Mr. Hockey My Story

by Gordie Howe

  Years later, he passed on some of that wisdom to another of Mark’s teammates. While in Philly to watch Mark one night, Dad noticed that one of the Flyers was having a tough time holding his ground in the slot. Every time Tim Kerr—a big guy at six foot three and 225 pounds—went to the front of the net, the other team would hammer him until he moved. After the game, Dad went up to Tim and asked if he’d do him a favor. In the next big televised game the Flyers played, he told Tim to drop his gloves and pop someone on the other team. Tim was as gentlemanly a player as you’ll find, so he agreed only reluctantly and only because it was Gordie Howe doing the asking. The next time Dad was in the arena, Tim hauled off and leveled a guy for no reason. The rest of the league must have been watching, because Tim suddenly found himself with more leeway. His soft hands deserve most of the credit for scoring more than 50 goals in each of the next four seasons, but Gordie’s advice couldn’t have hurt.

  On the ice, our dad had an uncanny awareness of what was going on around him at all times. If he saw something that upset his sense of right and wrong—and if the officials weren’t handling it—he didn’t mind taking matters into his own hands. While playing in San Diego when he was in the WHA, he noticed one of the fans being a jackass. At the time, the arena had fencing instead of Plexiglas above the boards, and when a Houston player went into the corner, this fan would try to kick him in the head through the fence. Before a face-off in that end, Dad circled over to Marty and told him to pay attention. When the puck was dropped, he let himself get ridden into the corner where, sure enough, the fan was waiting to deliver a kick. It never landed. Somehow, the butt of Gordie’s stick slipped through the mesh as he leaned back and popped the guy in the mouth, knocking him into the next row. The only reason Marty knew what had happened was because Dad had given him the heads-up. It happened so quickly he would have missed it otherwise.

  We know that not everyone will approve of our dad’s particular brand of frontier justice, but that’s just how he’s wired. He holds true to his own code, both on and off the ice. As a player, if someone disrespected his code, he didn’t care how long it took to set things straight. A story from the mid-1960s shows just how long his memory could be. The Red Wings had missed the playoffs that year, so he’d picked up a gig as a television commentator for the postseason. On an off day, he wound up watching a bridge game between some of the players. Our dad was an avid bridge player and a real student of the game. At one point, Dick Duff, who played left wing for the Canadiens, took a trick by finessing a mediocre trump card past the other players. Appreciating the move, Dad mumbled, “Great play” under his breath. One of Montreal’s defensemen, J.C. Tremblay, overheard him and snapped, “What would a dummy like you know about it?” That didn’t sit well with Dad. He told J.C. to remember what he’d said and walked away. Six months later, the Red Wings were in Montreal to play the Canadiens. As it happened, it was the night that Dad scored his 600th goal. The fans had barely finished giving him a standing ovation for the achievement, when they reversed course and started to rain down boos. A few minutes after his big goal, Dad trailed J.C. into the corner after a puck. When he came out of the corner, he left J.C. on the ice with a fractured cheekbone. The Forum crowd didn’t know why it had happened, but Dick Duff did. He skated past Gordie and said, “Card game.” Dad just nodded.

  Was his retribution excessive? An argument could be made that it was. On the other hand, J.C. might have done well to think twice before being so disrespectful. Our dad may not have been right all the time, but he was consistent. He hasn’t changed to this day. Just last year he was signing autographs at the arena in Murray’s hometown, when suddenly he stood up and walked purposefully toward a kid about thirty feet away. He had spotted the boy picking on his sister and didn’t think that was right. He gently cuffed the kid on the back of the head and told him to smarten up. When the boy’s family reached the front of the line, the boy’s eyes were red and he was clearly sheepish. Taking the boy aside, Dad said that he needed to look out for his sister, not torment her. By the time they finished talking, the kid was beaming. We don’t know how the boy’s parents felt about their child getting lectured by Gordie Howe, but he couldn’t help himself. His sense of justice is the same now as it was on the ice.

