The 50 Greatest Hockey Enforcer Names of All Time

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I. Hockey rules, eh?

ARE YOU WATCHING THE hockey playoffs?

Don’t worry, no one else is either. Except for the relative handful of us who understand it’s the greatest, if least understand and unfairly maligned, major sport.

While I’m always happy to defend hockey, I feel, in the end, much like I do when people ask me why I listen to jazz music: because it’s amazing. That’s the easiest –and most truthful– answer. I have no interest in trying to convince or convert anyone; but I will say, if you are the least bit intrigued, check out hockey during the playoffs (what better time!). For my money, it’s by far the most intense and consistently exciting sports action you’ll see. Or, let me pull that back: certainly March Madness is tough to top; and (sigh) even NBA playoffs eventually elevate the game (where, for the duration of the regular season, most players seem to phone it in). I would say, respectfully and as a huge fan of soccer: as excited as I get for the World Cup, I’m disappointed by at least half the games (the overly cautious play, teams understandably clinging to one-goal leads). On the other hand, I’m never disappointed during any games during hockey playoffs, and I could care less which teams are playing — a sentiment that exposes me as a true fan, or a hopeless case (or really, when it comes to hockey, those are the same thing).

Even haters would have to concede that it’s the one sport where stoppages in play are minimal (one timeout per team!), there’s no diving, and no malingering (hello baseball!), and it’s a combination of soccer (the pace, the athleticism) and American football (the intensity, the toughness) ON SKATES.

ii. The Code or, Fighters Gonna Fight

For some, the fact that fighting not only occurs, but is sanctioned (if penalized) will always be a non-starter. And that’s understandable.

Think about what a clown does: he is the minor but essential character who shows up at a circus with the objective of instigating misconduct. Above all, his purpose is to entertain with a mixture of mischief and cheer. A superficial assessment might conclude that a clown is simply doing, in make-up, what any drunk idiot might do. But of course whether it is juggling, dancing or doing tricks, not just anyone could be (or would want to be) a clown. It’s a job.

(And lest anyone think it’s either random chaos or unthinking brutality, hockey pugilism has a long yet fairly straightforward history. To understand fighting one must understand what is meant by “The Code”.)

Think about what a hockey enforcer (what we used to call a goon just like we used to call escorts hookers or stockbrokers sociopaths) does: he is the minor but essential figure who shows up in an arena with the object of instigating misconduct (hopefully without receiving a game misconduct). Above all, his purpose is to settle scores and entertain a crowd while invigorating his teammates. A superficial assessment might conclude that an enforcer is simply doing, in a colorful costume, what any drunk idiot might do. But needless to say, trading bare-fisted blows (sober or especially drunk) in a bar is considerably different than standing on skates and going toe to toe with an opponent who is well-prepared (and in some cases, well-paid) to kick your ass in front of thousands of people. Many people without athletic ability are very capable goons; only an extremely select group of individuals are able (much less willing) to abide by “The Code”. It’s a job.

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iii. Apologia

It’s difficult to talk intelligently with anyone about hockey because so few people watch (or care) about it. That goes double when trying to articulate the science of sanctioned pugilism. How can one possibly rationalize or defend the spectacle of adults engaging in behavior that would get them arrested out in the streets? (Indeed, fans are arrested nightly at hockey rinks all over the continent for imitating, albeit often drunkenly and with far less flair, the very behavior occurring in real time below them.) The answer is at once easy and complicated, like all truths tend to be. The easy part: there is no need to explain it. If you’re not a hockey player, you can’t hope to comprehend it; unless you are a fan, you have no hope of understanding or appreciating it. It’s really that simple. Seriously. Just ask a hockey player. (And, as perspicacious commentators have pointed out for decades, one notices how nobody gets up to grab popcorn once a fight breaks out. While that may speak volumes about the distressing devolution of our species and our insatiable appetite for violence, there is something a bit more sophisticated going on.)

So what is complicated about it? For starters, hockey fighting remains a diversion that people who genuinely deplore violence (like this writer) endorse and get excited about. What does that say about us? I’m not certain. But I do know that unlike the “real” world, it is exceedingly rare for two hockey combatants to enter the fray unwillingly. Yes but, doesn’t that make it a great deal worse, if they do it because they get paid? (Well, is boxing beautiful? Barbaric? Your opinion here will go a decent way toward explaining your ability, or willingness, to negotiate the enigmatic charm of the expression “five minutes for fighting”.) That gets to the not-so-easily explained sensibility of athletes (in general) and hockey players (in particular). Hockey players have traditionally been paid a great deal less than other athletes in more popular sports. It is, therefore, a bit ironic to consider that these players are more immune to pain and prone to play a regular season game like the world is on the line. It is, for hockey fans, refreshing that the players have an integrity that has been ingrained from generations and is remarkably resilient against the corrupting forces of salary, fame and product endorsements. Put in less exalted terms, people tend to get (understandably) cynical when, say, a baseball player with a multi-million dollar annual contract goes on the D.L. with a strained hamstring. That type of commonplace indifference is especially noticeable –and appalling– when one realizes that hockey players routinely return to the ice moments after receiving stitches, or losing teeth, or suffering bruised (and in some cases, broken) bones. Google it if you don’t believe me.

None of this is to say that one might enjoy the sport more if one learned more about it, but a casual viewer (or hater) might be genuinely surprised to learn a few things about the history of hockey fighting. For starters, the opposing players seldom hate each other and in it is not uncommon for them to be friends off the ice (particularly if they are old teammates). Also, the aforementioned code does have a rather elaborate –and universally endorsed– system for the rules of engagement. Finally, and perhaps most significantly: not only are enforcers generally the most popular players (amongst the fans; amongst the teams), they tend to be some of the more thoughtful and soft-spoken ones. (For two obvious examples, consider the ever-humble Craig Berube –”The Chief”– who toiled many seasons in the NHL including for my hometown Capitals and until recently was head coach for the Flyers; then there is George McPhee who became one of the more respected and successful GMs in the game.)

Of course, not all of them are model citizens, and for a variety of reasons (some understandable, some inscrutable), some of them have had very challenging and troubled lives.

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iv. Naming Names

There are great names in any organization, and sports of course is no exception. Hockey seems, to me, the gift that giveth much. Perhaps it’s because so many players hail from the Great White North, born in towns like Saskatoon, Medicine Hat, Fort Saskatchewan, Moose Jaw, Moose Factory, Thunder Bay, and Loon Lake.

