Chicago Blackhawks: One Fan's History

My first memory of anything sports-related was sitting downstairs on my fifth birthday, playing with my new red fire truck, and watching William Perry spill over the goal line during a Monday Night Football beatdown of Green Bay.

If you grew up in the Chicagoland area in the mid '80s, the Chicago Bears were a way of life. Every Sunday marked church, catechism, the Mike Ditka Show, the NFL Today, and the Bears at noon.

Walter Payton ruled this town long before Michael Jordan arrived. DePaul was actually just as big of a story as Jordan's Bulls, if not more, in the mid-'80s. The Cubs and Sox were looked at as summer0long swooners. The passion of the city had yet not migrated to the national pastime, as it would in the 21st century.

In mid-1980s Chicago it was Harold Washington, Ed Vrdolyak, Council Wars, Mike Ditka, the Chicago Bears, Michael Jordan, Ryne Sandberg, and Jane Byrne—in no particular order. The city thrived on politics, scandal, and flash. Jordan and the Bears provided that flash.

A team that provided much of the February-April rush in the city was the Chicago Blackhawks. Denis Savard, Al Secord, and Doug Wilson provided a nucleus that rallied the Hawks to three final four appearances from 1982 to 1985. After taking home another Norris crown in 1986, the Blackhawks began to fade into the NHL abyss. It started with a lackluster sweep at the hands of the then-lowly Toronto Maple Leafs.

Murray Bannerman was not holding up well. Bob Sauve was not the answer. Depth was a huge problem.

A year-long experiment under the NHL's version of Wade Phillips, Bob Murdoch, did not turn out well either.

By the beginning of the 1988-89 campaign, the Hawks were clearly not just on the outskirts of the NHL in talent, but they were losing a fight to stay in the forefront of Chicago papers.

The hiring of Mike Keenan was meant to bring the Hawks back to the level they had enjoyed earlier in the decade. What transpired was a gut-wrenching 27-41-12 season that featured clubhouse meltdowns, frequent goalie switches by Captain Hook (Keenan), and an embattled fan base that had seen enough.

Going into the final Sunday of the season, the Hawks needed to beat Toronto to qualify for the playoffs in arguably the worst division in hockey. A 4-3 overtime win at the Stadium provided the final tally, and the lifeless Hawks were headed to Detroit.

BEGINNING

My uncle played hockey, loved hockey, watched the Blackhawks incessantly. My father, on the other hand, didn't play the game, nor did he care to introduce the game to me for that matter. He was too interested in baseball, basketball, and football—and rightfully so.

Hockey was a game for rich kids. We didn't have much money. Not for travel, equipment, etc. So, I never really got an introduction to the game.

This isn't to say that my dad didn't love the Blackhawks, because he did. They were just No. 4 on his sports totem pole, and were probably the same for most people in Chicago for that matter.

At five years old, I stopped watching cartoons. I started reading the newspaper sports section. I didn't watch children’s shows, but would watch the NFL Today on Sunday mornings. I was an odd kid.

The Blackhawks were already there, but they didn't make much sense to me. Was I supposed to care about them? I remember getting a yearly SportsVision calendar in the mail informing us of the programming for that year. On the pamphlet were painted pictures of Carlton Fisk, Michael Jordan, and Doug Wilson.

So, they had to be big, right? I mean, they put the picture right next to Jordan and Fisk, right? That's got to mean something.

1989 was a magical year for a nine-year old Chicago sports fan. Absolutely magical. In March, Illinois made a furious run to the Final Four. The Chicago Bulls were up and down like a merry-go-round, and would qualify for the playoffs despite a fifth-place divisional finish.

The Cubs had their mystical season on Addison and Clark, which led to a divisional title. Hell, the Bears started 4-0. Well, let's just say it was great from January-October first, shall we?

In the middle of this was an odd collection of youngsters and castoffs on this Blackhawks team poised to go nowhere. I told myself I would watch it from afar.

