Hockey never left Chicago, but it’s definitely back

I’m really excited to let all of you read this.  This is a post by my best friend John N. Druska.

Or so I’m told as I take a leak on the 300 level of the United Center. It truly is a different venue since I last set foot in it: March 2008 for Tony Esposito appreciation night, chanting his name like the old timers before me, followed by a swift dismantling of the Godless and Godly Alex Ovechkin and his Capitols. Even just so recently, the place was a third empty, countered tonight by a sellout crowd, a new sense of pride, a buzz of sorts, and frankly it makes me sick.

Yes, the Hawks are back, in the consciousness of a city that long ago forgot about hockey with the rest of the country. They’re winning and doing so convincingly, looking faster, sharper and straight up cooler than the squad that trampled two Canadian favorites in last year’s playoffs.  I used to hear stories of how long before the Bears united Chicago, it was truly a Blackhawks town. I remember even back when Jordan ran Chicago, the Hawks shared top billing in the original Madhouse, even alongside the anointed Bulls.

But now the new church has neon signs declaring it officially the “Madhouse on Madison,” taking the much deserved nickname and trademarking it to remind people – probably at one of their first NHL games ever – how cool it is to be a Hawks fan again. So cool, in fact, they’ve added shitty sports bars to the corners of the 300 level, the upper tier that the diehards rarely venture down from. They’ve amassed a titanic 8 minute long intro video capturing decades worth of history and tradition to remind all the cool people this team has indeed been playing in this town for over 80 seasons.  Even more gut-churning are the feathered “W” flags that pop up amongst the crimson fanhood, an infinitely stupid shout out to the brotherhood that’s been forged between the Hawks and the fucking Cubs, the ultimate zenith of sports as social bragging rights.

The town is alive again with talks of Stanley Cups and Detroit sucking, of playoffs and the kids who are too young to drink or grow a proper playoff beard, leading Chicago forward in the most brutal of gladiatorial games. And if and when the highest triumph comes, and another long-overdue drought is sated with Lord Stanley’s trophy, the town will shake, the skyline will bleed Blackhawk red; tears, along with ballcaps and sixteen inch softballs, will cascade down from the stands, but at that point, it won’t mean a photo-op for the facebook page or a crisp new black and red t-shirt. For some of us, it will set in stone what we, as fans, have always suspected in the face of glaring evidence to the contrary: The Blackhawks are the greatest team in Hockey, in Chicago, Ever.

I know too well from the immaculate run of the 2005 White Sox that people want to be a part of something special, hence bandwaggoners, hangers-on and the like. But part of a win is enduring the heartbreaking losses that inevitably prelude it. The shame of hearing the Blackhawks booed on home ice by well-traveling Red Wings fans. The utter lack of excitement, yet still hope as each lackluster season slumped along, the other Original 6 going to Playoffs, Finals and the like. Seeing cities like Tampa Bay, Dallas, fucking Anaheim?!?! and whereverthefucktheHurricanesplay having victory parades as we waded in the cesspool of irrelevance, one of sports’ oldest teams, half selling seats, the traditional roar during the National Anthem barely intimidating the visiting squads. The utter, true hatred of the Blues, the Red Wings, the Penguins, the Avalanche, as they handed lop-sided playoff defeats to the Hawks over the last 20 seasons.  The idiotic frustration of having an owner who appeared to be grooming the Blackhawks to be a retirement home for the greats of five years ago, a stop along the way out of the league, for a couple more line changes and some pity stats (no doubt after winning the Cup somewhere else). And on the flip of that, watching young, hungry talent that surely loved Chicago skate on to titles elsewhere in the league. The embarrassment of seeing the Hawks invent new ways to blow leads with under a second of playing time left. Often.

No one was bragging about those Hawks tickets they got back then. No one was wearing their jersey unless they were at the game, and no one was flying dinky little flags off their shotgun side windows. But we still cared and we still rooted for the Blackhawks; it wasn’t a lack of pride, even after a suicidal losing effort, it was fandom under assault, being tested, weeding out the bandwaggoners and fair weather fairies. Surely, the lackluster fans wandered off, returning now that a winning record and a handsome starting five are emanating from the West Side. The rest of us who stuck around carried at times nothing more than a quiet dignity and principle, in the face of victory or defeat, unwavering and loyal, proud but not “Windy,” as they call this town. We were convinced it would be worth it someday. Many weren’t.

Now the place is selling out again. And those seats we used to get at walk-up (for half price with a student ID) evaporate as soon as they’re on the market, bought up by professionals for their clients, or others who want to be a part of something special, as long as it’s the good kind of special. Truthfully, it’s nice to hear the UC near deafening again, it’s great to see support — even half-assed — flooding the city, the best jersey in sports worn proudly and everywhere. No matter that it’s brand new and still pristine, not splattered with ten year old beer and tattered with cigarette burns. But therein lies the distinction. To be excited for the Hawks, to root and cheer and proudly call them yours means nothing if you were silent and careless back in the days when the best thing to look forward to was Jeremy Piven’s “Detroit Sucks” promo on the jumbotron. To wade through that ineptitude is what makes the final win truly sweet, the real fans truly grateful.

This “One Goal” I keep hearing about. The victory that all will revel in, but far fewer Chicagoans will truly savor. The ones who were excited about the first Hawks #1 draft pick ever, before he ever laced up in the Central time zone. The ones who appreciated the Winter Classic in Wrigley Field not because it was historic, but because it was a Hawks game ON TV.  The ones who remember the Old Chicago Stadium, the pregame roar that, sadly, is unmatched nowadays despite best efforts. The ones who remember Miller Beer at the UC and dollar bubble hockey games lining the corridors of the 300 level. The ones who had seen so few victories in the era preceding this that each one almost doesn’t seem right.  To know that all of the letdowns, experienced in first person just as the resurgence now, were merely a preface to the ultimate joy, now that is something worth bragging about.

No, Hockey never left Chicago. But also, it’s not back. It’s been here all along. In between each winter Sunday, anytime the Bulls or Circus weren’t in town. The Hawks are the pride of Chicago. Try to find someone to tell you more about it. It won’t be easy, but they’re out there. And they’ll have something to cheer about when the time comes.