Messier's Dilemma: It's All Greek to Me

I didn’t want to write this column.

I tell you this not as forewarning or some lame excuse if the piece is noticeably lacking in quality or substance, whatever that means. Having to write this column breaks my heart. I feel betrayed. Imagine that I’m standing at the window of a secluded boathouse, staring out into the distance at Rye Lake. A small rowboat holds the New York Rangers still unsigned captain and their current GM. There’s a faint whisper of a Hail Mary being said. Then the small pop of a gunshot.

Mark Messier is nothing to me now.

Perhaps my reference to Corleone Family justice is a bit extreme. Allow me to restate my position. I really don’t care what Mark Messier decides to do next season. I have no pressing opinions on the subject, one way or the other. The costs and benefits in my eyes are exactly the same. He brings to the table just as much as he takes away. If he signs for $6 million and demands 25 minutes of ice time every night—whatever. If he pouts his way into retirement and vows never to return to MSG again—well, that’s fine too. I don’t care. And to me that’s very sad. After all, he is Mark Messier. He was my hero.

I hate the man that says one thing but hides another in his heart--Achilles

He’s one of the top ten players to ever lace up a pair of skates in the NHL. He is the fiercest competitor the game has ever known, a two-time MVP, 11 time All-Star, and a winner of six Stanley Cups. He is only one of three men to capture the Hart Trophy while playing on Broadway. He gave instant credibility to a Rangers squad reduced to a league-wide joke. He made MSG a wonderful place to be. He owns the greatest moment in the storied history of the Rangers. He ended the Stanley Cup jinx. He gave us 1994. Game Six versus the Devils. Game Seven against Vancouver. The memories are too numerous to count.

And now? (Sigh) Whatever, Mess.

This wasn’t intended to be an anti-Messier piece. There’s enough of that going around. Don’t count me among the growing mass of critics that feel the game has passed him by; that he contributes nothing (or negative nothing) to the team; that his leadership and organizational skills are overrated; that Martin Rucinsky or anyone else has more to offer. I don’t buy it. You won’t sell me. Don’t even bother trying.

And unless your last name is Dolan, don’t try to make this a financial issue either. If you do, you’re no better than the goofball that’s giving Mark contract advice right now. I don’t sign Messier’s checks. Neither do you. We shouldn’t care how much he makes. Does Messier deserve to be one of the top five highest-paid guys on the team? Of course not. Has he earned the right to set his price within an organization that he’s done a lot for? That’s arguable, at least I imagine the Messier family feels that way. To the Garden faithful, the money isn't really the issue here. The contract is merely symbolic, and that’s the root of the problem. It's not about who or what Mark is, but what we'd like him to be.

You see, by refusing to admit to his own limits (physical and financial) and by seemingly putting his own interests before those of his team, Mark Messier is failing to live up to his own legend, failing to adhere to the very rules of heroic conduct that he himself created. It’s not so much that his skill has diminished, not so much that he’s asking for more money than he’s worth—it’s that he’s acting hypocritical towards the very things he seems to stands for. This bothers people. It bothers me.

Legends aren’t supposed to behave this way. The traditional paradigm—and, yes, I did just use the “paradigm” in some stupid hockey column—for heroic behavior comes from Greek mythology. During the Trojan War for the Stanley Cup, the mighty warrior Achilles held out at the start of the season over a contract dispute, only to return to battle after winning his arbitration case. Achilles helped secure the Cup but ultimately suffered a career-ending heel injury, similar to the fate of Steve Yzerman. Messier is no Achilles—at least not any more. Achilles was in his prime: he had young legs, quick hands, and wasn’t coming off shoulder surgery. Mark Messier should be more akin to the warrior Odysseus: an aging but cunning leader that combined extensive battle knowledge with a keen intellect and wily vet skills. Odysseus knew his limits, carefully picked his battles, rested himself so he was fresh for the playoffs, scored the clinching goal in a stunning Game Seven OT victory against Troy, and eventually retired to his beachfront home after having his armor permanently hung in the rafters of Ithaca Square Garden. Thus concludes today’s lesson in Literature 101.

