HOWE

HOWE
9


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Three days later, after the fog of the celebration’s hangover had lifted, there was a big Stanley Cup parade planned downtown. My Dad had to work, but a lot of businesses, the Michigan House of Representatives in Lansing included, closed for the day, while other people called in sick to work so they could see their beloved hockey team in the parade. Suburbanites funneled into the city en masse from Detroit's various arteries – Woodward Avenue from the north, Interstate 75 from the North, I-96 from the West, and Michigan Avenue from the Southwest -- still flying those Red Wings car flags. Mass crowds began assembling around Hart Plaza and Woodward Avenue just after daybreak. Jim Rund, my brother Patrick, my mom, and I all were among them. Jim spent the night Monday night, and on Tuesday morning we piled into my Mom's minivan and hit the road to Detroit, hoping to congratulate the players and see the Stanley Cup. Parking was hard to come by in Detroit, but we eventually found a spot and filed out, working our way through the crowds to the parade route. We stopped at one of the tent sales that sold Stanley Cup merchandise, and we each got to pick out a new, officially-licensed Red Wings Stanley Cup tee shirt for the parade. The parade route was so packed with fans that some resorted to climbing traffic lights and light poles for better vantage points, giving Jim and I the idea to climb a tree to see, at one point.

It was a sweltering hot day, and even in the shade of the tree you could feel the sun radiating off the concrete that surrounded us, the city air thick with smog, the sewer drains hissing steam clouds. We bought bottled water from a street vendor and dumped some of it on our heads, letting the ice cold water trickle down our necks and onto our tee shirts. From our street corner, we saw the giant, papier-mache octopus, Stanley, leading the parade in a red flatbed truck, then the procession of red convertibles, from which the players, wearing stylish sunglasses, waved to the crowds, and finally, bringing up the caboose, Steve Yzerman, wearing white Stanley Cup tee shirt and silver-rimmed sunglasses, hoisting the Stanley Cup from his own red Mustang convertible, his wife and daughter smiling and waving from the seat next to him. Even the red Miller beer zamboni from Joe Louis Arena made an appearance in the parade, driven by the octopi-handler, Al Sabotka. Tens of thousands of adoring Wings fans saluted Scotty Bowman, Brendan Shanahan, Sergei Fedorov, Steve Yzerman, Mike Vernon, Kris Draper, Darren McCarty, Chris Osgood, and company along the parade route, each of them drawing enormous applause.

Later that evening, we found out on the news that there had been over a million people at the parade, twice as many as had gathered for either one of the Pistons 1989 and 1990 NBA Championship parades. The aerial shots of Woodward Avenue were incredible. It looked like a moving sea of red and white, parting only for the procession of convertibles. It felt like many of those fans had grown up alongside that Red Wings team just like I had, going back from one heartbreak to another in 1994, 1995, and 1996.

That Saturday, a week to the day after the Red Wings had won the Stanley Cup, my mom and dad packed the minivan and roused us out of bed at dawn. My family had plans to visit Cedar Point with my Aunt Nancy, my Uncle Paul, and my cousin Joey, so Patrick and I were out of bed in a hurry. We ate a quick breakfast of Lucky Charms and brushed our teeth before we heard my Uncle Paul honking from the driveway. We piled into the minivan and hit the road South towards Ohio, my Mom's burgundy minivan tailing my Uncle Paul's silver Chrysler. We drove over the Toledo River, where great tug boats tooted on the water in between the smokestacks and rail yards along the riverside, then past hundreds of miles of what seemed a never-ending farm country in Ohio, until at last we pulled into Sandusky, where "Home of America's Rollercoast!" signs greeted us alongside Lake Erie.