But I’ve noted, for many years, how more than a reasonable percentage of hockey enforcers don’t just have names that are either interesting or amusing; many of them have names that are perfect: on both literal and even literary levels. And then there are the handful that are beyond perfect, the ones that would make writers like Shakespeare, Dickens and Nabokov wink and nod, and maybe even demur. No, they might understandably say, those are too good, too obvious; that’s too much of a good thing, no one would ever believe that.

Well, believe it. All of the names below are real, and aside from the Honorable Mention section (some names were too special to overlook) almost all the folks in the Top Fifty are primarily remembered for the work they did with the gloves off.

Honorable Mention

Toe Blake
Karl Dykhuis
Larry Goodenough
Don Grosso
Dale Hawerchuk
Shane Hnidy
Craig Coxe
Kris King
Keith Tkachuk
Jim Morrison
Bob Sauve
Jonathan Cheechoo
Darius Kasparaitis
Bill Kitchen
Uwe Krupp
Dickie Moore
Rory Fitzpatrick
Dino Ciccarelli
Joe Reekie
Roman Hamrlik
Colby Armstrong
Brandon Yip

And now, the 50 greatest Hockey Enforcer names:

50. Matthew Barnaby

Hockey’s Eddie Haskell is an ideal way to kick off this list. An innocuous enough name, Barnaby established himself as the premier pest in the game, and the clichéd guy you prayed to see get pummeled, unless he was on your team. A crowd favorite (to cheer at home, to heckle on the road) Barnaby knew his role and perfected it, an unparalleled trash talker who took all comers and smiled before, during and after most bouts. And seriously, for his average size, he had astonishing chutzpah, cheerfully tangling with some of the behemoths even other heavyweight enforcers typically avoided.

And, eternal praise to him for the time he took the piss out of himself and his opponent, providing a hilarious and enduring commentary on the entertainment aspect of this difficult business.

49. Dave “Tiger” Williams

Few people would remember the name Dave Williams, so Tiger was necessary. More, it was fitting: they didn’t call him Tiger, he was Tiger. And while he locked horns with anyone and everyone, like more than a handful of gentlemen on this list, he developed an actual game and could put the puck in the net. Bonus points for his sardonic –and convincing– opinion that stupid TV shows do more damage to “impressionable youth” than fighting in hockey.

48. Rick Tocchet

Speaking of players who developed from free-swinging to goal-scoring, Tocchet may be the best one-two, er, punch, in hockey history: feared for what he could do with the stick, and approached with caution for what he could do with both fists. Tocchet is the first of many men on this list whose last names are like verbs, or else adjectives that define themselves.

47. Felix Potvin

The Cat. Goalies seldom drop the gloves anymore, but if your name is Felix, you better be able to account for yourself. In addition to being a capable goalie, Potvin secured his all-time status –and likely became a hero– when he took down the truculent bully (and excellently-named) Ron Hextall. As Barry Melrose famously said of this dust-up, it’s bad enough to get bloodied when you instigate a fight, but it has to hurt to be bloodied by a guy named Felix.

46. Gino Odjick

Gino is good enough. Odjick puts it over the top. Together, they fit like a wet, stinking glove, discarded at center ice. Interesting sidenote: some –if not many– of the fine fellows on this list, regardless of the bruising work they do, look like lawyers or models. Gino, bless his ugly mug, is not one of them. Odjick has a face made for the penalty box.

45. Basil McRae

How do you top Felix? Basil! And Basil McRae, no less. As mentioned above, McRae is one of the fellows who, if you saw him off the ice, would be utterly in his element making a presentation in the boardroom. In actuality, he never hesitated to get the gloves off, and he seemed to always genuinely enjoy being that guy.

44. Reed Low

Charles Dickens strokes his beard and nods, approvingly.

43. Mick Vukota

The last name would likely warrant consideration, but pairing it with Mick? It’s less two words than a definition: MickVukota (one word).

42. Joey Kocur

Another action verb. Ko-sir. Another bruiser with a baby face, Kocur punched as hard as anyone who has ever played the game, and was respected accordingly. You see his face and think, Yes, of course: Joey. You see him land a punch that will last a lifetime and you think: Kocur.

41. Tie Domi

Dough-me. Wanna know me? Gotta go me. Domi was diminutive but always game, and, according to his opponents, gifted with one of the hardest domes in the sport. He went with everyone, many more than once, and he had nine fights with Bob Probert.

He was also one of the great characters in the game. This epic incident in Philadelphia (naturally) is a script from central casting, written by the hockey gods: it epitomizes everything we love (and opponents and fans loathed) about the inimitable imp.

40. Jordin Tootoo

I’m not going to ruin this by belaboring the point. Tootoo!

39. P.J. Stock

Another choir boy who could turn into the Tasmanian Devil at the drop of a glove, there are too many associations with “stock” to list –and all of them would be worthy and appropriate. He also had possibly the single best pas de deux of the last decade with Stephen Peat.

38. Dale Purinton

Q: I’m trying to come up with a name for a marginal enforcer who labored for most of his career in the minors, and made the most of his opportunity when called up to play in the Big Apple. I’m looking for something that resonates with accuracy but also a tad of irony. Any suggestions?

A: Dale Purinton.

37. Kyle Chipchura

No comment necessary. Except this: Epic.

36. Zenon Konopka

A name like Zenon will get you on some type of list. Planet Zenon! If you are a hockey enforcer named Zenon, and your last name is Konopka and you hail from Niagara Falls, ON, you will be #36 on at least one list.

35. Enrico Ciccone

It wouldn’t take an author with exceptional ability to come up with a name like this for, say, an opera singer. Or perhaps a wealthy socialite who rocks top hats and capes. So the name is already amazing. Then consider Enrico is a 6’4 pugilist with the necessary edge to make a living in the NHL and you reach a whole other plateau of perfection.

34. Ken Baumgartner

The Bomber.

33. Bruce Shoebottom

Straight up Dickens. That’s all.

32. Rob Ray

Yes, the name is pretty great. But when you have an actual rule named after you, you’ve clearly taken things to another level. A crowd-pleaser for many years, Rayzor took all comers –including thirteen bouts with Tie Domi– and relished every second.

31. Adam Graves

I know, right (1.0)? After hearing Washington Capitals color commentator (and former player) Craig Laughlin call him “Gravy Train”, it was like having a prime rib and then being handed a baked-stuffed lobster. Too much, too good. And extra credit for actually fighting with Darren Rumble. Yes, Darren Rumble.

