Mr. Hockey My Story

by Gordie Howe

  One guy my dad used to work with was named Frenchy. He lived nearby with his wife and kids. He was always good to me, so I went to Dad one day and asked if he’d switch my paycheck with Frenchy’s. I was making the extra wages as a mechanic and I knew the money would mean more to someone who had a whole family to feed. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the right thing to do. Frenchy ended up telling the other guys on the crew about it, which wasn’t the point, but it did smooth things out at work. After that the older men thought I was all right, which was fine by me. I kept on with the job, which was basically the equivalent of doing a daily weight-training program without even knowing it. By fifteen years old, I was six feet tall and around two hundred pounds. I was a big kid, but I figured I’d end up huge if I kept growing. I leveled off right around there, so it didn’t turn out that way. I played my whole career at six feet tall and usually between 196 and 204 pounds, pretty much the same size I was as a teenager.

  • • •

  For a young hockey player, getting on the ice with older players is always a thrill. My sons Mark and Marty did it when they were young, and so did I. Being among the better players on the ice isn’t always a good thing for young players. When you skate with full-grown men, it can be an eye-opener. The game changes. Everything is faster, so you have to do everything faster—skate, pass, think—to keep up. When you go back to playing with your own age group, the game slows down. When that happens for you in any sport, it’s a beautiful thing.

  During the war, the senior club in Saskatoon would occasionally run a few players short, so they’d ask some younger guys to fill in. One night when I was around fourteen or so, we played in a town with a crowd that really hated the boys from Saskatoon. In the pre-television era, and even long after, senior hockey was the biggest game in town. And it was good hockey. Before the national hockey program began, it was the top senior club in the country that represented Canada internationally. Back then, the best senior team in Canada was arguably the best team in the world.

  In any case, people took it very seriously, and when we started taking it to the home team that night, the fans turned on us. They were throwing things and spitting at us. When the home team realized that they couldn’t skate with us, they decided to show a little muscle. A fight led to a line brawl, and soon the benches cleared. Not wanting to be left out, some of the fans decided to join in and hopped over the boards to mix it up. I’d never seen anything like it. One of the veterans on our team put me behind him and told me to watch his back. If anyone rushed up on us, he told me to smack them on the head with my stick.

  I was pretty scared, so I listened to those instructions very carefully. The scene on the ice was crazy. I was trying to keep an eye on all of the fights around me when I saw someone coming up on us at a run. I knew what I was supposed to do, and I didn’t hesitate. I raised my stick and cracked him on the head. Down he went. As he crumpled on the ice, I looked down and noticed something I hadn’t a moment earlier: a yellow stripe on his pants. In Canada, that means only one thing. He wasn’t a player. He wasn’t a referee. He wasn’t even a fan. He was RCMP, a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I had just clubbed a Mountie. I wish he had identified himself before charging at me. It would have saved me a lot of worrying, and him a lump on his head. My teammate grabbed me and we got out of there. I was sure they’d come after me for that and I’d land in jail, but days passed and thankfully no one knocked on our door.

  I guess maybe that Mountie didn’t catch my number, so he didn’t know who to come find. In my hockey career I never had much trouble knowing who did right by me and who had earned some payback. I definitely took numbers. Another night that stands out for me growing up was a game we played against the Bentley brothers, Max and Doug. They were from Delisle, Saskatchewan, and three of the Bentley brothers were playing in the NHL that season. I was only about fourteen and it was one of those games where I could have skated forever. I was young and fresh and excited to be skating against big-time players. I had a ton of jump in my legs that night and I scored a few goals early. We had them down 4–0 and I was flying along the wing when suddenly Doug Bentley, who played for the Black Hawks, speared me in the belly. I doubled over onto the ice in agony. I was down there sucking wind when Max, who was about eight years older than me, looked down and said, “Slow down, damn you.” Part of me took it as a compliment. But only part. The next time I played against Doug was years later in the NHL. He was still with Chicago and I was with Detroit. Only this time, the shoe was on the other foot. He was coming down the wing, clearly having no recollection of the object lesson he’d delivered so many years ago in Saskatchewan, when I drilled him. Now it was my turn to offer some advice to a guy crumpled on the ice. I leaned over and said, “Slow down, damn you.” I figured we were even after that. I might have carried a grudge, but once a score was settled, I was willing to move on. Over the years, I ended up playing baseball with quite a few of the Bentley brothers. They were good guys and great athletes.