We drove into the park via the Cedar Point causeway, a four-lane road with stone embankments on either side, the choppy waves of Lake Erie breaking smoothly into the rocks, until the steel towers of roller coasters appeared ahead, yellow, red, blue, and neon green steel roller coasters casting shadows over smaller wooden roller coasters and the sandy shores of Lake Erie below. "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life" by Third Eye Blind played on the radio as we inched towards the ticket toll booths. I squirmed anxiously in my seat belt, eager to stretch my legs and eager for the day ahead. I couldn't wait to ask Joey about his favorite roller coaster, about where he was when he watched the Stanley Cup, if he had seen Yzerman at the parade. We parked next to each other in the vast parking lot and we all got out to stretch. Flocks of sea gulls squawked and scavenged the parking lot grounds, and strange-looking fish flies coated the light poles throughout the parking lot like a fresh coat of paint. I braced myself in anticipation of "the drill," my Uncle Paul's traditional means of greeting me with his finger in my ribcage. Or maybe he'd have a new joke about the nuns at school to accost me with. When my cousin Joey climbed out of the back seat of his car, though, I saw that he'd been crying.

"Well, did you guys hear the news?" my Uncle Paul asked my parents, matter-of-factly, but I listened as though he was talking to me.

"No," my Mom responded, suddenly concerned, "what happened?"

"We just heard it on the radio on the way here," my Aunt Nancy chimed in, sounding heartbroken. "There was a limousine accident late last night."

"Konstantinov and Fetisov were in the limo. And a member of the training staff. After some Stanley Cup party," my Uncle Paul added stoically.

"Is he going to be OK?" I asked my Mom, but she stood there as if she hadn't heard me.

"We don't know yet," my Uncle Paul sighed, patting me on the shoulder. "We’d better get going, though," he said, pointing to his wristwatch and looking ahead to the park entrances.

There I stood, a couple hundred yards from the gates of the biggest roller coaster park in the world. In the early morning sun, I could smell from the parking lot the elephant ears, deep fried chicken fingers, and corndogs simmering in grease. The lines for all of the rides had just been opened to the general public and I heard the first shrieks and cries of joy as the first shuttles clinked up the first hill and then plummeted down along the hilly steel tracks. It was what should have been a boy's wonderland spread out before me, but the day suddenly seemed gray.

The tragic news of the limo accident sinking in, I felt overcome with a sense of sadness in my heart. The kind of sadness you feel at the end of summer, not the beginning. When your mom first broaches those terrible words, "back to school shopping," when the lightning bugs start disappearing, gradually, night by night, when the lawns yellow and flowers wilt, weary from July and August heat waves. That first Autumn breeze shuffles in, but the days are still too long and hot to be Fall. You wish you could go back and start it all over, but all you have left are the memories and the deep pang that it all went by too fast. It’s the feeling of summer dying.

Home is the heroin, home from the sea

"If you wish to alter or annihilate a pyramid of numbers in a serial relation, you alter or remove the bottom number. If we wish to annihilate the junk pyramid, we must start with the bottom of the pyramid: the Addict in the Street, and stop tilting quixotically for the "higher ups" so called, all of whom are immediately replaceable. The addict in the street who must have junk to live is the one irreplaceable factor in the junk equation. When there are no more addicts to buy junk there will be no junk traffic. As long as junk need exists, someone will service it."

"We sniffed all night and made it four times. . . Fingers down the blackboard, scrape the white bones. . . Home is the heroin, home from the sea."

"in a vale of cocaine and innocence, ski hut across the mountain, sad-eyed youths yodel for a lost danny boy"

William S. Burroughs

Naked Lunch

The Birth of Hockeytown Truly

Technically speaking, "Hockeytown" first appeared across center ice at Joe Louis Arena at the commencement of the 1996-97 season. In a stroke of luck, I found myself at that game, the home opener against Edmonton. My cousin Elizabeth -- who, as my siblings and I's primary babysitter, spent a lot of time with me -- had just started dating a firefighter-in-training named Bobby, and it was through Bobby that we got the tickets. When I first met him, he complimented me on my Red Wings hat, said he had season tickets, and offered my Dad and I tickets to a preseason game, winning me over in a single act. He took it one further when he offered, subsequently, to take us to the home opener on October 9, 1996 with he and Elizabeth.