30. Adam Foote

I know, right (2.0)? Another one Dickens would enjoy, Foote established himself as a man unafraid to shed the mitts, but he became one of more consistent, reliable and tenacious defenseman in the league.

29. Darcy Tucker

Environment or instinct? Is it a coincidence that a guy named Darcy –a name that is going to present issues anywhere, but especially in sports and most especially in hockey– ended up being one of the surliest and indefatigable scrappers in the modern era? Tucker was an entertainer, and it was more than a little appropriate that he often wore Maple Leafs blue, because he is the ultimate blue-collar specimen. Many fighters insist it’s just a business, but Tucker always took every second on the ice, especially when knuckles flew, very personally.

28. Louie DeBrusk

This is more Nabokov territory. An enforcer named Louie is fantastic, but DeBrusk is like the lime squeezed into the gin and tonic. Naturally, during his fights the arena would play his theme song. (Bonus: his fights typically went on for so long, a good chunk of the song could be played.)

27. Jean-Luc Grand-Pierre

Over-the-top for any self-respecting novelist. But the actual name of a hockey tough guy? Just wow.

26. Zdeno Chara

See, Nabokov would scoff at some of these names as too obvious, too much. But Chara? That’s just what the doctor ordered. Zdeno? Seriously? And Zdeno (Zuh-dane-oh) Chara? A specimen from Slovakia who stands over seven feet in skates? Who devastates players as a matter of principle. And the foolhardy ones who invite him to go? See below.

25. Paul Laus

Louse? No Laus, as in laws. Paul laid down the Laus. Laus Rocket. This name could only work in hockey.

24. Brendan Shanahan

Fighting Irish. Alongside Rick Tocchet, with whom he tangled, Shanny made his name early on locking horns with the entire catalog of NHL bad boys, and gradually emerged as the most complete player this side of Cam Neely. A natural leader who protected teammates and himself, and was willing, even eager to drop the gloves long after he became a superstar, Shanahan remains a man amongst men. That he later became an executive, enforcing discipline instead of being a disciplined enforcer, is only as it should be.

23. Ed Hospodar

Hot spur. Hot skate?

Shakespeare sues and settles out of court.

22. Gerard Gallant

This was, obviously, part of the Shakespeare settlement.

21. Donald Brashear

Brash. The Donald. Has as many notches on his belt as any other scrapper from the last quarter-century. Involved in one of the most notorious on-ice incidents in hockey history (in 2000), Brashear played another decade punching the clock, and other players.

20. Derian Hatcher

The Bard and Dickens high-five at center ice. This could easily be big brother Kevin Hatcher, but Derian gets the nod for two reasons: D-E-R-I-A-N, and while Kevin was a complete package and handled his business (in the crease, in a dust-up) as well or better than any big man in the late ’80s and early ’90s, Derian was like a meaner and nastier version (in a good way, of course). Derian wore the captain’s C and led by example, Bobby Orr style. Like Orr, he had teammates who would gladly step in and protect him; like Orr he was just fine taking care of himself. Even better, he took it upon himself to take care of business for others when he deemed it necessary. Playing with a snarl and an edge, Hatcher gave fans their money’s worth every second on the ice, and he was a pleasure to watch.

19. Sergio Momesso

Far be it from me to mess with sublimity.

18. Travis Turnbull

You needn’t have seen a single second of any hockey game to appreciate the glory of this name. For a boxer, a bit much; for a hockey player: just right.

17. Mark Fistric

“Mr. and Mrs. Fistric, you realize that by Canadian decree, your son will have to be a hockey player who, um, uses his fists?”

“Um, okay.”

16. Glen Featherstone

Shakespeare with a oatmeal stout hangover eating blood pudding phoned this one in.

15. Ben Blood

Seriously? And as if to live up to the high hopes his name demands, Mr. Blood broke not only “The Code” but sacred tradition by disrupting the handshake line to throw haymakers. Shame and props, in equal measure.

14. Adam Deadmarsh

The ultimate gamer. When Deadmarsh (I know, right?) dropped ’em, all you saw was flying fists and flying hair. A whirling dervish on ice, Deadmarsh made a name squaring off with players much bigger and stronger; what he lacked in size he had in guts. It also, unfortunately, led to some serious concussion issues.

13. Lou Franceschetti

Louis Carlo Franceschetti. That is all.

12. Dale Hunter

1,000 points. Over 3,000 penalty minutes (3,565 to be exact). True story: Hunter spent so much time in the box, when the Washington Capitals retired his number, he was gifted  with the old penalty box from the Capital Centre.

The NHL’s own honey badger, Huntsy was sui generis: he contained multitudes (the ultimate leader, Captain Clutch and occasional cheap-shot artist) and he was at once a throwback and a link to the modern era: he was too good to be a goon and too naughty to be a gentleman.

11. Tony Twist

Come on baby, let’s do the twist.

Twister went from being merely one of the scarier knuckle merchants in the NHL to, arguably, the scariest. Where guys like Joey Kocur wanted to hurt you, Twist often looked like he wanted to kill you. And he had concrete slabs instead of fists, so when he hit you, you stayed hit.

Ask Rob Ray.

10. Lindy Ruff

Ruff = good enough.

Lindy + Ruff? Top ten material, for sure.

(Lindy also earns his place in the enforcer hall of fame by becoming head coach of the Buffalo Sabres for 17 years.)

9. Jim Playfair

Playfair did his name proud, mostly in the minor leagues, but arguably is the one enforcer who’s best “don’t call me a goon” moment came while he was coaching.

8. Derek Boogaard

The Boogeyman.

Impeccably named, Boogaard also represents just about every aspect of the modern enforcer: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Fighting has been so entrenched, for so long, in the game of hockey, it’s unlikely there will ever be a reckoning where its role is reassessed or eliminated. But if there is momentum toward that possibility, Boogaard’s tragic rise and fall will be considered a tipping point.

7. Murray Craven

Like a relative handful of folks on this list, not strictly speaking an actual enforcer but…come on. (An aside: if his first name was John or Bob, he’d still make this list; but there is something more than slightly poetic about Murray Craven.)

6. Shane Churla

Okay. If Churla were one of the more handsome or beloved characters in the game, his name would simply be ideal, if ironically so. But his rugged looks and proclivity for, well, churlish behavior, result in one of the most appropriate –and Perfect-with-a-capital-P names in all hockey. Bonus points for the moniker “Chain Saw” Churla.

