by Gordie Howe
If I had been more outgoing at fifteen, there’s a good chance I would have become a New York Ranger instead of spending more than a quarter of a century with the Detroit Red Wings. It’s hard for me to imagine a different life, one in which Colleen and I raised our kids in New York City. A moment that almost made that a reality came later in camp, though. Frank Boucher, the team’s coach, and Lester Patrick called me to their hotel room to talk about what came next. They liked enough of what they’d seen to sign me to a “C” form. At that time, the NHL had three types of contracts for prospects, known as “A,” “B,” and “C” forms. They were a sweet deal for the teams, but not so great for a player. A “C” form essentially gave your rights to the club that signed you. They told you where to play and they could renew the agreement every year for as long as they wanted. If you eventually did sign a proper contract, your salary and signing bonus were already determined in the “C” form, which really cut down a player’s ability to negotiate early in his career.
Of course, I wasn’t too concerned about contracts and “C” forms at the time. The Rangers also wanted me to attend Notre Dame, a Catholic school in Wilcox, Saskatchewan, that was known for turning out good hockey players. It’s a tradition that has lasted. A long list of current and former NHL players went to school there. As it happened, I’m not one of them. I wasn’t Catholic, so my first thought was that Notre Dame would be a bad fit. My next thought was about home. I’d only been in Winnipeg for a short time, but I didn’t like feeling so alone. The thought of living at a boarding school, and a strict one at that, where I wouldn’t know anyone didn’t sound good at all. The school is about twenty-five miles south of Regina, which felt like a long way from Saskatoon. I didn’t want to go to Notre Dame and I didn’t want to sign anything with the Rangers, so I listened to their offer and told them thank you very much, but that I really just wanted to go home. They pressed me a bit, but my mind was made up. When I left for my return trip to Saskatoon, I remained a free agent. It turned out to be the right move.
That said, my lack of formal education has bothered me ever since. Notre Dame is a fine school and I know I would have learned a lot there. I enjoyed a long career as a hockey player and I don’t have many regrets, but I do wish I had gone to school for a few more years when I’d had the chance. As it played out, though, I was happy to leave camp and head home. That fall, I was back in school in Saskatoon, and by winter I was once again skating on hometown ice, playing hockey with my friends.
• • •
During the 1943–44 season, scouts began to take more of an interest in what I was doing on the ice. I was still only fifteen, but I guess they started seeing me as a pretty good prospect. A number of teams sent letters and telegrams to our house, wanting to talk about a contract. In the middle of World War II those telegrams weren’t great for a jittery mother with two sons fighting overseas, Norm in the navy and Vern in the army. Every time one arrived her mind jumped to the worst conclusion. My dad eventually put a stop to it. He told the teams to quit writing. If they wanted to talk about my hockey career, they’d have to come by the house and do it in person. That’s how Fred Pinckney ended up in our parlor.
Mr. Pinckney was the timekeeper for the Saskatoon Quakers and a part-time scout for the Detroit Red Wings. He’d been watching me for a few years, and as my sixteenth birthday approached, his interest really began to pick up. Just as Mr. McCrory had done a year earlier, Mr. Pinckney came to the house, but he talked about why I should join the Red Wings. He made good enough sense, but I was hesitant to sign the “C” form he’d brought in his pocket. Two clubs were showing serious interest in me, the Rangers and the Red Wings, and I didn’t know how to pick between them. My memory of the loneliness I’d felt the year before in Winnipeg also didn’t make the thought of another training camp too inviting (added to which, this one was even farther away, in Windsor, Ontario). I asked Mr. Pinckney if anyone I knew was going. He said there would be a couple dozen guys from the area, including a bunch from Saskatoon. The idea of traveling to Windsor, which is just across the border from Detroit, with my friends seemed more appealing to me than being in Winnipeg by myself. After some more talk, I signed the form and agreed to attend training camp with the Red Wings.
When fall came, I boarded a train that would take me to my second professional training camp. Enough of us were making the trip that we filled an entire sleeper car. I’d say there were about twenty-two players in all, many of whom I’d played with and against for years. The trip took two days and two nights and sharing it with friends made me less anxious than I’d been the year before. Mr. Pinckney also went out of his way to make sure I made a good impression when I arrived in Windsor. He bought me the first suit I ever owned—jacket and pants, plus a coat, shoes, the works. He stuck the train ticket to Windsor in the breast pocket of the coat along with a five-dollar bill so I’d have some spending money. It was a heck of nice thing to do for a poor kid from the Prairies. The outfit even included a nice hat, but I ended up giving it to the train porter as a tip. I figured he could use a fedora more than I could.
I felt different at the Red Wings training camp than I had with the Rangers the previous year. I was sixteen and, at that age, even a few months can make a big difference. I was still just a lanky kid, so my play wasn’t as physical as it would eventually become, but my puck handling seemed to impress the coaches and overall I remember feeling good on the ice. Holding my own against NHL-level talent once again helped my confidence. It was only a few years earlier that I’d been collecting BeeHive photos of guys I was now skating against, players like Bill Quackenbush, Carl Liscombe, and Syd Howe. In a funny bit of happenstance, my first Peewee team, the one I made using Frank Shedden’s equipment, was actually named after the Red Wings—teams adopted the names and colors of NHL franchises. I even ended up drawing Syd Howe’s jersey, which was fine by me. There was no relation, but I liked the coincidence of getting to wear my own name on my uniform. Who would have thought that in just a few short years I’d be playing alongside Syd himself. My dreams were becoming a reality more quickly than I’d ever dared to imagine. Unlike a year earlier, though, I felt less like a fish out of water and much more like I belonged.