On the day of that game, shortly after I got home from school, my Dad called me from work and asked if I had heard the news. “What news?” “Turn on the radio,” he advised, “check 97.1. The Red Wings just traded for Brendan Shanahan”. I ran upstairs to my bedroom and turned the dial on my clock radio, then patiently accumulated the details. In a blockbuster deal, Scotty Bowman and Detroit’s brain trust had traded long-time Red Wings Keith Primeau and Paul Coffey to Hartford in exchange for Whalers captain Brendan Shanahan. No one was certain yet if Shanahan would play in that night’s contest, but the news nonetheless made me even more giddy with excitement for the game than I had been at school all day. 

That evening, after a quick dinner, Bobby and Liz picked my dad and I up in Millwood, arriving in Bobby’s brand new black Range Rover, the first one of those I’d ever seen, let alone driven in. Bobby drove the four of us to downtown Detroit, one hand coolly on the wheel, leaning back to talk. He wore a Red Wings hat over his shaved-bald head and a black puffer vest over a longsleeve Red Wings shirt, displaying a big silver watch on his left wrist. For most of the drive, we continued listening to sports radio, which was still abuzz with reviews about the newest Red Wing. Bobby, a knowledgeable hockey fan, shared my Dad and I’s enthusiasm for the trade, and that was confirmation enough for me. A two-time fifty goal scorer in St. Louis, Shanahan had scored forty-four goals the previous season for Hartford, but he also brought a physical presence -- a sense of grit -- to what was perceived as a roster too soft and too finesse-oriented (read: too Russian) to win the Stanley Cup. 

As part of his season ticket package, Bobby had reserved parking at Cobo Hall, so we parked there and walked through the aerial hamster-tube tunnel to the Jefferson Avenue entrance of Joe Louis Arena, where throngs of people were waiting in line on the steep, red-railinged concrete steps Bright lights illuminated the exterior of the big gray box arena with red trim. While we inched forward in line, Ken Kal’s radio broadcast voice boomed from loudspeakers above, and I admired the monorail-style People Mover that curved around the arena and, along the rear of it, hugged the shore of the wide, brown Detroit River, the glittering cable lights of the Ambassador Bridge, connecting Detroit and Windsor, barely visible to the west. Trying to pick out individual jerseys on the backs of fans in front of us, I identified at least one jersey each bearing the names Osgood, Yzerman, Fedorov, and Konstantinov, in addition to historical names such as Probert, Howe, Abel, and Sawchuk. In doing so, it struck me for the first time that an entire community shared my one overarching passion in life, and I felt part of one in a way I never had at St. Michael’s Church. When we finally entered through the turnstiles, I immediately noticed the smell of the interior concourse -- blended aromas of melted nacho cheese, jalapenos, hot dog-boiled water, and the steam from it, Little Ceasar's pizza, and stale beer apparently steeped in the walls and in the floorboards. 

Fighting our way through the masses, Bobby led the way to our section and I tried not to lose my Dad while simultaneously observing the historical trophies, pictures, and banners displayed on the walls of the concourse, the endless procession of food and beer stands, souvenir vendors, and restrooms. We finally passed through a heavy red curtain, which opened to the red seats of the lower bowl and the ice below, then descended the concrete steps to our row. To this day, the seats were some of the best I’ve ever sat in. Leading us to our seats at center ice -- about twenty rows up from the glass -- Bobby nonchalantly pointed out Ted Lindsay and his grandkids, seated two rows up from us. My dad passed this information along to me, pointing to Lindsay’s retired number in the rafters, where his number seven hung alongside fellow legends Sawchuk, Delvecchio, Abel, and Howe, in addition to countless Stanley Cup and division championship banners. At center ice, the now-famous “Hockeytown” logo appeared for the first time as part of a new marketing campaign, and when the players skated out of the tunnel for the pregame warmups, we were close enough that I could distinguish individual faces of my favorite players.

