing on but his goalie's mask and once telling reporters that his injury was so old it dated from the Spanish Inquisition, when he was caught in battle in a previous life.

Now goalies are erudite, quotable, admirable, sensible, poised. What on earth happened? “Everyone was a buffoon back then, kind of,” says Ken Dryden, the former Montreal Canadiens' goaltender who is now an admired author and social commentator. “Nobody used to talk. The interviews we used to hear on radio and TV were all pretty bad.”

Dryden points specifically to the cast-in-concrete image of the late Jacques Plante as a raving eccentric, when he was known by his cohorts as one of the game's brightest thinkers. The beginning of the change in perception dates, in no small part, from the publication of Dryden's seminal book
The Game
in 1983. Here was an athlete not only writing entirely by himself, but writing magnificently, showing an understanding of the game—and the position—not previously available.

“Because the demands on a goalie are mostly mental,” Dryden wrote,