by Bobby Orr
The game is about so much more than X’s and O’s, so much more than pure skills or statistics. I mention this because of one guy I played against, a fierce rival, in fact, who managed to earn the respect of everyone in the league just by playing the game the way it is meant to be played. I am hardly the first person to praise Jean Béliveau. No one who has come into contact with him over the years can seem to help saying what a great person he is. His dignity, his grace, his skill—there is not much I can add to what we already know about him.
One thing that stands out for me, though, is his humility. He had everything. He was a French Canadian playing in Montreal for the beloved Canadiens, and he was the heart and soul of that team. From the first moment I saw him on the ice, I knew how special he was as a player. He was very strong, and extremely skillful for a big man, which meant he was always tough to defend against. Add in that long reach of his, and he became even more difficult to handle. Jean was Mario Lemieux before Mario Lemieux was born.
Of course, Jean’s home arena was the old Montreal Forum. Of all the rinks I played in as a professional, apart from the Boston Garden, I’d have to say that the Forum was my favorite. Not because it was an easy place to play, but because it had such a great history, the ice was great to play on, and you always knew what was waiting for you. The rivalry between the Montreal and Boston teams when I was in the league was intense, and those fans in Montreal always let you hear it. At the same time, they were very fair. They had a wonderful knowledge of the game and always seemed to appreciate a great play on either side of the puck. A big part of the trouble you faced whenever you played the Habs, especially in their building, was that big Number 4 in the other jersey. He was the leader of the team, and played some of his finest hockey whenever he faced the Bruins. Whether in victory or defeat, Jean Béliveau always took the high road and demonstrated a kind of sportsmanship seen far too seldom in professional sports.
Several years ago, I was invited to attend a function alongside Jean. If you’ve ever seen Jean in person, or caught a glimpse of him on television doing an interview, you will know that he is always impeccably dressed. Knowing that, I decided that if I was going to be in his company I had better dress the part, so I packed my sharpest suit. We were to meet in the lobby of the hotel before heading out to the affair, and wouldn’t you know it, Jean showed up in some slacks and a shirt. There I was, all decked out to the nines—and I have to admit that Jean still looked better than me!
In retirement, Jean has continued to be a tremendous ambassador, both for the Canadiens and for the game in general. He has retained that old humility so rare in superstar players, and has always remained a gentleman, regardless of circumstances. He is, to my way of thinking, one of the premier players ever to have been in the National Hockey League, and it was an honor to battle against him and those great Montreal teams he so admirably led in the 1960s and ’70s.
• • •
I’ve written about some of the players and characters who formed the basis for those great Bruins teams of the 1970s, but I’ve yet to describe the city of Boston and its fans. For those of us who donned the black and gold of the Boston Bruins, we all came to realize very early in our careers that Boston was a tough sports town, because its fans had such high expectations of its teams. No other city I can think of has had the kind of success seen by Boston over the years in all of its professional sports. The Celtics in basketball were a dominant franchise, and the Red Sox and Patriots were always fan favorites in New England and had won many championships. When you throw in all of the great university programs across the region in multiple sports, you can see that the fans in New England had certain expectations of their sports teams.
The Bruins had not been holding up their end of the bargain for some time, but even so, Boston remained a big-time hockey market. At some point, we would have to reward their faith. Boston was a blue-collar city with blue-collar fans, and if nothing else they always expected that same kind of blue-collar work ethic from their hockey players. Boston fans held you accountable for what you did in one of their beloved jerseys, and my attitude regarding that was very simple.
Whenever I took to the ice, I knew what my level of play should be, and that was my single goal every game. That was my responsibility, because hockey was what I did for a living. I was representing the Boston Bruins, the city of Boston, the entire New England area, and my teammates. I was paid well for my services. But whatever I was making relative to anybody else on the ice on a given night really didn’t matter. My play was my responsibility, every time out. It was not the responsibility of my coaches, other Bruins players, or anyone else. My duty was to lead through my play and not be influenced by anyone or anything that might get in the way of that. I’ve always believed that if you get led down a dark path in life, you have chosen to be led. I liked the feeling of accountability when I wore that sweater.
They were not going to cheer you in Boston just because you put on the Bruins sweater. Those cheers had to be earned. My feeling at the time was, if I can’t take it, or if any of my teammates can’t take it, too bad. I guess we’d have to go play somewhere else where the fans would be easier on us. For those who stayed, for those who were up to the challenge, I can’t think of a better place to play during that era. They stuck with us even when things went poorly, and they made the Garden just about the toughest place in the league for visiting teams. And back then, we flew commercial, so we would see our fans in the airport and even end up on flights with them. The rinks were more intimate, and there was a real rapport between the team and the fans. The bottom line was Boston fans demanded an honest effort.