So what’s the problem with Messier? Basically he’s an Odysseus trying to act like an Achilles. He’s an aging warrior that thinks he has enough clout to dictate his terms of battle. This goes against the rulebook for the way heroes are supposed to act, a rulebook that Messier himself wrote the majority of. And that just isn’t going to fly with the Greek chorus at MSG.

We like our sports legends to behave according to The Code, and when athletes start deviating from this unspoken set of laws and regulations, we start throwing spears at the chinks in their armor. So what exactly is The Code? Beyond just being fantastically talented, four things:

Represent Your Fans. If you play for a blue-collar town, bring your hardhat and lunch-pail to every game; if you play in a swanky hotspot, make sure your supermodel girlfriend sits in the VIP section. Symbolize all the local stuff that your adopted town is proud of. Bonus points if you’re actually a native of the town itself.

Timing is Everything. To quote Homer Simpson, “The call is from heroism…will you accept the charges?” Greatness always calls collect. Be Mr. Clutch. Any Joe Slob with a handful of talent can score when it don’t mean nothin’. The legend steps up when the chips are down. Hit a walk-off home run. Sink that last second jump-shot. Score an overtime goal. If you need further instruction, watch Petr Nedved and then do the complete opposite.

Have a Moment. All great legends need to have that shining front-page snapshot where Mercury aligned with Venus and by the grace of the Sports Gods everything fell into place for one night, one play, one event that symbolized everything the star athlete stood for as a player. Every legend has at least one. I never saw Bobby Orr play hockey, but when I see a picture of him flying mid-air in the Stanley Cup, his triumphant arms stretched to the sky—I get it. I understand everything I need to know about Bobby Orr. What a moment!

Be Mortal (But Not Too Mortal). Sports is life, and life is drama. Without getting too pedantic—“pedantic” and “paradigm” in the same column? New record for pretension. WOO HOO!—there has to be a humanistic quality to the game; the triumphs and defeats on the field have to mirror those in the lives of the average fan. And as the star of the game/drama, the legendary athlete has to symbolize the pinnacle of achievement for his favorite fans to strive towards, while still being flawed enough that his achievements, no matter how remote, still seem attainable through non-chemically enhanced means. He has to be awesome, but also be human. This is exactly why no one likes Barry Bonds anymore, but I digress...

Maybe the star is a phenomenal talent that quietly produces without complaint, even though he’s stuck on a team of morons, drunks and prima donnas—I can relate (wink wink). Maybe the star had to overcome a personal problem that he wore on his sleeve every night. Maybe an injury cut him down in his prime, maybe he even died while he was still producing. Or maybe something so simple as time and age eventually caught up with him, limited his skills, forced him to reassess his goals and find his victories on much smaller scales.

It’s that last one that seems to be a problem for Mark Messier.

Bury our dead, with tears for the day they die, not one day more--Odysseus

Everyone, even the best of legends, gets old. The skills go, the hands slow, the bumps and bruises don’t heal like they should. Time waits for no man, yada yada yada. The legend is supposed to know this. After all, we fans know this. Our frustration is supposed to be his. The athlete is supposed to “hang em’ up” before he starts to embarrass himself and tarnish that nice crisp image that we have of him, back when he was representing our town, acting as go-to guy, making the moments, being our idol. So when the game goes and he overstays his welcome, we fans start to grumble. And when he refuses to admit his mortality, we fans start to moan. And then, to top it off, when he portrays himself to be beyond our comprehension—for example, by allegedly demanding a contract far beyond the scope of his current skills…well, watch out for the rotten fruit barrage. Deny that those are “boos” you’re hearing. And don’t get into a rowboat with Glen Sather.

Mark Messier has had a wonderful career. He’s played longer than anyone, made more money than anyone, and achieved enough personal goals to build his own Hall of Fame. And now he’s gotten old. The issue is not whether he can still play, the amount he can or can’t contribute, what may be owed to him and what certainly isn’t. The issue is his heroic reputation, which is getting damaged every day. It might even be beyond the point of saving.

Like I said, I didn’t want to write this article. I owe a lot to Mark Messier. He is my hero. Or, well, at least he was.

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