“The Chicago Stadium is Hawks Land. Always was, always will be, until the last brick is toppled. That deep red paint on every railing? Blackhawks Red. If the Chicago Bulls decided tomorrow to change their colors from red to blue, those seats and railings still would be red. Those retired numbers hanging from the rafters? Blackhawks numbers. Look up and see them – 21, 1, 35 and 9 for Stan Mikita, Glenn Hall, Tony Esposito and Bobby Hull. The circuses are wonderful, the iceshows spectacular. The boxing matches were exciting and the rock concerts a gas. The Chicago Bulls, of course, are unforgettable. But the Stadium is Hawks Land. The Blackhawks have been the cornerstone of the Chicago Stadium since the night they played their first game there, Dec. 16, 1929, the same year the Stadium opened…All of the all-time greats of the National Hockey League walked through Gate 3 ½ at the Stadium. And many of them played for the Hawks. There are too many memorable moments to list here, but in addition to those described on the pages that follow, we should note a few others: …On Feb. 16, 1992, Michel Goulet scored his 500th career goal there in a game against Calgary…On March 22nd 1982, Denis Savard broke Bobby Hull’s single season record of 107 points…To be sure, the Chicago Stadium is Hawks Land.” -from “The Stadium, The Official Commemorative History of the Chicago Stadium” by Don Hayner and Tom McNamee, Performance Media, 1993

“We’ve got the ice for Saturday afternoon,” Chef Hans announced. Of Austrian descent, short with dark hair and a quick smile, Chef Hans was the Head Chef at Chicago Stadium, home of the Blackhawks. He kept the players and the management and the press fed; a task he relished. An avid hockey fan, he also enjoyed playing. As a manager, he secured the ice for an afternoon skate on Saturday, March 13, 1993. I worked for Chicago Stadium Sportswear, the merchandise arm of the Chicago Blackhawks. When Chef Hans called and invited me to skate, the Hawks were out of town for a road game; the ice was laid and available. I was excited when I found out that I was actually going to skate on the ice at the Chicago Stadium.

Coincidentally, my friend Sean Byrne, from New York, was my houseguest. On tour, so to speak, he was in Chicago for a Grateful Dead concert and a New York Rangers game against the Blackhawks. I asked “Sean, How about going to the Stadium Saturday afternoon and watch me skate around the ice?” He couldn’t skate, so he’d have to be a spectator. Sean, a rabid hockey fan, was particularly excited at the prospect of roaming about freely as earlier in the week, the Stadium was packed for the Rangers / Blackhawks game. “Sure, that sounds great. What time?” he asked.

“Some time in the afternoon. You’ll have time to rack, don’t worry.”

My Chicago-bred friend Mike Kosovich answered the phone after dinner Thursday night. “Hey Mike, how would you like to skate at the Stadium?”

“Are you shitting me? You know I would love it. When?” he asked.

I replied, “Saturday afternoon. Can you make it?”

“Are we playing with sticks and gloves or full gear?”

“Full equipment…and full contact.”
“Full contact?”
"Just kidding. But definitely full gear.”

"I’ll pick you up. What time?”

“How does 12:30 sound? We start at one.”

Saturday morning, Mike showed up at 11:30, jumpy as a little boy. He drove Sean and me from my Wrigleyville apartment to the Stadium on West Madison Street. Mike was unusually chatty and then got tense and quiet as we approached the Stadium. A heavyset man, Mike had a continual five o’clock shadow, even minutes after shaving. His unkempt hair would stick out at weird angles from his helmet. In our two years of friendship, we played hockey together in several Chicagoland rinks. This would be a special treat, a local boy skating on his own Mecca. When we reached the Stadium, we parked in the player’s parking lot outside Gate 31 and walked in with equipment bags slung over shoulders and sticks in hands. I walked through this entrance countless times, yet that time I felt lighter than normal and distanced from the whole scene. The security guard nodded as we walked in. He knew me.

Gate 31 was the players’ entrance and we were players, at least for that day. We were allowed to use the visitor’s locker room because it was empty. It was utilized only on game days by the visiting team. The locker rooms were directly underneath the Gate 3 ½ entrance. This was unique to Chicago Stadium. As we walked down the ramp, tension built in my chest. It wasn’t a very remarkable walk to the locker room; narrow brick-lined walls that turned twice to the left. Rubber mats led from the locker room door, turned left for a few feet, then ascended a staircase. Up those stair – the ice. My steps quickened and my chest tightened and my hand started to sweat as I turned in to the locker room.

As I entered, I put my stick in the wall rack next to the door. There were several players in the room in varying states if undress. Chef Craig – Hans’ assistant chef, Bob “Rosie” Rosenberg – team statistician and Jim Sofranko – my boss from Chicago Stadium Sportswear. All told, about 30 players were in the locker room. There were a lot of non-skaters, friends of the players, sharing in the moment. My excitement level trebled when I noticed the other players. These were Blackhawks’ alumni.