5. Darren Van Impe

Another name that would do Dickens proud. Unimprovable.

4. Marty McSorley

If you looked at Wayne Gretzky the wrong way, Marty would come after you. If you looked at him the wrong way, Marty would come after you. Even if you didn’t look at him the wrong way, Marty might come after you. From 1983 to 2000, brawling wasn’t personal to Mr. McSorley, it was strictly business. And business was very good. Until it wasn’t.

As a bonus, he was involved in what might be the all-time best hockey bout with arguably the all-time greatest hockey enforcer, Bob Probert, on 2/4/94. (Double bonus: this one is called by the best tag-team duo in hockey announcing history, Bill Clement and Gary Thorne.)

3. Garth Butcher

You are kidding, right? No, we are not kidding. Another unimprovable name; John or Joe Butcher would be, probably, Top 5 material. But Garth Butcher? End the discussion.

He lost more than he won, but he was always game, and remains one of the most beloved Vancouver Canucks alumni.

2. Jeff Beukeboom

Boo. KA BOOM.

Jeff.

Boo.

KA.

BOOM.

1. Stu Grimson

So many of these other selections could have topped this list, but I trust we’ll all agree that Stu Grimson, or The Grim Reaper, simply must be number one.

You read it and it works. You say it aloud and it sings. But you see it on the back of a jersey, and it’s art.

SGSo sure, it’s the best name. But to complete the perfection, Grimson remains as appropriate an ambassador for the grim art of goonery as any that came before or after him: well-traveled, well-loved, well-feared and, by all accounts, a true pussycat off the ice, even becoming a licensed attorney (no, really).

We’ll let The Grim Reaper have the last word.

This piece originally appeared in The Weeklings on 5/27/2015.

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2011: Time To Die (Part Two: July-December)

2011: In pace requiescat!

7/26/11:

Whenever an artist dies too young, particularly when it is a self-inflicted surrender, there is an inevitable (irresistible?) tendency to romanticize or lionize. That Winehouse joins the infamous “27 club” (Jimi, Jim, Janis, Cobain, etc.) only ups the ante and ensures that the same folks who salivated at her death-spiral will now weep amphibious tears.

I’m disappointed, as a fan, that we won’t get a chance to hear her mature and evolve from the immature chanteuse whose destructive and self-loathing tendencies overpowered the better (and prettier) angels sulking deep inside. I’m sad, as a fellow human being, that a woman with so much talent and potential was not able to love her life –and herself– enough to see how much discovery and excitement lay ahead of her. I sincerely wish she could have listened to her own music and felt the same thrill and astonishment so many millions of people felt. It may not have been enough to save her, but it might have been enough to help. And sometimes help is the first step to salvation.

I hope, and trust, she is sleeping well. And if there is any karmic justice she is able to feel some measure of peace and fulfillment that in some small way approximates the pleasure she was able to provide so many of us, despite the pain she was so obviously in for so long.

Read the rest, here.

Portrait of the artist as a young pup.

Wait, did I say artist? I meant barbarian.

No, that’s neither fair nor accurate. It’s difficult with Quinzy– he was many things, frequently at the same time: tameless beast, gentle soul, abominably-behaved, adorable, impish, awe-inspiring (of which more shortly), incorrigible and, above all, utterly unique.

Check it out: I have three separate, visible scars on my right hand. All of them are from Quinzy’s teeth. The largest scar is from a bite he gave me, while I was petting him.

***

I used to say (and I was more than half-serious) that while I did not believe he could ever die, if and when he did, the medical community needed to study him and find the cure for cancer. I’ve never seen a dog that simply did not show any signs of weakness or age for so long. He was not hyper, he just went at the world in a way that Auggie March would fully endorse. So with apologies to Saul Bellow, I’ll take the liberty of embellishing that famous first paragraph from his masterful novel: “I am an American, (puppy-mill)-born—…and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent. But a (dog)’s character is his fate, says Heraclitis, and in the end there isn’t any way to disguise the nature of the knocks by acoustical work on the door or gloving the knuckles (or muzzling the snout).”

Quinzy treated the world like his bitch and while I couldn’t (and wouldn’t want to) necessarily emulate that approach, it’s hard not to admire and respect it. I’ve never met a human –much less an animal– that slurped so much ecstasy out of every second he was allowed to enjoy. Quinzy got his eyes, ears, snout and occasionally his teeth on anything and everyone within his reach and he never hesitated and he never slowed down. Until he slowed down.

But we never thought he would die. We actually thought he would live forever. Or at least shatter some canine records. I still reckon that scientific minds should study his DNA and come up with the antitode for illness, aging and depression. He was the most alive dog I’ve ever known and I’ve known a lot of dogs. Dogs, if nothing else, are very alive and adept at living (they are dogs, after all).

I won’t get carried away and claim that the scars on my hand, which I can see right now as I write these words, are the ironic gifts Quinzy left me. But in a way I could not appreciate until this very second, perhaps he was giving me something I could not fully fathom, since I’m a human. Did he understood and appreciate that he had been rescued from abandonment or a premature appointment with the veterinarian’s least-loved needle? Who knows. Who cares? What was he supposed to do, thank me? He did more than that anyway, and he did it without guile or the expectation of gratitude, since he was a dog. He showed me how to live a less contrived, more memorable life. He left me with a part of him that I can easily keep in my head and my heart. Finally, in his own incomparable fashion he ensured I had a visible reminder or three I’ll carry with me until the day I finally slow down myself.

Full tribute to this amazing dog, here.

Sad new from the wire: guitar legend Bert Jansch has passed away (another casualty of The Big C). Story here.

My introduction to his work was, presumably like many punks my age, courtesy of Neil Young. In particular, Neil’s epic album-closing statement from his (greatest?) album On The Beach, entitled “Ambulance Blues” apparently owes more than a slight debt to Jansch’s ’60s tune “The Needle of Death” (interesting in its own right, as Young would of course write the enormously affecting –and popular– anti-heroin anthem “The Needle and The Damage Done”).

While I’m congenitally disinclined to join the choruses of hagiographers anointing this outstanding marketer, salesman and genius as some type of saint, I’ll certainly throw my hat in the very crowded ring and concede that our world would be much different (and not for the better) without his influence.

As trite as it may sound, Jobs did in many ways help transform fantasty into reality. For that alone, he is a monumental figure in American history and should be celebrated as such.