The Blackhawks flew past Norris champion Detroit four games to one. When the series ended, I went up to my third-grade teacher Mrs. Arandson. Mrs. Arandson was about 75 years old, and loved Chicago sports. I miss her dearly. I had this exchange with her:

ME: Uh, Mrs. Arandson. Did you see that the Blackhawks beat Detroit 4-1.
MA: Yes. Yes, I did. I didn't know you liked hockey, John.
ME: Well, I kind of do. Do people like the Blackhawks?
MA: Well, of course. I like to watch the Bulls and the Blackhawks. It was quite an upset to beat Detroit.  Let's see if they can get St. Louis!

I didn't say anything after that because, well, quite frankly, I was pretty stunned this 75-year-old lady knew that the Hawks had just beaten Detroit and that they played St. Louis next.

This, by the way, is all 100-percent true. That conversation happened. Exact wording.

I had no way to keep up on the Chicago-St. Louis series because my dad worked nights, and my mother ruled the television. My mom had to live with her brother, my uncle, who hijacked the TV throughout the '60s and '70s to watch the Hawks. And HELL NO was she going to let that happen again. I mean, god forbid she missed the new Designing Women.

But, I kept up. Game by game. I relayed the daily updates to Mrs. Arandson, and she would give me details on how the game actually went down.

The Hawks took care of St. Louis four games to two. A 27-41-12 hockey club was on its way to conference finals.

Even as a nine-year old, I knew that the Blackhawks had a very small shot at beating a very talented Calgary Flames team. Yet, I can remember vividly sitting outside of Hawthorn Elementary school after one of my sister's recitals to hear the Hawks stun Calgary in Game Two at the Saddledome. With the Hawks down two games to one, I finally got a hold of an alarm clock radio.

It was about time. Listening to Pat Foley describe the scene in Chicago Stadium before a big playoff game was something I'll always remember. I listened to Game Four intently, only to collapse when Al MacInnis threw one into the back of the net to win the game in overtime.

BEING A 1930s SPORTS FAN

What we were, in fact, were prehistoric sports fans. The majority of us Hawks fans had to spend many nights, putting our ears to the radio listening to a fading signal, hoping the Blackhawks would prevail.

Management never fully let us in. If you wanted Blackhawks home games after 1991, you had to order HawkVision.

It's something that nobody else in our generation has had to deal with—the connection to radio as a primary conductor of team broadcasting. And thank God for Pat Foley during those years.

If 1989 hooked me, 1992 transported me. I went to that place in Hawks heaven where everything goes right, and even Mike Peluso finds the net.

The 11 straight playoff wins seem like an alternate universe now. How could have that even happened?

More importantly, how did they blow a 4-1 lead in Game One of the Finals? Why did Bernie Nicholls take a run at Keith Brown during Game four of the CCF? These things we'll never know.

1995 vs. Red Wings

Greatest series I've ever watched. I know, I'm biased.  But I can't remember a five-game set being more exciting in my life. It's a shame that for how well Ed Belfour played, he only managed one win in this series.

WHY WE LEFT

So, why did we leave? There are times in a person's life where he just can't take it anymore. He's not going to spend good money on a bad product. He's not going to support a franchise that doesn't support him. So, while I watched the Hawks from a distance from 1999-2006, I can't say that I really ever cared.

As long as Old Man Wirtz was in charge, as long as the old Blackhawk Machine existed, I was not going to be a part of it.

WHY IT ALWAYS WILL PULL US IN

The following clip is all that I need to know about why the Chicago Blackhawks exist. There is a hope, that someday, somewhere, there will be another moment just like this. A moment where all of the hard work, all of the sacrifice, and all of the blood will be paid off.

A moment like this is only possible in hockey. It grabs you like no other sport. I'm a lifelong lover of football, basketball, and baseball. But a hard fought goal late in a 1-0 game? Nothing can beat. Nothing will beat it.

Play it again. Look at the crowd. Look at the faces. This is only possible through hockey. I thoroughly believe this.

And one day, that conversation I had with Mrs. Arondson, the nights I had pressing my ear to the radio, the days me and the guys would play floor hockey—all of those things will come together. All of that joy will come together.

We'll be champions again.