  Lucky for us, our folks took a kinder, gentler approach to raising kids than was standard at the time. We’re all still thankful for that, since getting spanked by Gordie Howe would have been no kind of fun. He has some of the biggest hands you’ve ever seen, with thick wrists to match. Really, he’s just a big strong guy from head to toe. It’s one of the reasons he was able to play hockey into his fifties. Athletically, he’s not like most other people. His hand-eye coordination, for one, is almost supernatural. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing, he picks it up almost immediately. If he didn’t find his calling in hockey, he probably would have ended up playing major league baseball or professional football. He was also a scratch golfer in his day. Put a club in his hand and he can swing it equally well from the left or right. Just name the sport and within a week he’ll be playing it like he’s been doing it his whole life.

  It’s been said that Dad was built to play hockey. There’s actually more truth to that idea than anyone could know. When Mark was a teenager, he picked up the phone one day to find Eaton’s on the other end of the line. They were tailoring some clothes for Dad and needed his measurements. Mark hustled upstairs to our parents’ room and pulled a suit from the closet. When he measured the inseam, it was 271/2 inches, which he knew must be wrong for someone six feet tall. He double-checked it, but the number stayed the same. After relaying the measurements to Eaton’s, they asked him to measure the inseam yet again. Nothing changed. They told him they’d call back when his mother was home. Mark, of course, had been right. Few people realize it, but Dad’s legs are remarkably short for such a big guy. Mark, for instance, is two inches shorter than Dad, yet his inseam is 32 inches. As it turned out, having short legs and a long torso was ideal for Dad’s physical style of play. His low center of gravity made it nearly impossible to knock him off the puck. It’s a physiological advantage that gave him an edge for his whole career. When it comes to playing hockey, it’s as if he won the genetic lottery.

  The other secret weapon that Dad had going for him that can’t be overlooked was our mother. At the start of their marriage, she handled the household matters so he could focus on hockey. She paid the mortgage, called the plumber, talked to our schools, and did everything in between. When she took over as his business manager a few years later, it allowed him to sleep easy knowing that she was looking out for the family’s best interests. Their personalities meshed perfectly. Our dad is so easygoing it can be astounding. He could be sitting in a hundred-degree room wearing a sweater and it wouldn’t occur to him to complain. However, if someone came along and asked if he’d like to go somewhere to get a cold drink, he’d think that was a great idea. Well, our mom was always the person who came along. It made for an ideal team. He put all his energy into hockey and she worried about everything else. She was a born organizer. We used to joke that if the house caught fire, the first thing she’d go for would be her appointment book. It was like another child to her.

  Once Dad finally hung up his skates for good, our parents might have been busier than when he was playing. They stayed in Connecticut for a few years before eventually moving back to Michigan. They decided to live in Traverse City, which is only about an hour away from a cabin we used to have on Bear Lake. It’s a beautiful spot located on the Twin Bays of Lake Michigan. Dad loves being on the water, so it was perfect. Their post-hockey years were similar to those of a lot of retired folks. They golfed and fished and went to Florida for a couple of months every year. In addition, of course, they ran Howe Enterprises, which eventually became Power Play International. They did a lot of charity work, and Dad always had invites to attend card shows, golf tournaments, banquets, and other hockey-related events. The business of being Gordie Howe turned o
ut to be a full-time job. In 1997, Dad also laced up for a shift with the Detroit Vipers of the International Hockey League. At nearly seventy years old, he became the first hockey player to play in a professional game in six different decades. Some dismissed it as a publicity stunt, but that didn’t bother Dad, who just did it for fun. He still loved the game as much as ever and the idea of being back on the ice sounded too good to pass up. Our parents also stayed busy chasing after their nine grandchildren. Mark has three kids, Travis, Azia, and Nolan. Cathy has two, Jaime and Jade, and Murray has four, Meaghan, Gordie, Corey, and Sean. The oldest grandchildren now have kids of their own, which makes Dad a great-grandfather to Ainsley, Ella, Brenden, and Lahna.