I am less concerned about what further inventions and innovations we may not now see with him gone, and lament the more simple –and human– fact that he is yet another human being gone entirely too soon because of the awful disease called cancer. It seems very sad to me that once again we are reminded that death is inevitable (not always a terrible thing; carpe diem and all that) but that cancer does not give a shit how rich, powerful or brilliant you are. For some reason it stings a bit more to see people with all the money and connections in the world reduced, like rubble, by this awful ailment that is an equal-opportunity force of destruction. I worry much less about which new toys Apple will produce and the fact that his family has lost the husband and father at the disgustingly, offensively young age of 56.

For now, it seems right –and human– to celebrate the life and accomplishments of a man who undeniably left his mark, and provided a past, and future that would be radically different (and not for the better) had he not made his mark. Equal parts iconoclast, countercultural guru and corporate crusader, he made a complicated motto (Think different) and turned it into a postmodern religion of sorts. We could have done much worse. Whatever else he did, Jobs thought differently and in the process, took much of the world with him. What else can be said but kudos on a life well and purposefully lived?

R.I.P., Smokin’ Joe. Another casualty of The Big C; yet another instance where even the toughest amongst us can’t overcome that greedy and too often indomitable disease.

There is not much I can, or would want to try to add to the remarkable life story of Smokin’ Joe. Whether it’s the made-for-the-movies image of Joe pounding slabs of meat in a Philadelphia factory (see: Rocky Balboa), or the way-better-than-fiction melodrama of his relationship with Ali (the fights, the hype, the acrimony, the endurance, the bitterness, the not-fully-resolved antipathy), there has never been anything quite like Joe Frazier. And his relationship with Ali which, well….just watch the HBO documentary The Thriller in Manila. Beyond Sophocles; beyond Shakespeare. No bullshit.

For mere mortals like the rest of us, how could we begin to understand what it feels like to come that close to death in what could accurately be described as blood sport? In front of millions of eyeballs in real time. Preserved forever on tape. And that’s just the (inconceivable) brutality that was inflicted and endured. What must it have been like for Frazier to know that he could and perhaps shouldhave won that fight? You think you’ve had regrets in your life? How about knowing that Ali had no intention to come out for the 15th? I can scarcely comprehend how Frazier got out of bed each day with this thought gnawing at him like a rat feasts on a cold bone. It’s likely that the same thing that defined him is what redeemed him: the stubborn, unflinching, brave and single-minded drive. To survive. To be the best. To be true to himself.

One need not denigrate Ali to elevate Frazier. It comes dangerously close to cliche, but it must be said that Frazier was a true champion. In many senses of the word. He was a fighter, but his biggest bouts always took place outside the ring.

It is a shame it did not happen while he was alive to see it, but it’s long past the appropriate time for the city of Philadelphia to erect a statue for its favorite son. The one created in the dank, reeking gym where they build legends, as opposed to the bright, plastic city where they make movies. If there is a statue for Rocky, there damn well should be a statue for the man who inspired him.

See whole thing, here.

Some extended thoughts from 2011 regarding hockey, violence and cognitive dissonance, here.

Snippet:

So what is complicated about it? For starters, hockey fighting remains a diversion that people who genuinely deplore violence (like this writer) endorse and get excited about. What does that say about us? I’m not certain. But I do know that unlike the “real” world, it is exceedingly rare for two hockey combatants to enter the fray unwillingly. Yes but, doesn’t that make it a great deal worse, if they do it because they get paid? (Well, is boxing beatiful? Brutal? Your opinion here will go a decent way toward explaining your ability, or willingness, to negotiate the enigmatic charm of the expression “five minutes for fighting”.) That gets to the not-so-easily explained sensibility of athletes (in general) and hockey players (in particular). Hockey players have traditionally been paid a great deal less than other athletes in more popular sports. It is, therefore, a bit ironic to consider that these players are more immune to pain and prone to play a regular season game like the world is on the line. It is, for hockey fans, refreshing that the players have an integrity that has been ingrained from generations and is remarkably resilient against the corrupting forces of salary, fame and product endorsements. Put in less exalted terms, people tend to get (understandably) cynical when, say, a baseball player with a multi-million dollar annual contract goes on the D.L. with a strained hamstring. That type of commonplace indifference is especially noticeable –and appalling– when one realizes that hockey players routinely return to the ice moments after receiving stitches, or losing teeth, or suffering bruised (and in some cases, broken) bones. Google it if you don’t believe me.

Another giant of whom we’ll never see the likes of again has left the planet. R.I.P. Hubert Sumlin.

I’ll resist the urge to say it’s the least they could do, since at least they are doing something, and acknowledge this nice gesture by the Glimmer Twins (who owe a great deal to Sumlin and his former employer).

You can usually measure an artist’s legacy by the people who worship said artist. If the names Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck and Jimi Hendrix mean anything to you, it should provide some manner of perspective for how huge and influential this understated guitarist was –and will remain. Like all great artists (musicians or writers) he knew instinctively to do more with less and use silence as strategy. Although he was remarkably proficient (listen to his grease-in-a-frying-pan lead on the immortal “Killing Floor”, later covered to excellent effect by a young Hendrix) he also had the smarts to step back and let the almost overpowering presence of Howlin’ Wolf run rampant. The result is the cool and effortless grace that so many subsequent rock stars trying to play authentic blues –including some of the ones listed above– have ably imitated but never duplicated.

The Wolf, of course, would have still been a supernova without the (amazing) band he assembled; he was too much of a force of nature, musically and otherwise, to settle for less. But he was wise enough to employ and retain Sumlin, who gave those old Chess classics their distintive edge and inimitable swagger.

More here.

Not a lot of fanfare surrounded the death of Howard Tate (a couple of obits here and here).

In a sad, sadly typical way, this is appropriate, since there was not a lot of fanfare surrounding him while he lived.

This is a terrible shame for many reasons, the most important being he may be the best singer you’ve never heard.

The dude just could never catch a break. Joplin’s cover gave him the opportunity he needed but…it just never happened. Bad timing, bitterness and frustration followed, and a man who should have dominated the decade ended up homeless, addicted to crack. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

Fortunately, he found religion and got his act together. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Better still, he was able to record and perform. It’s nice to think he received a modicum of the respect and appreciation that should have been accorded to him back when it would have mattered a lot more. But he did not die unknown, and he did not end up dead in the streets. So that’s something.