At the end of the two-week camp, Jack Adams, who was then the coach as well as the general manager, sat me down and asked if I’d join the team’s junior club in Galt, Ontario. Once again I was hesitant to commit. I asked if I’d know any of the other guys going to Galt and he told me there would be a couple, which was a big selling point. I also wanted to go home and talk it over with my parents. He said that wasn’t a problem, but that I should be sure to bring all of my clothes with me when I came back. That part was easy, since I really didn’t have many clothes to speak of. I wasn’t much of a negotiator at the time, but I did make one request before I signed—a Red Wings jacket. The players on the big club had these great team jackets and I really wanted one as well. My first reason was practical. I didn’t have many clothes and I knew I’d wear that jacket all the time. The other was more psychological. If I signed with the Red Wings, the jacket would help me feel like part of the team. Mr. Adams said he’d get me one, and with that we closed the deal.
• • •
I spent a few days at home visiting family and friends before getting back on the train for the return trip to Ontario. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d spent my last winter in Saskatoon. The train ride was lonely and more like my trip to Winnipeg than the one I’d just taken to Windsor with my friends. I had a few long days to think about what I’d just signed up for. By the time the train pulled into Galt, which is about fifty miles southwest of Toronto, I can’t say I was feeling too confident about my decision. I didn’t have much of a clue about what was going to happen once we reached the station. I didn’t have a place to stay, nor did I know anyone in Galt. Much to my relief, Al Murray, the team’s coach, was waiting for me when I arrived. Instead of taking me into town, though, he hustled me back on the train and
we headed straight to Windsor for an exhibition game. It was one of the few times that season that I’d play against real competition. Later, I’d find out that Detroit hadn’t been entirely honest with me.
I was told the club wasn’t able to arrange a transfer from Saskatchewan to the Ontario Hockey Association (OHA), which meant I could play in exhibition but not regular league games. Mr. Adams wanted me to stay in Galt and practice with the team, though. By staying, I’d register as an easterner and be ready to go the next year. I figured that practicing with a junior team every day as opposed to returning to Saskatoon would do more to develop my skills, so I stayed even though it meant sitting out the entire season. I learned later that Detroit gave me only part of the story. At the time, the OHA allowed a club to transfer only three players from the west in any one year. The Galt Red Wings already had two transfers and apparently the third choice was between me and Terry Cavanagh, who was a few years older and a left winger. Terry and I were friends and we ended up living together in Galt in a boarding house. (Years later, he became the mayor of Edmonton.) The club picked Terry over me. I don’t know if my decision would have been different had I known the whole story, but to this day I still don’t appreciate being told a half-truth. What’s more, after I missed an entire hockey season, Mr. Adams still didn’t deliver on the team jacket as promised.
My sole purpose for being in Galt was hockey. On that score, I guess you could consider my time there a success. Although I did become a better player, to my deep regret I didn’t accomplish much else. I’d planned to attend high school in Galt, but things didn’t work out that way. On my first day in Galt, I walked over to the school to register, but as I approached the building I started to get cold feet. I meant to go inside, but seeing the kids talking to each other on the lawn in front of the school made me feel like an outsider. Meeting new people was awkward for me and I wasn’t the best student, so in that moment I decided to be somewhere else.
I walked past the school until I hit the railroad tracks. From there I went into the first big factory I saw and asked if there were any jobs available. At the time, Galt Metal Industries was busy with contracts for the war effort, so they had plenty of work. Since I was still a minor, though, they needed to have someone from the hockey club vouch for me. When they called, a team official told them if I wanted to work, they should let me work. That’s how easy it was for me to quit school and end up working in a metal factory. I started out spot welding and grinding parts that were used for the Mosquito bomber. I must have done pretty well, because they promoted me to inspector. Over at Plant 2, I worked on trench mortar shells. I’d put them in a vise and ream out all the burrs. They also gave me a micrometer to take readings. I didn’t know how to use it, so I scratched a line on the glass where the needle should be. I was pretty good at the work and I enjoyed doing it. As an inspector, I’d walk around making sure the machines worked properly. If they were off, it was my job to shut them down. I felt a sense of responsibility to do the job well. What if the fins were wrong on a mortar that a Canadian soldier used overseas? I made sure nothing like that would happen on my watch.
My days in Galt settled into a steady routine. I’d work, go down to the rink to practice with the team, and go home. The job was fine and I enjoyed practicing, but it would be a lie to say I’m not bitter about the Galt club’s lack of care regarding my schooling. It was my choice, but what does a sixteen-year-old understand about the ramifications of that type of decision? Growing up during the Depression, everyone in my family needed to earn money and working was what I knew. I wish that someone in the organization had looked out for my best interests.