I especially appreciated the fact that our fans knew their hockey and understood the subtle parts of the game that go beyond just getting points. That was a good thing, because I never consciously went out for a game with the sole purpose of scoring two goals, for example. Some of my best games during my time in Boston were ones in which I never even got on the score sheet, but our fans got it. They understood that on the ice you can affect a game in many different ways, and it wasn’t always about being a point producer.
As the years went by and they got to know me better, they could also see in some games when things just weren’t going my way. If you gain a measure of success in the league, opponents start to pay more attention to you. They try to shrink your time and space any way they can. Some nights, I can remember being almost hog-tied during games, but if you asked the referee if he hadn’t seen the holding against you, the response would often be, “Hey, you’re a superstar, aren’t you? You have to learn to take that.” In today’s game, players can’t get away with as much hooking and holding, but back then it was standard operating procedure for many teams. The rules on interference, holding, and the like were just different back then, and you could get away with a lot more. But as I’ve noted, our fan base understood those parts of the game, and I was always treated fairly by our people in the stands, even on the tough nights.
And there were tough nights. If it wasn’t the other team, more and more it was my own knee that was slowing me down. The feeling in the joint wasn’t so much a sharp pain as a dull, constant grind, like a toothache. The soreness and stiffness were never far from my mind, though I did everything I could to push them away. You don’t think about the pain, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.
I’d play a game, and then the routine would be to get ice on my knee to keep the swelling down. And the morning after a game was always tough, because the soreness would be impossible to ignore. Getting out of bed first thing became a chore, and yet the only way to loosen it up was to get moving.
Back-to-back games became increasingly difficult to handle. I don’t just mean the discomfort. Every athlete deals with that. I don’t want to make myself into a special case. Guys play with broken bones, with stitches in their faces, with joints taped together by the trainer so they can get through one more game. I’ve seen guys
get up when they should stay down, or play on when they should sit out. So I’m not going to say I’m special because I played through some pain. Some guys may play through a bit more pain than others over their careers, but everyone does it.
What bothered me was the way the stiffness affected my play. Every time I stepped on the ice, I felt restricted. I couldn’t play my game. I just couldn’t generate the same power in my skating that I once had. When the stiffness in my knee took away the sharpness of my turning, stopping, accelerating, and so on, a big part of the way I played the game was gone.
Professional hockey players talk about going out on the ice and having fun, which may sometimes sound strange to fans, who don’t always go to work expecting to have fun. But it’s not as strange as it sounds. Enjoying the game meant performing to the top of my ability, and trying to never disappoint my teammates—or the fans.
• • •
Like all athletes, I had my own ways of doing things, some based on routine, some on superstition, I suppose. Some writers have guessed that the reason I went with a single wrap of tape on my blade was because it allowed the puck to release quicker, meaning that my shot would be harder. Others have figured I was trying to make some kind of fashion statement. Those are very interesting concepts, but the truth is much simpler. For some reason, when I came into the NHL, I had it in my mind that there was a rule that all players had to have at least some tape on their stick blade. I suppose it was an easy assumption to make, given that everybody did indeed have their stick blades wrapped with the traditional black tape.
In my case, I liked the feel of the puck on the blade without any tape at all. So the idea came to me that if I had to have tape on my stick, I would use as little as possible. Over the years, I used less and less until I was down to a single stripe. And eventually I ended up with no tape at all.
Then there was the fact that I didn’t wear socks in my skates when I played. Why would someone not wear socks? The answer is that when I played junior hockey, you were responsible for packing your own equipment, and on one trip I forgot to include a pair of socks in my equipment bag. The only option I had was to go without socks—and it felt pretty good. I decided I would just not bother with socks from that point forward. I’ve been tempted over the years to make up some wild stories about these things, but the truth is they just happened in a natural kind of way, and I never really thought much about it.
One thing I took seriously was my routine. Even dating back to my days in junior hockey, I always liked getting to the rink early on game day to get ready. In Boston, that meant arriving at the rink somewhere round 2 P.M. The trainers eventually gave me my own keys, because on game day I often got there before they did. During those moments, I was alone in my favorite environment and could get ready for that day’s game by myself and in my own way. That’s an important fundamental for any athlete, finding what works for you and then making that a part of who you are. No two athletes prepare the same. Some of my teammates would get to the rink at 5 P.M., having taken a nap after their pre-game meal at midday or early in the afternoon. Others would head out to a matinee movie, because going to a show would settle their nerves and relax them for the game. For every player on the roster, there was probably the same number of different ways to prepare, and no one cared how you got ready just so long as you did indeed get ready. In those days, we didn’t focus much on the mental aspect of professional sport, or at least we didn’t use fancy terminology for it. But I believe my routine was a great help to me in the mental part of my game preparation.
There were two things I primarily concerned myself with during my playing career. The first was to be as consistent as possible at the level I felt I could attain. The second was to focus on the things I could control and not get wrapped up in a whole bunch of distractions. I tried to play the same game no matter who the opponent might be, and I didn’t think much about other specific players or change my game to match up to theirs. I just played my game and let others worry about systems. It’s the same game no matter who you’re playing against, so worrying about the other guy is only going to get in the way. I can think of a couple of exceptions, though.