You can –and you should– grab hold of some history (for under $10) here and here (his song “Where Did My Baby Go”, which unfortunately is not available on YouTube, is worth the price of admission: Howard Tate sings the SHIT out of that joint and it’s a travesty that this did not go straight to number one and make him wealthy and well-known. The Lord works in mysterious ways).

I’ll resist the urge to note how untalented ass-clowns are getting record deals and reality TV shows, because it has always been thus. It’s still thus, only more so. And while that makes it harder than it normally would be to swallow the karmic injustice of a man like Howard Tate not breaking through when he might have, it is what it is. Besides, now is not the time to lament or complain: it’s time, as always, to celebrate what we did get, and what we’ll always have.

The music, of course, lives on (stop me if you’ve heard this one before).

Full thing here.

The best tribute I can offer to Hitch is that even when he infuriated me (something he did often when he wrote about politics after 9/11), he excited me. I’ve never read a writer who thrilled me as consistently and thoroughly as Hitchens did. He is one of the very few writers who could write about virtually anything and I’d want to read his take. Even, or perhaps especially, when I disagreed with him I came away a more informed and better equipped. In this sense, Hitchens –who at different times could accurately be described as a Marxist, a contrarian, a reactionary and an iconoclast– provided lessons for how to engage intellectually and spiritually (yes, spiritually) with the world. And think about those four words (and there are many others I could use): how many public figures could conceivably, much less convincingly, be described thusly? If Hitchens had sold out, his ostensibly contradictory stances might seem like a case of cognitive dissonance. In actuality, it was the evidence of his ongoing evolution, as a thinker, writer and human being. Evolution is never static, and Hitchens was always moving forward: ravenous, curious, ornery, insatiable. Above all, he burrowed into the world with the glee and intensity of a converted soul. His salvation was not religion; it was the simple and profound act of existing: I think, therefore I am.

Hitchens combined the range of Twain, the erudition of Mencken and the irreverence of Hunter S. Thompson. Of course he also had the political courage of Orwell, the acerbic wit of Cyril Connolly and the adroit literary acumen as his great friend Martin Amis. Of all the writers whose work I’ve worshipped, Hitchens was the most fully-formed summation of his influences; as a result of his monomaniacal addiction to knowledge, he produced an insight that is at once all-encompassing and wholly unique. At his best, Hitchens could remind you of any number of geniuses; at the same time, nobody else is like Hitchens. The Hitch is sui generis, on the rocks.

Much more, here.

So what did I like so much about him? Well, you have to be a soccer (i.e., football) fan to understand in the first place. You also probably had to be young and in love with the game. As a soccer freak, I was consistently at awe with how he managed the field. As I got older and understood he got his nickname because of his inconceivable temerity to actually read books, he became a hero on an entirely other level. He also was a chainsmoker. Suffice it to say, those were different days, my friends. More, he was a big drinker. Not celebrating this (indeed, the smoking and drinking undoubtedly led indirectly, if not directly, to his awfully premature death), but just putting it out there: the man knew how to live on and off the field. Oh, did I mention that he actually became a doctor after his playing days? Or that he was very progressive politically? Finally, and perhaps most importantly, this motherfucker rocked the beard.

More man love, here.

Regarding the amazing life of Vaclav Havel, there is nothing I can say that he did not say better himself:

Hope in this deep and powerful sense is not the same as joy when things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously headed for early success, but rather an ability to work for something to succeed. Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It’s not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out. It is this hope, above all, that gives us strength to live and to continually try new things, even in conditions that seem as hopeless as ours do, here and now. In the face of this absurdity, life is too precious a thing to permit its devaluation by living pointlessly, emptily, without meaning, without love, and, finally, without hope.

Another irreplaceable giant has left the planet.

Sam Rivers, always graceful, elegant and cool as a mofo, certainly carved out his own niche in the jazz idiom.

While his work as a leader will –and should– be celebrated, he also did remarkable work on sessions led by his compatriots.

Anyone not familiar with this great reedist should proceed directly to the tri-fecta of Fuchsia Swing Song (1964), Contours (1965) and Dimensions & Extensions (1967).

Check him out on Dave Holland’s classic Conference of the Birds (1973), Tony Williams’s Spring (1965) and Bobby Hutcherson’s Dialogue. After that, enjoy picking and choosing from the gems he created over five decades on the scene.

In one of the early obits to hit the press, this revealing quote from his daughter pretty much puts the man and his work in proper perspective:

“Music was his life, music is what kept him alive,” said his daughter Monique Rivers Williams of Apopka, who also handled her father’s concert bookings and learned from him the joy of making music. “My father, in my eyes, was on vacation all his life. He used to tell me, ‘I’m working, but I’m loving every minute of it.’ Retirement was not in his vocabulary. ‘Why do we even have that word,’ he used to ask me, ‘there should be no such thing.’”

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The Boogeyman, Goonery and Five for Fighting

 

The ongoing three-part series of the life and untimely death of NHL enforcer Derek Boogaard is an essential piece of reading for any hockey fan. And it’s a timely bit of sociological insight for a culture obsessed with sports, violence and a slowly-awakening awareness of concussions.

Not sure I have too much to add (for now) but I’ll revisit this topic once the third (and final) installment of the Boogaard piece goes live.

For now, here are some extended thoughts from 2011 regarding hockey, violence and cognitive dissonance.

After my post yesterday, “Back To The Future With Old Time Hockey?”, wherein I acknowledged –and celebrated– the recent trend of accountability and team-toughness in our most misunderstood sport, it was inevitable that at least one of my well-meaning friends would take exception. It was my good luck that it turned out to be one of my most intelligent and savvy amigos, who knows a lot about sports (soccer in particular) and life (in general); a dude whose opinion I always appreciate. And so, with gratitude, I will take his comments as an opportunity to say more about my feelings toward hockey (in general) and hockey fighting (in particular). I hope in the process I at least address some of his remarks to his satisfaction, and stimulate some thoughts from others, especially non-hockey fans.

2/12/2011, 8:50pm:

Seany-boy, I remember when I was in High School, someone said to me: “Why don’t you like hockey? It’s actually a lot like soccer.” My response was: “Oh, bullshit. In soccer I can dribble around someone with skill. If I beat them, I beat them. If I don’t, I don’t. We pit our skills against one another and see who comes out on top. Not so in hockey. In hockey, if I beat someone on skill they can just knock me on my ass. Or someone else can knock me on my ass. It’s redneck soccer – a crass, hollow husk of a sport.”