  Around that same time, I got the chance to skate against another NHL player, Harry Watson. He was from Saskatoon and started in the league around 1940. When the war escalated, he interrupted his hockey career to join the Canadian military, ending up back in Saskatoon at the Royal Canadian Air Force Station. The base was a pretty big deal at that time, with pilots and air crews coming in from all over the Commonwealth to be trained by the British and Canadian militaries. When you fly into Saskatoon today, the airport is on the same spot as the old RCAF landing strip. While in the service, Watson kept up his hockey skills by playing for the squad run by the No. 4 Service Flying Training School. I played against them one night and after the game Watson sought me out to find out my name. I was flattered that he thought I played well enough to ask. About four years later I was in my first season with the Red Wings when I found myself going up against none other than Harry Watson, who was playing left wing for Toronto. Early in the game I turned to chase a puck into the corner, and he was right on my shoulder. He could have put a big hit on me, but instead he slowed down and gave me a warning I never forgot, “Look out, Gordie!” It was a rough league back then, so that was pretty rare. After the play moved on I gave him a look, but didn’t say anything.

  A period or two later we were heading into the corner again, only this time it was his head that was down. I can remember a good deed just as well as a liberty taken that needs retribution. “Look out, Mr. Watson!” I yelled. He slowed up and we froze the puck with our skates until the whistle blew. He looked over at me and said, “We’re gonna get along just fine.” We were both Saskatchewan boys, so that might have counted for something, or maybe he was just a class act, but for whatever reason, we extended that courtesy to each other for the rest of our careers. It goes without saying that you always play to win, but that doesn’t mean you need to scrape every inch out of every play, regardless of whether it puts another player at risk. When I watch sports these days, I don’t always see players respect their opponents the way they should. It’s a tough game, and I wouldn’t have gotten very far if I hadn’t been willing to lean on a guy from time to time. And sometimes you’re going to have to take a hit to make a play. But that doesn’t mean you waive your right to be treated with respect.

  In my younger days, my hero was Ab Welsh. He was a great player and, like Harry Watson, he carried himself with a lot of class. In 1934, he was a member of the Saskatoon Quakers, the city’s senior team that went overseas to Italy and won a gold medal for Canada at the World Championships. As a kid, I would hang around the rink all the time, looking for ways to get in. I’d wait outside and when the refreshments arrived for the players, I’d volunteer to help deliver them to the dressing rooms. Other times, I’d wait until the bus pulled up and ask if any equipment needed to be carried. The players knew how much watching a game meant to us, and they treated the local kids pretty well. Maybe they remembered being young players themselves. When I made the big leagues, I know I tried not to forget h
ow I’d felt as a kid. One time, Ab Welsh brought me into the dressing room and I collected an autograph from every player. Then he asked which way I shot. I told him right. He said “good” and handed me a stick. I couldn’t believe it. It was about the first new stick I’d ever had. That kind gesture meant a heck of a lot to me. I walked out of there floating. It was a beautiful stick. Ab Welsh didn’t know it, but he made a friend for life that day. That stick actually ended up having a big influence on my career. It was a lie seven, which refers to the angle of the blade compared to the shaft. I ended up using that same lie for the rest of my career.