As legend has it, Brendan Shanahan caught an afternoon flight and arrived at Joe Louis just in time for the pregame warmups, making my first regular season game there his first as a Red Wing. When he bolted out of the tunnel onto the ice and across that Hockeytown logo, donning a home white jersey freshly embroidered with the red ‘A’ of an assistant captain, the fans at the Joe went wild. Some fans around us stood, and as the standing ovation spread around the arena I stood, too, modeling my Dad and Bobby by clapping and shouting. In the interim between warmups and puck drop, Bobby and Liz went back up to the concourse, brought back nachos and sodas, and shortly thereafter we stood and removed our caps for the national anthems, sang by Karen Newman. Because Edmonton was in town, she sang “O, Canada” -- that beautiful anthem I’d forever associate with Hockey Night in Canada -- first, then the Star-Spangled Banner, after which Joe Louis, filling quickly to capacity, roared in unison once again; someone in one of the corners of Chris Osgood’s end even hurtled an octopus over the glass boards and onto the ice, prompting further applause when Al Sabotka, the zamboni driver and unofficial octopi cleanup crew, grabbed the octopus with his bare hand and twirled it around in the air like a symbol of battle. 

Shanahan, already a celebrity in Detroit, further endeared himself to the blue-collar town when he dropped the gloves to fight Oilers tough guy Greg DeVries less than four minutes into the game. DeVries landed a cheap shot, first, but Shanahan quickly tied him up, pushed him against the boards, and threw a couple of rights in the direction of DeVries’ head. It might be a stretch to say Shanahan won the relatively tame fight, but his eagerness to do so nonetheless drew yet another standing ovation from the Joe Louis faithful, Bobby, Liz, my Dad, and I included. Both players received five for fighting.

Between the pipes, Michigan State alum and one-time Red Wing Bob Essensa got the nod for the visiting Oilers. He and Osgood both performed solidly in net, and both teams swapped fruitless powerplays in the first before either team got on the board. It was one of the Russians who struck first; Slava Kozlov, on assists from Nick Lidstrom and Tim Taylor, beat Essensa with a little over seven minutes left in the period, giving the Red Wings a one-goal lead that Osgood never relinquished. In fact, the remainder of the game was relatively uneventful, with Osgood and Essensa stopping all chances in the last two periods. In the closing minutes of the third period, Edmonton, still down one via the Kozlov goal, pulled Essensa for an extra attacker in a last-ditch effort to tie the game. It backfired. Bob Rouse notched the empty-netter to give the Wings a 2-0 lead and ice the game, prompting the first of many “Don’t Stop Believin” celebrations -- the fans belting out, in unison, that misconceiving Journey line, “born and raised in South Detroit,” with audible emphasis on the “Detroit” -- that I experienced throughout the years at the Joe. Through Liz and Bobby, I felt like I’d received the VIP experience, and exiting the Joe via those smelly hamster tube tunnels, driving home, and finally going to bed that night -- long past my ordinary bedtime -- I could not wait to get to school the following morning and tell my friends about it.

Later that same month, Chris Osgood announced that he was going to sign autographs at Play Ball, a sporting goods store in my hometown, and my cousin Elizabeth, knowing he was my favorite player, came through for me yet again in that regard. Elizabeth and her friend Jenny planned to camp out in line to meet Osgood -- hours in advance of his scheduled arrival -- and they invited me to join them. I only needed something for Osgood to autograph, plus ten dollars. Failing (again) to convince my parents to loan me the money to buy the teal blue, Chris Osgood 1996 Western Conference All-Star jersey that I had my eye on at Play Ball, I settled, at the suggestion of my mother, on making a drawing of Osgood for him to sign. I hastily threw together a black and white shaded pencil drawing of Osgood in net, with a giant “96” shaded red in the background to reflect the year, his last name in block outline letters above that. On the date of the autograph signing, the line of people waiting to meet him extended around the block, but it was a good time. We had radios, water bottles, UNO cards, and snacks in a cooler to pass the time. When I finally got to meet my idol, Osgood himself personally complimented me on the artwork, but afterward, I wished I had used something more than loose leaf paper for the drawing. At any rate, we had the autographed drawing framed and hung it in my bedroom, where it was one of my prized possessions for many years, one of the first objects I showed off to other boys who came over to my house in the years that followed.

The real birth of Hockeytown, though, happened only days after my birthday, much later that season. I remember little about my ninth birthday -- it fell on a Monday, that year, so I was in school that day -- and wrote nothing of it in my journal, probably because of what happened two nights later; I wrote three pages in my journal about that night, including a drawing of Darren McCarty. March 26, 1997 was a night that would go down as one of the most unforgettable nights in Detroit sports history -- in hockey history -- and if you lived in the Metro Detroit area, you remember precisely where you were, who you were watching with when the fight broke out; you remember it much like my generation would later remember precisely where we were on the morning of September 11th, four years later, when we first heard the news of the World Trade Center attacks.