I hate to say it, but my opinion stands. All this emphasis on fighting is exactly what I expect from NASCAR fans, who, when faced with a couple consecutive accident-free races stare slackjawed and complain about the lack of carnage, instantly forced to confront how inherently boring their sport is.

Hahahaha!

2/13/2011, 10:21am

Sensh,

Needless to say, I violently (ha!) disagree.

However, I have heard similar sentiment expressed by friends (who love and understand other sports) over the years. I think it’s more than a little ironic, yet for purposes of this discussion, wonderfully appropriate, that you advocate soccer at the expense of hockey. Indeed, if there is one sport more unfairly maligned than soccer, I can’t think of it (I would say hockey, but as I readily concede, no one actually watches hockey!). Having found myself, on too many occasions to count, defending the great sport of soccer from simpletons who consider it “boring”, I can’t help but be amused by the fact that, of all things, you use the word “boring” to describe the one sport where there are no timeouts, no diving, and no malingering (hello baseball!)

Doesn’t it drive you nuts when bozo-Americans say “nothing *happens* in soccer?” The only answer, which could never satisfy the unimpressed fan (who probably prefers the wrong type of football) is that *everything* happens in soccer, it just happens in its own way, at its own pace, by its own logic, and in a fashion that should not –and cannot– be compared to other sports. Since we are simpatico on this, I won’t belabor the point; I suspect we probably have used similar arguments, however futilely, to try and enlighten non-soccer fans. That said, I also have to acknowledge some of the issues non-fans have with the game (even, if especially the game at its highest level: during world cup competition). The diving and drama has long-since gotten way out of hand; it denigrates the game to a considerable extent and drives me nuts. The (understandable, but infuriating) tendency of teams, if they happen to score first, to shut everything down and play ultra-conservative in the hopes of maintaining their lead. The embarrassing savagery of the fans (ever read Among the Thugs? by Bill Buford? Highly recommended).

And, I suspect, any serious fan of soccer with a modicum of sociological perspective innately understands that even the hooliganism is rooted in class and economic context; in other words, even that indefensible aspect of the game is more complicated, historically inculcated and, yes, explicable than a casual assessment would suggest. (Lest that sound like I am in any way defending or advocating soccer-related shenanigans, I am not; only recognizing that it has a lot more to do with things aside from a taste for “a bit of the old ultraviolence”…which, in another discussion, could conceivably bring us back to hockey and its origins which are not unlike lacrosse, a game initially played—in very brutal fashion—by the Native Americans. More on that later, as well as the socioeconomic elements of hockey’s origins and ongoing association with a very blue-blood—and blue collar—populace in the Great White North also called Canada.)

That said, when people claim soccer players are soft, I like to say the same things I tell people when they make fun of tennis: try running around for 90 minutes. Not even in the context of a game; just the simple fact of RUNNING AROUND for 90 min. Ah yes, but that just means they are in shape, the people inexorably say. Okay, try and maneuver a soccer ball, while running and having people stick their feet, arms, shoulders, and torsos at and around you. (Just like it’s always humbling, to this day, to think I’ve got some game when I play b-ball and shoot around with myself, draining all my shots; then get into some on-court action vs. actual people and I realize, instantly how short, weak and white I am).

The best part, to me, is that of all the sports, soccer and hockey are most similar. If you watch a hockey game you’ll see the similarities are astonishing: it’s just that everything is faster and (sorry) much more intense. The “field” is smaller so there is less space, therefore more contact, and in this regard, it’s like (American) football. ON SKATES. Interestingly, for a person like yourself, you might be pleased, or at least surprised to know that the skill-set (similar to most sports) has increased incalculably over the years. Not unlike other sports (football in particular), looking back at footage even 20 years ago makes it seem that, by comparison, it used to be in black and white and slo-mo; even the fourth line players these days are in top shape, cut out of marble and fast: they are, in a sense, like linebackers, ON SKATES.

I feel, in the end, much like I do when people ask me why I listen to jazz music: because it’s great. That’s the easiest (and most truthful) answer. I have no interest in trying to convince or convert anyone; but I will say, if you are the least bit intrigued, check out hockey during the playoffs: that is BY FAR the most intense and exciting sports action you’ll see. Or, let me pull that back: certainly March Madness is tough to top; and (sigh) even NBA playoffs eventually elevate the game (where, for the duration of the regular season, most players seem to phone it in). I would say, respectfully and as a huge fan of soccer: as excited as I get for the World Cup, I’m disappointed by at least half the games (for many of the reasons listed above); I’m never, ever, disappointed during ANY games during hockey playoffs, and I could care less which teams are playing– a sentiment that exposes me as a true fan, or a hopeless case (or really, when it comes to hockey, those are the same thing).

Notice we didn’t even get into the fighting aspect yet?

I realize I could/should say more, but I already offered some opinions on this controversial aspect of the game this past July on the unfortunate occasion of Bob Probert’s passing. Probie was arguably the consensus all-time heavyweight champion enforcer (or goon, if you must) and any discussion of his life—and impact—necessarily touches on several aspects of an element of the game that entices some and appalls other. I’ll repost, below. And I definitely welcome comments, opinions and the inevitable assumption by some/many that the only thing more inexplicable than watching hockey is taking time to discuss it.

This hurts.

R.I.P. Probie.

Quick tally: #24, over 3,000 penalty minutes. Member, along with Joe Kocur, of the legendary “Bruise Brothers” tandem back in the days when the Detroit Red Wings were more feared for what they could do after the whistle stopped play. Participant in a handful of the all-time classic fights in hockey history. Man who inspired t-shirts that read “Give Blood. Fight Probert.” Simply put, if one were to try and create the ideal enforcer (especially for an era that may not have been the toughest or most iconic era but was one of the most enjoyable), one could hardly imagine a more suitable cartoon character than Bob Probert.

As The Kinks once sang, Let’s All Drink To The Death Of A Clown.

And lest anyone think I’m using the word clown carelessly or disrespectfully, it is in fact chosen with the aim of being both accurate and approbatory. (A Probie-tory, if you like.)

Think about what a clown does: he is the minor but essential character who shows up at a circus with the objective of instigating misconduct. Above all, his purpose is to entertain with a mixture of mischief and cheer. A superficial assessment might conclude that a clown is simply doing, in make-up, what any drunk idiot might do. But of course whether it is juggling, dancing or doing tricks, not just anyone could be (or would want to be) a clown. It’s a job.