Bobby Hull could beat you in so many ways, it was a balancing act to take them all away at once. Let him get outside you, and he was so strong and so fast that there was no way to keep him from cutting back in. Anytime he came over center ice, Bobby was dangerous because of his shot. Generally, you had to stand him up early. There aren’t many guys in the league even today who can shoot it the way Bobby Hull did more than forty years ago. Guys like Guy Lafleur and Yvan Cournoyer had truly unbelievable speed and could make anyone look like they were standing still if you played them wrong. No one had a perfect answer for Hull, though.
The other guy I always had to keep an eye on was Stan Mikita. Stan was a truly dynamic player who won more than his share of Art Ross Trophies and Hart Trophies (and even a couple of Lady Byngs, despite racking up triple digits in penalty minutes early in his career), but what I remember him for was his passing. He was probably the best passer in the league. If there was a guy coming late, Stan would pick him up and the puck would be on his stick.
These were a few of the players who got my attention. But of course, if you take anything for granted at the NHL level, you are going to get burned. The best approach is to respect everyone.
Most times, I just thought about what I was going to do. I worried about myself and my own play. That was how I prepared, plain and simple.
• • •
Given that I was a professional athlete, my years in Boston meant I had exposure to a lot of famous people, and not just from the sports world. I was fortunate to meet and get to know people in entertainment, the political arena, and so on. My intent here is not to be some kind of name-dropper. Rather, it is to share a few ideas and stories about some pretty impressive people who made an impact on me in various ways. As a part of our growth and maturing, we come into contact with a wide variety of friends, acquaintances, and characters. Many of those people will, either by chance or by choice, influence who we become. That is true whether they are famous or not. It’s probably a good strategy to try to associate yourself with as many successful people in this world as you can, and hope that what positive attributes they have might rub off on you, if even just a little bit.
Many of the people I am about to describe understood what professionalism was all about on many different levels, but most importantly they had a keen sense of how you treat others. They showed me certain personal characteristics that I admire, or they lived their lives in such a way as to share values that anyone could learn from. These were people I was a big fan of and admired. That is one of the benefits of celebrity, I suppose—you get some opportunities that many people never have the chance to experience.
I don’t want to mention these people in any particular order, but only one was known as the “Greatest.” I saw him fight at ringside a few times, and he and I were in Bob Hope’s Gillette Cavalcade of Champions a couple of times. He was one of my favorite athletes of all time. His athleticism was spellbinding. Muhammad Ali was the reigning heavyweight champion of the world when I saw him, and that title was the loftiest in all sport during that era. Ali was boxing! In combination with his good friend Howard Cosell, Ali elevated his sport far beyond what it had ever been.
When Ali stepped into the ring, he had a certain presence that seems to accompany athletes who possess greatness. He gave off that same aura just walking into a room. The man seemed to fill every corner of any place he entered, and that presence would then spill out into the hallways as well. The champ was a physically big man, probably six foot three in his prime, and he carried himself with tremendous self-assurance. He knew who he was, and he possessed great confidence in his abilities.
I’ve always thought there are certain athletes who are perfectly matched to their sport. There is a match in physical skill, mental toughness, a
nd a passion to succeed that ends up elevating them to the top of their profession. Muhammad Ali was that man in boxing. Like many other great athletes, Ali could have been very successful in any number of sports.
We all know the terrible price that the champ has paid in his later years as Parkinson’s disease robbed him of some of his ability. Our paths have crossed a few times over the years, but one memory I will always cherish is of the last time I saw him many years ago in New Jersey. It was a special event with a host of famous athletes and celebrities in attendance, and Ali was in the building. I sought him out, simply wanting to go up and shake his hand one more time. I waited my turn as he sat in a corner of the room until finally I had a chance to step up and say hello. I didn’t think he would remember me or the times we had met in the past, and that really didn’t matter. But as I grabbed his hand, he looked up at me, gave me that great Ali smile, and whispered, “Kid, you’re alright!” Whether he truly recognized me or not, it was still a thrill to see him again and hear him say those words. There have been many great athletes in our history, and there will be many more to come, but somehow I can’t imagine anyone being any better at his craft or meaning any more to his sport than Muhammad Ali to his.
There is another king of his sport who taught me what professionalism looks like. I watched him on television for many years before I had the opportunity to meet him in person, and you couldn’t help but marvel at how he handled himself. Arnold Palmer was and still remains a pro’s pro. If you were to guess that my first encounter with the “King” was at a golf outing, you would be correct. But in the case of Arnold, although I certainly knew who he was in the sporting world while I was with the Bruins, it wasn’t until I had retired from the game that I got to meet and spend some time with the legend. It’s pretty special when you have an impression of someone and then find, when you finally get to meet and know him, that he actually exceeds expectations. That was Arnold Palmer.