Steve Fideler and I happened to be at the Miller’s house, the log cabin at the end of Nankin Mill Court, on the night of the game. We were playing knee hockey with mini sticks in the Miller’s basement – Matt Miller and Steve versus Jason Miller and me. The Millers had a large basement with flat linoleum flooring that made for a perfect mini-sticks hockey surface. Matt and Jason even sprayed it down with Pledge to enhance maneuverability and speed. The walls down there were stocked with hunting and fishing gear – huge rubber waders, camouflage tarps, snake boots, silver-rodded fishing nets, other hunting necessities in cupboards – and there was an old-fashioned TV set off on one end of the basement, “That 70’s Show”-style. Around that TV the four of us watched the first period of that Red Wings – Avalanche game, the night the roof blew off the Joe. Throughout the first period there were countless scraps and stoppages of play, and you could sense the pressure building up in the arena even through the television. None of us in particular had been paying close attention when the big fight erupted. Someone commented on a fight, and we all dropped our mini-sticks and rushed to the TV as fast as we could.

Igor Larionov of all Red Wings actually started the melee. Taking offense to a jab by Peter Forsberg, Larionov retaliated with two left headshots to Forsberg, then wrapped his arm around Forsberg’s neck, putting him in a headlock, and the two tumbled to the ice. Then all hell broke loose. Darren McCarty had, suddenly and without visible provocation, turned around at mid ice and socked Claude Lemieux with a right fist. The punch felled Lemieux instantly, so that by the time the cameras caught what was going on, Lemieux was already down on the ice. Joe Louis Arena erupted in a jubilant roar. If it had not been for the motive of revenge, enacted in retribution for the injuries sustained by Kris Draper in last year’s Western Conference Finals, it would have been a blatant cheap shot by McCarty, but, as it was, it felt like sweet, vigilante justice long overdue. Lemieux made a brief move to get up, but McCarty pummeled his face with another right. After that, Lemieux assumed the fetal position, feebly attempting to shield his head from the blows, but McCarty lifted him to deliver several haymakers, then dragged the beaten Lemieux over to the boards in front of the Red Wings bench, as if displaying his kill for his tribe’s approval. When McCarty had finished with him, Lemieux had to be helped off the ice, his face visibly dripping with blood. There was a puddle of red on the ice where his body had been.

“Goalie fight!” Matt Miller shouted. Patrick Roy had skated to center ice in an attempt to join the scrum, but he was intercepted there by Brendan Shanahan. Shanahan sprawled himself at Roy in a flying squirrel attack, and the two tangled up. To a boy, we were shocked to see the undersized Mike Vernon rush to help, and secretly concerned for his well-being. Vernon stood only 5’9 to Patrick Roy’s bulkier 6’2 frame, and Roy was known to have a mean streak, but Vernon held his own when the two goalies finally met. Roy landed the first blow, but Vernon connected on a huge left that rattled and cut Roy. They exchanged several blows before Vernon ultimately wrestled the bloodied Roy to the ice, just as Claude Lemieux disappeared into the visitors locker rooms, the culmination of the minutes-long brawl. Joe Louis erupted in applause, providing a standing ovation, unleashing howls of approval for blatant revenge and violence that echoed Roman Gladiator days, howls cultivated over decades of frustration and recent years of playoff heartbreak.

It being a school night, Steve and I were called home sometime after the first period ended. Colorado held a 1-0 advantage at that point, but the score seemed beside the point. Ambling back into Millwood through the woods and the backyards, Steve and I thrust our fists at the darkening sky like amateur boxers, imitating Darren McCarty, Brendan Shanahan, and Mike Vernon, who would become Detroit legends overnight. We may not have understood the significance of the fight, quite then, but the excitement of the brawl aroused our passions as it simultaneously aroused the passions of Hockeytown collectively. That was the birth of Hockeytown truly.

Visions of Yzerman

Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with myself

Dickens

Bleak House