Present were Peter Marsh, who played in the early 80’s; Cliff Koroll, an 11-year veteran of the Hawks, retired in 1980; and Hall of Famer Stan Mikita, a 22-year National Hockey League (NHL) veteran. He played his entire career for the Chicago Blackhawks. It was no wonder then, that a casual pickup game between friends and co-workers produced eerie sense of electricity.

Small and cramped, the visitors’ locker room was at the Western end of the Stadium. The design was sanctioned to give the Hawks an advantage. Opponents were uncomfortable; the shower pressure was weak and the changing stalls were tight and the room was small and closed in and it made it hard to breathe. The aromas from not-so-clean hockey equipment, stuck inside a bag, sweat-laden, unventilated, made it truly impossible to breathe. I dressed in my usual and practiced fashion. From the legs upward, after my jock, I put on shinpads and stockings and pants. I didn’t lace up my skates; I let my feet adjust. I was sweating. My heart rate was up. The room was warm. After several minutes, I laced up my skates and put on upper body equipment; shoulder pads, elbow pads, jersey, helmet and lastly, gloves. I put on a “Home” (white) Rangers jersey. In Chicagoland, it was a mortal sin to wear anything but the red, black and white of the Blackhawks. A New Yorker by birth, I had to wear Rangers colors. Finished dressing, I picked my stick off the wall rack and walked out of the room towards the staircase.

As I started the climb, the first things I noticed were the bright lights, shining directly into my eyes, creating a halo-like effect. I became adjusted to the lights and noticed the retired number banners hanging from the rafters.

21 1 35 9

STAN MIKITA GLENN HALL TONY ESPOSITO BOBBY HULL

1958-1980 1957-1967 1969-1984 1957-1972

They brought to mind particular images. Memories from watching Rangers – Blackhawks games on television as a boy in New York. Bobby Hull, “The Golden Jet,” streaking down the wing, blasting a slapshot past my Rangers goalie, threatening to tear the cords of the net. Slick Stan Mikita stickhandling around a defenseman. Glenn Hall, the goalie, his bare face exposed to the dangerous puck and yet would still dive headlong to make a save. The unique patterns of holes in Tony O’s face mask. I returned to the present, back to the steps. I sidestepped up the steep narrow stairs on the tips of my skates. I stopped halfway and grabbed the narrow, black steel handrail. Next, I saw the Hawks’ Stanley Cup banners from the 1933-34, 1937-38 and 1960-61 seasons. Adjacent were banners from milestone seasons in the past: Conference Champions and Division Champions and Regular Season Champions. When I walked through the endboards and dropped lightly onto the ice, I had a Blackhawks history refresher.

I imagined how a NHL rookie felt as he climbed these same steps for his first visit to Chicago Stadium. I heard the ghosts of in-your-face Blackhawks fans screaming down from the balconies as I skated around the ice. Other players were warming up and stretching and shooting pucks at the empty nets and off the boards and loosening up. Mike grinned from ear to ear. “Thanks so much, Willie. This is great. I’ve dreamt of doing this all my life. Thanks.” Sean called down from the Second Balcony “Willie!” I raised my stick in one hand and saluted him. My energy level jumped as I took a few turns around the ice. My senses heightened. The loud crunch of ice under my skates and pucks bouncing off the boards echoed through the empty Stadium. With tin can acoustics, everything on the ice amplified, including my heartbeat.

After warm-ups, placed on the White team, I formed a forward line with two other players. Colors opposed us. Mike played Colors. Jim played Whites. The game started fast. Too fast. I skated on many rinks in twenty years of playing hockey. None had the speed of the Stadium. Mike was a slow skater. Jim skated on ankles. I felt slow. Slow; I noticed it more with the quick ice and quick boards and quick players. My skates were in sand. I held my stick too tight; the puck spun off, out of control, too often. My shots were slow and heavy and took forever to get to the net. Passing, once I controlled the puck, was an option I took more and more frequently. My first shift was over.

I took stock of my performance while I caught my breath and calmed my heart. “I can play better.” I thought. I watched other players. I was amazed: Stan Mikita, retired since 1980 after playing 22 years, skated easily and deftly stickhandled around players. I think he played at half speed and still surpassed many of us. He looked very much like I remembered him from his playing days – he wore a similar helmet; only the eyeglasses were new. His passes landed on unprepared players’ sticks and traveled through unexpected lanes. His fluidity made me jealous. His jersey made me scared. He played for the Colors.

