CHAPTER 1
In the Beginning
I can't ever remember not liking hockey. That's actually kind of a strange thing, too, considering I never played it. That is, unless you count the ice rink my three brothers and I had in our backyard for half of one winter. There, for a few winter weeks, we re-created the glories – albeit, not the grace – of Gordie Howe, Marcel Dionne, Guy Charron and all of our other NHL favorites with rudimentary moves on the bumpy ice on Rossiter in our east side Detroit neighborhood.
I must have been about seven or eight years old when the incident that led to the deconstruction of our rink happened. My brothers and I were hosting about a dozen kids from the neighborhood on the small backyard rink, playing a heated game of hockey. I, being the ever-cautious one, opted not to wear my skates and instead donned my boots with the smooth rubber bottoms. My warped reasoning was that they would offer me more mobility and stability. I believe I was on the ice for only a few minutes before I was checked into the boards (actually, the cyclone fencing) by a neighborhood boy. As could be expected with smooth-bottomed rubber boots, I lost my footing. My feet went out from under me and back I went, smacking my head hard onto the ice. And I wasn't wearing a helmet. No one wore helmets then, not even the NHL players. These were the late 1960s, the days of old time hockey.
The next thing I remembered was my parents leading me into our Ford Galaxy 500 parked in front of our house. After pausing to vomit into the snow, I crawled into the backseat, where I laid down for the short drive to St. John Hospital where I stayed for three days in a ward with adult women. The diagnosis was a bad concussion. I'm not exactly sure why I wasn't in a pediatric ward – maybe no room – so instead, I was flanked by women just under the geriatric cutoff. The food was horrible – Cream of Wheat for breakfast with a glass of cranberry juice to wash it down. Every morning I would give the mush to the large woman in the bed next to me and sip my juice. Lunch and dinner went about the same, drinking only cranberry juice and nibbling on crackers. I couldn't wait to get back home to my mom's cooking, my own bed and my brothers' teasing. When I finally arrived home three days later, the backyard rink was chipped and bumpy. My parents decided that one kid in the hospital was enough for that winter. Gone was the rink. No more glories of scoring a winning goal or pretending we were Olympic skaters. All of it vanished with one stinking concussion.
But all was not lost on the hockey front. Since I came from strong French Canadian roots – notably, the St. Croix family of Barachois, Quebec – hockey was in my blood. From the time I was a little girl, I was drawn to the thrill and brutality of hockey (please don't judge). Then the biggest score happened. My mother's aunt, Aurelie, gained access to four season tickets to the Red Wings games at Olympia Stadium. She arranged for two people from my family to attend many, if not most, of the games with her and the owner of the tickets. Having three brothers and two parents, it was a cycle of about five home games before my name would come up again. Still, to see a half dozen games from the seats at Olympia every season for a few years was enough to whet my appetite for the speed and thrill of the game I would eventually report on as a paying job and career.
My dad, Jerry, was a Detroit police officer. And considering the dicey neighborhood surrounding Olympia, he was the constant attendee at the games. The rest of us, including my hockey-loving mom, Lois, took turns using the final prized ticket. For those familiar with the old Olympia Stadium, there weren't many parking lots or structures designated for those lucky enough to have tickets to the games. Most of the parking was done on the streets or in empty lots tended to by "official" workers. Even if there was an overabundance of parking lots, my dad was the type of guy who wouldn't use them. He had other ideas of where to park. He would pull the Galaxy 500 up in front of a house on a residential street near the arena where a man would be standing, hands stuck deep into his jacket pockets.
"I was thinking I would park here," my dad would tell the man.
Pause.
The man would reply: "OK," or something to that effect.
"How about if I give you a dollar or two to watch my car?" my dad would suggest, removing his wallet from his back pocket, allowing it to flop open before pulling out a few bills. The glint off his police badge affixed inside his wallet would emphasize to the man the importance of not tampering with my dad's Galaxy 500 ... and protecting it.
"That is alright," would come the answer.
Our car was always there when we got back to it after the game, in the same shape as how we left it. Keep in mind, these were the late 1960s and early 1970s – the pre- and post-riot days in Detroit – so safety was a concern and a priority.
I'm not sure what I was most concerned with on those walks to the arena: thieves and thugs, or some of the night life that walked the streets of Detroit after dark. And by that I mean rats the size of dogs waddling down the streets and the alleys that ran behind the houses. I remember glancing down an alley on the way to the arena one winter night and seeing the huge back end of a rat scurrying down the middle of the dirt and gravel path. I grabbed my dad's hand tighter and stared straight ahead.
The second obstacle to seeing the games was my Aunt Aurelie. Sitting next to her was potentially dangerous. She was wound pretty tight to begin with, perpetually brimming with energy. Combining that with her passion for hockey left her unable to contain herself during tense times. She had two primary weapons – her two elbows, just like Gordie Howe. Every near-goal, close save by the goalie, or high stick or slash to a Wings player would result in a patented piercing Aunt Aurelie elbow. And being a trim and fit woman, her elbows were like razors. Making matters worse, she wouldn't just give a quick jab, but multiple thrusts until the goal was scored, the puck was safely cleared out of the zone or the penalty called. Accompanying this assault would be a very quickly muttered, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"
Other than making it into the rink and surviving the Aunt Aurelie elbow attacks, the rest of the game was pure heaven. It always started the same way for me. After arriving at our seats, my dad would give me the nod. This meant to put on my sweetest face and make my way down to the penalty box area. Once there, I would ask the usher working the aisle if I could...