  Our parents took a lot of joy in watching their family grow. Unfortunately, not everything can be out of a storybook. We received some hard news in 2002 when Mum was diagnosed with a rare neurological illness called Pick’s disease. She passed away in 2009. The WHA inducted her into its Hall of Fame a year later, along with Gordie, Marty, and Mark. Our dad misses her every day. We all do. Going through the last few years without her has been tough, especially on Dad. We know that he reminds himself often that they spent fifty-five very happy years together. He tells us that he feels lucky for every one of them. After Mum passed away, we realized that Dad would get pretty lonely on his own, so now he takes turns staying with all of us. And these past few years, he has needed someone nearby around the clock. Marty makes up a schedule and Dad rotates between each of our houses. It works well for everyone and means that the grandchildren, and now sometimes even the great-grandchildren, get to spend a lot of quality time with their grandpa. We do, too.

  We cherish our time with Gordie all the more these past few years as it has become clear he has been dealing with cognitive impairment, a form of dementia. It has been a very slow decline over many years, though it has become more noticeable recently. His memory just isn’t what it once was. At eighty-six, Gordie is becoming frail for the first time in his life. It is sad to see him struggle at things we all take for granted, things he wouldn’t have given a second thought only a short time ago.

  But even in adversity, Gordie can’t resist helping. He has been involved in fundraising since Colleen passed away from her fight with Pick’s Disease, another form of dementia. He works with the NHL Alumni in Toronto, Vancouver, and Calgary to raise funds for research and care for dementia and Alzheimer’s patients and their families. He will continue this as long as he is capable.

  That’s Gordie. He has always enjoyed working and helping others. God bless the kindest, most giving person you ever had the pleasure of meeting. Mark, Cathy, Murray, and I are lucky to have had two such great parents and we miss our mother Colleen almost as much as Gordie misses the love of his life. We enjoy and cherish the time we have left with our father, and look forward to a few more fishing trips.

  • • •

  A peek into our house when we were growing up wouldn’t have given any indication that the most famous hockey player in the world lived there. The trappings of fame were of no interest to him, and he rarely read his own press clippings. Around 1963, however, something came along that was hard to avoid. A group called Big Bob and the Dollars put out a novelty song called “Gordie Howe (Is the Greatest of Them All)” that became something of an improbable hit. For a while, it was all over local radio in Detroit, which gave us plenty of chances to tease our aw-shucks dad. It’s an upbeat ditty with a chorus that went something like: You can have your choice of all the rest / If you’re a Howe fan, you’ve got the very best. As many times as we laughed after hearing it on the radio, a funny thing has happened as we’ve grown up. The song still makes us smile, but now we realize that Big Bob and the Dollars may actually be right. It just doesn’t have anything to do with hockey.

  Marty Howe

  Mark Howe

  Cathy Purnell

  Murray Howe

  I need to start with the people who made me who I am. Here I am with Colleen, who brought out the best in me, and my parents, Kate and Ab, who taught me the lessons I needed to make it.

  I have been lucky, no doubt about it. A lot of things have changed over the years, but the important things always stay the same.

  That’s me back when I was playing in Omaha in 1947. When the NHL had only six teams, the minor leagues were full of very talented players. Back then, I was just focused on making it to the big leagues.

  Here I am with my younger brother, Vic. It is a pretty special feeling to play against your brother on a frozen pond one day and in the NHL the next.

  Hockey is a fast, tough game, and my father taught me early not to take dirt from anyone. I dished out a few licks over the years (here I am giving a Soviet player a taste of Canadian-style hockey in Moscow in 1974), but I have taken a few myself. Here I am (above) getting some medical attention from trainer Lefty Wilson in 1961.

  I have been called “Mr. Elbows” more than once, sometimes as a compliment, sometimes not. I’ll say this, though. If everyone played with their elbows up, the game might be faster and possibly even cleaner.