Another player there was Peter Wirtz, Director of Marketing for the Blackhawks and son of Blackhawks owner William W. Wirtz. I worked indirectly under him. He had a wide-legged, stiff skating style. He could put the puck in the net with a strong shot. He was wearing a Colors jersey. During one break in the action, as he skated by me, looked me in the eye and said, “Oh it’s you Willie. I was wondering who the jerk was in the Rangers jersey!” He knew all along. I thought running him into the boards on the next shift. I hit Mike. He was a safer hit.

My breathing leveled as the game continued. Still faster the puck accelerated as it wound around behind the net. The center ice zone, shorter than any rink in the NHL, slid past under long strides. Each team took turns and controlled the puck and momentum of the game. I lost track of Sean. He walked the Stadium. The score went back and forth, with the Colors holding a large lead for most of the game. I improved control over my game, getting my ‘legs’ and making some plays. “On the wing, Willie.” My winger called for the puck. “Middle! Middle!” I yelled for the pass back. Shot. Hit the post, no goal. My line played on and on, made some nice plays and hit and got hit and scored some goals and assisted on goals and had many goals scored against. I’d be lying if I said the Whites staged a comeback and I starred, but we continued to lose, but closed the gap minutely. Close to 3pm Chef Hans yelled, “Next goal wins! After that, we go to Governor’s Room for a beer.” The Colors scored the next goal. The final score was 20-15, Colors. It was time to leave the ice. Several men lingered. Sean had moved down from the balcony and was standing behind the players’ bench. He shot me a thumbs up.

A thumbs up for I held my own and skated on the same ice as Stan Mikita. I knew Sean wished he could skate. Several players had cameras. We took some team photos, and I prolonged the awe and excitement. Mike slammed his stick into my shinpads, a friendly gesture. “Thanks again. That was great.”” Replaying the game in my mind, I looked for times I could have done something different or better. I wished I skated faster and passed when I shot and shot when I passed and skated faster. It was time to leave. I skated to the end of the rink, turned around and looked at the rink with ice chips built up like snow and the empty Stadium and its rafters and the banners. I gaped for a few minutes. I turned and stepped through the boards and started down the steps to the visitors’ locker room. The Chicago Stadium would be torn down the next year, 1994. I didn’t know that then.

As they undressed from equipment and showered and dressed in street clothes, members of both teams teased and ribbed. Players laughed at the memory of Rosie going down in a heap, tripped by his own two feet. “Nice going, Rosie! What did you trip over, the blue line?!” Chef Craig complained about a check I threw at him. “Willie, you big moose, what’s the big idea of running me over? And then you had to sit on me?” “Oh, Craig, get over it.” “No lunch for you Monday!” “Aw, come on.” Everyone enjoyed the unique event.

The jokes continued up to the Stadium’s Main Level. Invited for an after-skate beer and urged into the Governor’s Room by Chef Hans, we trooped in and dropped our bags inside the door. The Governor’s Room was a plush banquet room. During Blackhawks games, celebrities and friends of the team were treated to a pre-game dinner. Private access during two intermissions and a post-game party were also included. The bar was comfortable. It was set off to the side, against the wall, like in a friend’s den. A stuffed Blue Marlin graced one wall. Photomurals of past Stadium events covered other walls. Deep oak trimmed the room. Deep red carpeted the floor. Red leather padded wooden chairs ringed circular wooden tables. Daytimes, players ate there after practice. After our game, Stan Mikita went in, as did Peter Marsh, Cliff Koroll, Chef Hans, Chef Craig, Sean, several others and myself. Sean was beside himself. There he was, in the Governor’s Room, cold beer in hand, as he listened to Stan Mikita and Peter Marsh swap stories of life in the NHL. We all shared his enchantment. Chef Hans worked the tap. “Here’s another pitcher. Drink up, boys.” It was a pleasure to drink beer after a good workout. It was great to be there. Chef Hans went into the kitchen off the main room. Stan said “Chef Hans, sit down, we don’t want you working.” “Oh. I don’t mind. Besides, Chef Craig can help!” In a few minutes, they produced some hot appetizers. They tasted good with the cold beer. I looked at the clock on the wall. It said 4pm. We were there a half-hour. When it crept around to 6:30, the party ended. Chef Hans was drunk. I was drunk. Sean was drunk. Mike was so-so. We put the room back in order, put the dirty glasses in the small kitchen and turned off the lights. In the hallway, I clapped backs, said goodbye and walked out stiffly to Mike’s car. I was out of shape. Idle for two hours reminded me how much.

The last time I saw the Chicago Stadium was in 1994. At home in my apartment in New York, the phone rang. It was my father. He said, “Are you watching the news?” “No,” I said. “Turn on Channel 2. They have a piece on the Chicago Stadium coming on after the commercial break.” “Thanks, Dad,” I said and then hung up the phone. When the newscast resumed, the sportscaster spoke of the Stadium as the video played of a wrecking ball smacking into the Madison Street side of the Stadium. I turned off the TV and wiped tears from my eyes.

Willie

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