  Growing up, I had a lot of good hockey role models. Not only did I have local players like Ab Welsh to admire, but we also had Foster Hewitt to describe the players in the NHL. Television wasn’t around yet, but we still knew what players looked like, which helped our imagination when listening to the radio. The credit for that belonged to BeeHive Corn Syrup. You may wonder what corn syrup has to do with hockey. I’ll bet nearly every Canadian kid who grew up around that time could tell you the answer. If you sent a BeeHive Corn Syrup label to the company, they’d send back a picture of the hockey player of your choice. The photo was black and white and a decent size, about four inches by six. My collection of BeeHive photos was a source of much pride. I used to take a route to school that meandered past a lot of different houses. When I spotted a can of BeeHive Corn Syrup, I’d ask if I could have the label. If they didn’t want to give it to me right then, I’d ask if I could have it when the can was empty. A few weeks later, I’d go back and gather up the label. Stamps cost three cents at the time, so I did odd jobs to earn enough money for postage. It was worth it.

  With only 120 players in the league, I had 180 pictures. Every time you sent a request and they didn’t have the player you wanted, you’d get a photo of Turk Broda instead. He was Toronto’s goalie starting around 1935 or ’36. I ended up trading a lot of Turk Brodas for other players to fill out my collection. I would stare at those pictures and wonder if someday a kid would ask for a BeeHive photo of Gordie Howe. Sitting in our drafty little house in Saskatoon, that seemed a million miles away. I couldn’t know it at the time, but I’d end up realizing those childhood dreams much sooner than I ever would have dared to guess. And when I did arrive in the NHL, would you believe who I scored my first goal against? Turk Broda.

  Three

  JUNIOR HOCKEY

  My first training camp came in 1943, when I was only fifteen. With so many NHL players serving in the war effort, teams were searching high and low for prospects who could fill in. The Howe family, like so many across the country, knew more than we would have liked to about that war. I’m pretty sure my mother didn’t get a decent night’s sleep until my brothers Norm and Vern returned home safely. Despite the uncertainty of the time, NHL teams managed to keep playing a full fifty-game schedule. But they did have extra roster spots to fill, which meant a lot of young players got a look earlier than they might have otherwise. Quite a few even broke into the league during those years. I wasn’t among them quite yet, but the circumstances did allow for my first taste of the big leagues. I can’t say it went as well as I would have liked.

  Prairie boys must have played some good hockey back then, because with so many able-bodied men off fighting in the war, NHL scouts became pretty familiar with cities, towns, and whistle-stops all over western Canada. A scout for the New York Rangers, Russ McCrory, watched me play that season and apparently liked what he saw. From what I heard later, I think a few different teams were interested in me at the time, but Mr. McCrory was the first to come by the house. We sat down and he talked to my parents while I mostly listened. The talk went on for a while as he explained what the New York Rangers could do for me and what it would be like to attend the team’s training camp. In the end, he asked if I wanted to travel to Winnipeg later that summer, when the Rangers would be holding camp with players from the big club. I’d never set foot out of Saskatchewan and certainly hadn’t been anywhere on my own. I was just a fifteen-year-old kid, and a shy one at that, but I loved hockey more than anything and the thought of skating with some of the best players in the world trumped my nervousness. I agreed to make the trip to Winnipeg and we’d see where things went from there.

  Until that point, the farthest away from Saskatoon I’d ever been was Regina, about 150 miles south, and that was only once for a hockey game. It doesn’t seem too far now, but when I’d gone there the year before it had felt like a world away. It was my first road trip with teammates and we were excited about it for weeks. What could be better than traveling with your friends to play hockey? Getting on the train to Winnipeg was different. I was alone on an overnight trip to another province more than five hundred miles away. When the train pulled into the station in Winnipeg, no one from the team was there to meet me. I asked for directions to the Marlborough Hotel, where they’d told me I was staying, and found my way over. My roommate was a goaltending prospect, but we didn’t get to know each other very well. Early in camp, he took a puck in the mouth and that was it for him. I ended up staying alone, which didn’t help the feelings of isolation that had already set in.