I consider walking away from school that day to be the biggest mistake of my life. Since then, I’ve always advised young people to stay in school for the full shot, even if I didn’t know enough at the time to do so myself. Eventually, my education ended up coming through hockey. I learned a lot from the people I met and the places I saw, but it still wasn’t a substitute for school. If I could change one thing from that time, I’d make it past the big tree in front of Galt Collegiate Institute and into the office to register.
The Galt Red Wings had a good team that year and I like to think I could have helped them win the league if I’d played. As it was, I got in about a hundred practices with the team, which was more organized hockey than I would have played back in Saskatoon. Missing out on games was tough to handle, but in terms of hockey, my time in Galt was well spent. Outside of the rink, though, I still missed home. When I wasn’t playing hockey or working I had little to do, so sometimes I’d find myself at the train station when I knew that Jack Adams and the Red Wings were scheduled to pass through town. I’d walk over there by myself and hope the train would stop. If it did, I figured I could board and ask Mr. Adams about my jacket. I wanted it badly that whole year, but Mr. Adams didn’t deliver. I came through on my part of the deal by going to Galt, so I thought it was only right that he hold up his end. The train always just rolled through town, though, leaving me with little else to do but walk home.
• • •
When I went back to Windsor for training camp in 1945, I was feeling better than ever about my chances of making the NHL. I was still a lanky kid, fifteen or twenty pounds under my eventual playing weight, but I was seventeen and starting to fill out. After I scored a couple of goals in an exhibition game, Mr. Adams called me to his hotel room to talk about taking the next step in my career. The Galt Red Wings were an amateur club and he felt it was time for me to turn professional. His contract offer for the season was $2200 plus a $500 signing bonus. It was a pretty standard offer for a first contract at the time. I wasn’t much of a negotiator and $2700 was a lot of money to me, but I did have one outstanding issue I needed to clear up. I told Mr. Adams that I wasn’t sure I wanted to sign, since he had broken his word about the jacket. He laughed and assured me that I’d get a jacket. I signed the deal and Mr. Adams sent me to Omaha, Nebraska, to play on the Red Wings’ farm team in the old United States Hockey League (USHL).
In Omaha we played in the Ak-Sar-Ben Coliseum, which is Nebraska spelled backward. We were the Omaha Ak-Sar-Ben Knights, often shortened to just the Ak-Sar-Ben. The USHL was a bus league, and we rode around the country playing teams as far away as Dallas to the south and Minneapolis to the north. The road trips could be long, but I didn’t mind. I was playing professional hockey, which is all I ever wanted to do. Just as it did in Galt, my life in Omaha revolved around the sport. I remember that I went on only one date while I was there. A teammate was taking out a girl who looked like Elizabeth Taylor with a friend who would only go out on double dates. I was roped into it as a favor to my buddy, but it didn’t go anywhere. I was just a shy kid and too consumed with hockey to worry about much else. I wanted to learn everything I could about the game and didn’t see the point of cultivating a social life. Out of the $2700 I signed for when I was seventeen, I saved $1700. For a kid who used to sell fish for ten cents a pop at the back door of a Chinese restaurant, I figured I was doing okay.
The start of the season was slow going for me. Tommy Ivan, who would later coach me in Detroit, figured that young players were best served by sitting on the bench and watching. I didn’t get many shifts to start out, and I was chafing at the lack of ice time. I was still learning about the game, though, and a few pieces of advice I picked up during those days have served me well since then. One day Carson Cooper, Detroit’s chief scout, took me aside and told me to draw an imaginary line about twenty feet from the side boards and stay there. He told me that was my territory. I kept that in mind my entire career. The other piece of veteran wisdom that helped in those early days came from Joe Carveth, a right winger with the big club. He told me not to worry too much if I struggled out of the gate. It was all part of the learning process, he said, and once I settled down, the second half of the season would be much better. I tried to remember that as I was stuck on the bench. It took a little nudge on my part, but it turned out Joe was righ
t.
One night we were playing in Dallas when my roommate started to get into it with the other team and the gloves came off. I knew the guy he was fighting from Saskatoon. He was big, but I didn’t think he was that tough. He was really giving it to my roommate, though. I couldn’t take just sitting there and watching, so I jumped over the boards and nailed the guy. After I served my penalty for fighting, Tommy Ivan looked down at me and asked, “What’s the matter, don’t you like him?”
I looked at him and said, “I don’t like any of them.” After that, I didn’t miss another shift in Omaha.
I ended the season with 22 goals and 26 assists. When I was on the ice I also ran pretty much everything that moved, which led to scraps with nearly every tough guy in the league. At the time I figured if knocking guys around would punch my ticket to the NHL, then that’s exactly what I would do. It took me a while longer to learn that you don’t win many games from the penalty box.
The next step up the ladder for a prospect from Omaha was Detroit’s number-one farm team, the Indianapolis Capitals of the American Hockey League. I never made it to Indianapolis, though. At the end of the season, Tommy Ivan sat down with Jack Adams to talk about my future. They agreed that I wasn’t cut out for the minor leagues. I was eighteen years old and about to get the call to the NHL.