  I fell for Colleen the moment I laid eyes on her in the spring of 1951. She was as comfortable on a fishing trip as she was at a formal event. She had my back for many years, and I miss her every day.

  Hockey players are on the road a lot, but I spent every minute I could with my family. Marty was born in 1954 (top left) and Mark came along the following year (top right). Cathy arrived in 1959, and Murray filled out the roster in 1960. Here we all are in the living room: from left to right, that’s Marty, Murray, Cathy, Colleen, me, and Mark.

  Hockey players love golf, and the Howes are no different. Here we are on the course with U.S. President Gerald Ford.

  Here we all are at a family skating party.

  There was never any doubt what the boys’ favorite NHL team was going to be.

  I have always loved to fish, and I’ll take any chance I can get to put a line in the water. Here I am fighting a marlin in Panama. Fishing is something we have enjoyed as a family since the kids were old enough to hold a rod, and we still like to get out on the water. Here I am in Florida with Mark.

  We loved spending time as a family at Bear Lake, in Michigan. Colleen and I enjoyed racing sailboats on the lake—and you can tell by this photo who was the skipper in the family.

  I loved my time in Detroit, and I would like to think I had a pretty special relationship with the fans there. My heart is definitely in Detroit. At the same time, I am very grateful for the chance to play in the WHA with Mark and Marty, which led back to the NHL. I loved my second career in professional hockey, though I never felt quite the same in green as I did in red.

  The only thing better than playing hockey for a living is playing hockey for a living with your sons. Though I loved Detroit, playing with Marty and Mark in Houston (above) completely restored my love of the game, even though I had retired shortly before. Our move to New England eventually brought about something none of us expected: a return to the NHL. Here we are, years later, with our old Whalers sweaters at the WHA Hall of Fame booth.

  It doesn’t matter how much gray hair you have, you never lose your love of the game. I never missed a chance to get back on the ice, and you can tell by the smiles that I enjoyed it. Here I am at the 1999 All-Star Game in Tampa. One thing the greatest players have in common is that they love the game. I don’t think many people love it more than Bobby Orr (below).

  There is nothing more important than friends and family. That’s Colleen sharing a laugh with close family friend Al Philpot on his boat in Miami. Here we all are at Colleen’s 65th birthday party: Cathy, Mark, my older brother Vern, Colleen, Murray, Marty, and me. I have gone from being the kid in the family to the great-grandfather. Here I am holding Travis and Kristen’s daughter Ainsley.

  One of the great things about our game is the people you meet and the tradition you become part of. Here I am at the Order of Hockey in Canada inaugural ceremony with the great Wayne Gretzky, the gu
y who broke so many of my records, Olympian Cassie Campbell, and Hall of Famer Frank Mahovlich. Below that I’m at Joe Carter’s charity golf tournament with Eddie Shack, Marty, and Johnny Bower. And the bottom photo shows me with some of the greatest Red Wings ever: my former linemate Ted Lindsay, former captain Steve Yzerman, and legendary coach Scotty Bowman, at Steve’s retirement.

  As much as I love the game, life has been great in retirement. Here I am accepting an honorary degree from University of Saskatchewan. And below that is Mark at his Hall of Fame induction in 2011. I could not have been more proud. And the bottom photo was taken at Marty’s, where I still like to get out and do yard work.

  Hockey is about tradition and teamwork, and I am very proud to have become part of both in Detroit. Here I am as the Stanley Cup was presented in 1955. From left to right, that’s Marguerite Norris, Vic Stasiuk, Clarence Campbell, Ted Lindsay, Marcel Bonin (with his hand on the Cup), Bill Dineen (directly behind Bonin), Jimmy Skinner, Glen Skov (behind Skinner), Alex Delvecchio (with his hand on Wilson’s shoulder), Johnny Wilson (directly behind me), me, and Terry Sawchuk. At the right is a photo of me signing a whole bunch of number 9 sweaters, and below that is a photo of the Wings all wearing my old number in 2013 to mark my 85th birthday.