  The Rangers held training camp at the Amphitheatre, a big old arena in Winnipeg that was knocked down in the mid-1950s and replaced by the Winnipeg Arena. Now even that’s gone, and the Jets play in a new building downtown. On the first day of camp, I remember being nervous as I walked from the hotel to the Amphitheatre. My nerves didn’t settle down once I got there. The first person I went to see after I signed in was the trainer, who handed out the equipment. All I’d brought with me were my skates, so I needed to be outfitted from top to bottom. To his frustration, I couldn’t answer many of his questions. I didn’t even know my size. When he asked what position I played, I said, “All of ’em,” because it was true. I’d played goalie, defenseman, and forward. I don’t know if he thought I was some kind of smart-ass or what, but he needed to get me out the door so he asked what position I’d like to play. I honestly didn’t know why the Rangers had brought me in, so I told him defenseman. I was comfortable on the blue line and figured I’d have as good a shot playing there as anywhere else. After being on the right wing for so many decades, it’s strange to think that my first tryout as a professional hockey player was on defense. After seeing the trainer, my day went only further downhill.

  Growing up, we couldn’t afford proper equipment, so I didn’t know what to do with all of the pads and protectors I’d just been given. I sat on a bench in the dressing room with my gear on the floor in front of me and just stared at it for a while. I’d never worn a garter belt before, for one, so I didn’t know what it was for or how to put it on. I was also too shy to ask. Some of the other younger prospects noticed and started hacking on me for just sitting there looking confused. I didn’t like that too much. Who would? It reminded me of my younger days when kids would tease me at school. I just wanted to figure it all out and get on the ice, where I knew what I was doing. One of the veterans, Alf Pike, eventually came in and sat down across from me. It was a godsend at the time. I watched Alf and mirrored his every move. He put on his right shin pad and I put on my right shin pad. I’ve dressed the same way ever since.

  Once I stepped onto the ice, I was able to calm down. You often hear athletes talk about the playing field being a refuge from anything else that might be going on. That might sound like a cliché, but it’s the truth. It was certainly never truer for me than it was at the Rangers’ camp. Everything else around me was foreign—the city, the players, the equipment—but hockey was still the same, and I remember the relief I felt when it was time to play. I also recall thinking that I was capable of skating with everyone in camp. That realization was a boost to my confidence that I took with me after I left. I wasn’t the best guy there, but no one was doing anything that was beyond me. For a raw fifteen-year-old, everything at camp that was hockey related went as well as could be expected. Well, everything except for one incident, that is. During a scr
immage, an older player—Billy Warwick, if memory serves—was coming down the wing. I went low, stuck out my hip, and sent him for a ride almost into the seats. He ended up straddling the boards and he wasn’t too happy about it. Lester Patrick, the Rangers’ general manager, called me over and said, “You don’t do that here.” In the heat of the moment, I thought he was talking about how they played in Winnipeg. I replied, “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never been here before.” It wasn’t until later that I realized he meant you don’t hit your own teammates like that during practice. Looking back now, I’m not sure my answer was half bad. It was the truth, after all.

  When I wasn’t playing hockey, Winnipeg didn’t treat me that well. On the ice, I knew what I was doing. Off the ice, I missed home. For a kid who’d never really been away from Saskatoon or his family, nothing was easy or routine. I think about how shy I was then and wish I could go back to that time, put my arm around a young Gordie, and give him a few pointers. Even basic things like getting something to eat could cause me trouble. I remember that the Rangers had a training table set up at the hotel. Players would grab a plate and line up to eat buffet style. I was so nervous and awkward I couldn’t bring myself to go to the buffet table. All of the big players from the team were there and I didn’t want to bother anyone, so I just stood back and watched. No one was rude or shoved me out of the way, but we had only a short amount of time to eat and everyone needed to get down to business. As it happened, it was Alf Pike who realized I could use a hand. He pushed a few guys out of the way and told them that the kid needed to eat something as well. After I saw how things were done I felt more comfortable getting in there myself, but when you’re shy, doing something for the first time can be especially tough. I’ve always thought it would be easier to be one of those people who doesn’t worry about things like that, but that’s just not me.