Think about what a hockey enforcer (what we used to call a goon just like we used to call escorts hookers or stockbrokers sociopaths) does: he is the minor but essential figure who shows up in an arena with the object of instigating misconduct (hopefully without receiving a game misconduct). Above all, his purpose is to settle scores and entertain a crowd while invigorating his teammates. A superficial assessment might conclude that an enforcer is simply doing, in a colorful costume, what any drunk idiot might do. But needless to say, trading bare-fisted blows (sober or especially drunk) in a bar is considerably different than standing on skates and going toe to toe with an opponent who is well-prepared (and in some cases, well-paid) to kick your ass in front of thousands of people. Many people without athletic ability are very capable goons; only an extremely select group of individuals are able (much less willing) to abide by “The Code”. It’s a job.

It’s difficult to talk intelligently with anyone about hockey because so few people watch (or care) about it. That goes double when trying to articulate the science of sanctioned pugilism. How can one possibly rationalize or defend the spectacle of adults engaging in behavior that would get them arrested out in the streets? (Indeed, fans are arrested nightly at hockey rinks all over the continent for imitating, albeit often drunkenly and with far less flair, the very behavior occurring in real time below them.) The answer is at once easy and complicated, like all truths tend to be. The easy part: there is no need to explain it. If you’re not a hockey player, you can’t hope to comprehend it; unless you are a fan, you have no hope of understanding or appreciating it. It’s really that simple. Seriously. Just ask a hockey player. (And, as perspicacious commentators have pointed out for decades, one notices how nobody gets up to grab popcorn once a fight breaks out. While that may speak volumes about the distressing devolution of our species and our insatiable appetite for violence, there is something a bit more sophisticated going on.)

So what is complicated about it? For starters, hockey fighting remains a diversion that people who genuinely deplore violence (like this writer) endorse and get excited about. What does that say about us? I’m not certain. But I do know that unlike the “real” world, it is exceedingly rare for two hockey combatants to enter the fray unwillingly. Yes but, doesn’t that make it a great deal worse, if they do it because they get paid? (Well, is boxing beatiful? Brutal? Your opinion here will go a decent way toward explaining your ability, or willingness, to negotiate the enigmatic charm of the expression “five minutes for fighting”.) That gets to the not-so-easily explained sensibility of athletes (in general) and hockey players (in particular). Hockey players have traditionally been paid a great deal less than other athletes in more popular sports. It is, therefore, a bit ironic to consider that these players are more immune to pain and prone to play a regular season game like the world is on the line. It is, for hockey fans, refreshing that the players have an integrity that has been ingrained from generations and is remarkably resilient against the corrupting forces of salary, fame and product endorsements. Put in less exalted terms, people tend to get (understandably) cynical when, say, a baseball player with a multi-million dollar annual contract goes on the D.L. with a strained hamstring. That type of commonplace indifference is especially noticeable –and appalling– when one realizes that hockey players routinely return to the ice moments after receiving stitches, or losing teeth, or suffering bruised (and in some cases, broken) bones. Google it if you don’t believe me.

None of this is to say that one might enjoy the sport more if one learned more about it, but a casual viewer (or hater) might be genuinely surprised to learn a few things about the history of hockey fighting. For starters, the opposing players seldom hate each other and in it is not uncommon for them to be friends off the ice (particularly if they are old teammates). Also, the aforementioned code does have a rather elaborate –and universally endorsed– system for the rules of engagement. Finally, and perhaps most significantly: not only are enforcers generally the most popular players (amongst the fans; amongst the teams), they tend to be some of the more thoughtful and soft-spoken ones. (For two obvious examples, consider the ever-humble Craig Berube –“The Chief”– who toiled many seasons in the NHL including for my hometown Capitals and now is an assistant coach for the Flyers; then there is George McPhee who happens to be one of the more respected and successful GMs in the game.)

Of course, not all of them are model citizens, and for a variety of reasons (some understandable, some inscrutable), some of them have had very challenging and troubled lives.

Enter Bob Probert. Though it is debatable whether or not he (or any particular player) was “the best” enforcer in the history of organized hockey, not many people would argue with any credibility that he is not at least in the Top 10. For my money, pound for pound and in terms of longevity, respect, quality of opponents and success, Probert is the preeminent knuckle artist of the modern era.

Let the cliched encomiums unfurl: he feared nobody. He fought everyone. Ultimate warrior. Ideal teammate. Crowd pleaser. Accomplished actor? Well, see below:

As Detroit (and Chicago) residents know, and as fans of the game remember, Probert battled the proverbial demons off the ice as well. His struggles with alcohol and substance abuse is amply documented. His occasional escapades drew the attention of law enforcement officials. He was, in short, a troubled man in certain ways, but he was always resilient, and never let his addictions keep him down (or out).

(The actual history of his difficulties is sufficiently reported that folks interested in more can easily find out with the click of a mouse. I also acknowledge that his livelihood may have done as much to exacerbate his issues as it did to ameliorate them. In other words, he quite possibly may have gone down certain roads whether or not he played hockey or threw a single punch. But I readily concede that there is an ugly side to sports, just like there is a sinister side to life, and all of us are constantly pushed and pulled by the momentum of necessity and choice, and the inexorable reality that we have to pay bills and obey laws. A more sustained –and serious– discussion of sports, hockey, hockey fighting and some of the casualties of this game (think John “Rambo” Kordic’s tragic story) should occur at another time.)

For now, in addition to wishing him a fond adieu and sincerely sending out support and goodwill to his family and friends, I’d like to celebrate some of the most memorable instances of him doing what he did better than just about anyone who ever laced up the skates.

1. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round One):

2. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round Two):

3. Bob Probert vs. Dave Semenko:

4. Bob Probert vs. Troy Crowder:

5. Bob Probert vs. Tie Domi (The Epic Saga):

**Bonus: It might make sense to go ahead and include, just for the heck of it, THE BEST HOCKEY FIGHT OF ALL TIME**

Bob Probert vs. Marty McSorley (Two of the best of their generation in a game called by the best hockey announcers of their generation, Gary Thorne and the immortal and inimitable Bill Clement):

If he had kept his act together a little better, he would have retired a Red Wing, possibly kissed the Cup, and pretty much owned the Motor City. Somebody could make a movie like that. Of course, somebody already did: his name was Bob Probert and the movie was his life. Not all movies have happy endings, alas. And like anyone who will be missed once they are gone, he gave us far more than we ever gave him.

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