I met him at a local rink near Princeton, New Jersey.
An old warrior whose life was etched in deep crevices across his face. Bumping into him during a puck battle was like bumping into a brick wall. Well into his 60s, he held his own against players in their 20s. A combination of strength on his skates and game smarts only a pro could have. Who was this guy?
Hearing I was from Chicago, he asked, “You playing Thursday? I show you something.” The accent was thick. Discovering I was part Czech, he roared like a lion in laughter.
“Yep, I’ll be here,” I said.
Fast forward to Thursday. The game was over. He waited until the locker room had cleared out. “You like Blackhawks?”
“I love the Blackhawks. Have been a Hawk fan since the Original Six days,” I replied.
“You remember Original Six?” he asked.
“Like it was yesterday. It’s why I love hockey. Nothing more exciting than a Bobby Hull end-to-end rush at old Chicago Stadium to get you out of your seat.”
He slowly reached into his coat pocket and unfurled a very old newspaper clipping. It was a photo of a hockey player. A hockey player in full uniform wearing the red Blackhawks jersey. Chief Blackhawk’s profile was a definite tell that the time was the early 1960s. It was him.
“I play something like six games for Blackhawks during Original Six. I lied about my age.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You got time for quick story?”
“Sure. Would love to hear it.”
“When I was young man in Czechoslovakia, Soviet Union still control everything in my country. Very little freedom for the people. But I became very good hockey player. Czech hockey people tell me to go get visa so that I travel to Canada and play hockey in NHL. I go to visa office and big, fat Russian guy won’t approve my visa. I have no family in Canada. My family very poor. I try next month. Same fat Russian. No again. I try again. No. I try for many years. Same fat Russian guy in visa office. No.”
“Too many years pass. I stuck in Czechoslovakia. I’m not kid. My NHL dream dying. Friends say ‘keep trying.’ Soviets still in charge. I go to visa office. Big, fat Russian not there. Old lady who works in office know me from hundreds of visits. ‘Igor sick today.’”
“I get in visa line. Different guy behind desk. Now my turn. I tell new guy I want to go to Canada. Play hockey. NHL. He looks at me. ‘Hockey. NHL. I love hockey. I love NHL.’”
“Bang! He stamps my visa. I will never forget sound. ‘Good luck’ he says. ‘I know you will make NHL.’”
“’Thank you. Thank you,’” I say.
“When I turn corner in building, where no one see me, I start to run. I would have run all way to Canada. I hold my visa tighter than anything I ever hold.”
“When I home, I cry and cry. Both happy and sad cry.”
“But I did play NHL. For Blackhawks. I love Blackhawks. They knew I much older than I say.”
I slung my equipment bag over my shoulder. Stunned. Completely stunned.
“Next time, I want the long version. Want to hear more. Much more,” I said.
“OK, we talk. You Czech. You love Blackhawks. You understand.”
As the locker room door flung open, the roar of his lion laugh filled the empty rink.
But there would be no more next times. No long versions of his incredible story. He died before we could talk again.