Are Single-Team Superstars Relegated to History?


This summer has seen the retirement of Steve Yzerman, the heart and soul of the Detroit Red Wings since the mid-1980’s. This past NHL season saw the retirement of Mario Lemieux, the heart and soul of the Pittsburgh Penguins since he was drafted in 1984.

Watching the way the careers of both men ended was hard for a hockey fan to accept. Mario Lemieux’s career is supposed to end on the ice, holding the Stanley Cup aloft. Steve Yzerman’s career is supposed to end the same way, captaining his Red Wings to another Cup championship. Yet there were moments this season when I winced as I watched Mario play—he looked older and slower, and his body could no longer play the game as his mind com manded. Steve Yzerman’s age and injuries caught up with him this season in much the same way as did Lemieux’s health and age.

Lemieux and Yzerman both announced retirement by holding press conferences at which the men wore suits. As any Pengu ins fan knows, Mario Lemieux should not wear a suit unless he is at an awards ceremony. As any Red Wings fan knows, Steve Yzerman wears a suit to accept NHL awards. As a lifelong Pens fan, watching Lemieux retire for the second time—and knowing this retir ement has to stick because forty years old and a heart condition means forty years old with a heart condition—well, it made me sad. I can only imagine how sad Red Wings fans felt after having had the privilege of watching Yzerman play for over twenty se asons. Granted, as fans we knew logically that Lemieux and Yzerman were not the players they’d once been, and it hurt to watch the players who once dominated the league occasionally perform at the mere level of "slightly above average." Yet that didn’t mean we didn’t yearn for a return the past, for a reversion back to just a few short years ago. We remembered Lemieux and Yzerman at the top of their game, as champions, as masters of the NHL, and we wanted more memories of artistry and dominance performed by our hometown players.

As I reflect on Lemieux and Yzerman’s retirements this year and note the ruckus created by the current CBA and free agent signing period, I wonder if the next generation of hockey fans will ever have the opportunity to feel what Penguins and Red Wings fans felt this past year when Yzerman and Lemieux retired. Steve Yzerman is, forever, always, and only, a Detroit Red Wing. Mario Lemieux is, forever, always, and only, a Pittsburgh Penguin. Fans of the Wings and Penguins saw teenagers drafted, saw teenagers develop into stars, saw teenagers grow up on and off the ice, saw young men dominate in the prime of their careers, saw young men captain teams to long sought after Stanley Cup championships, saw young men win awards, and then watched as young men grew to become the old, wise players who were depended upon for such things as "veteran savvy" and "Cup winning experience." And fans of the Red Wings and Penguins watched the players they’d known first as boys, then as young men, then as men who aren’t old but who have been beaten and bruised by half a lifetime of playing a game, say they couldn’t play anymore, not at the level they wanted to, anyway. We watched Yzerman and Lemieux walk away from hockey and it hurts even though we know it’s the right thing.

I believe it hurt even more for Pittsburgh and Detroit fans when Lemieux and Yzerman skated off the ice for the final time because those players were ours and ours alone. We didn’t just see the player as a kid filled with gobs of potential. We didn’t just see a superstar dominate. We didn’t just see an older veteran re-adapt his role to fit his changed skill set and a changing game. We saw it all; we saw everything. And somehow, that’s special. It’s a part of what’s made hockey what it is for me. Lemieux in a Pens uniform, Yzerman in a Red Wings uniform—this is how things are supposed to be.

Fans of certain teams might wonder what I’m fussing about—I’m thinking of Edmonton fans who watched Wayne Gretzky get traded and who already know that players aren’t "ours" forever. Even I, as a Pens fan who watched Jaromir Jagr get traded when no one considered such a trade even a remote possibility before the year 2000, should know that
players don’t belong to teams any more. I’ll even admit that (at least when my Pens are out of the playoffs and I need to choose a rooting interest) I cheer and root for certain players because they remind me of how hockey can and should be played. When the Pens are out of the playoffs, I don’t mind cheering for Jaromir Jagr (who I watched as a kid who dazzled with potential before he dominated in the prime of his career). I’ve always hoped for the Canucks to come out of the West because I was convinced Markus Naslund would one day blossom (he, too, showed flashes of brilliance as a Pen) into a star. So I’ll concede that I cheer for Jagr and Naslund and I’ll also concede to cheering for other players this spring—players who reminded me of how the game was played by the superstars who once won Stanley Cups for the Pens and who are now forever ensconced in Hockey’s Hall of Fame.

Yet somehow cheering for Jagr and Naslund feels different when they’re not on my team. It’s not the same as cheering for the kid your team drafted, the one who grew up into a superstar, the one who is now known throughout the league as a grizzled veteran with 15 years experience, the one who belongs to you and you alone—it’s just not the same.

A s I watch the current CBA madness—which, by the way, I’m grateful for and appreciate because I feel teams really do have a better chance to win under such a plan—I still feel that something is being lost. Granted, that "something" was lost long ago, probably that day when Wayne Gretzky was traded to Los Angeles. It’s the hope that maybe that "something" can be recaptured that probably prompted the utter vitriol and malevolent words Edmonton fans directed at Chris Pronger. It’s knowing that "something" is gone that prompts Pittsburgh fans to boo Jagr every time he touches the puck at Mellon Arena. It’s why fans throw around words like greedy and selfish when players leave teams. Fans probably wouldn’t even know how to identify that "something" that makes them hate and jeer players they once adored and cheered.

That "something" is in some sense indefinable and at least partially inexplicable, but Red Wings and Penguins fans understand what that "something" actually is. Detroit and Pittsburgh fans probably have a difficult time articulating that vague "something" they felt when Lemieux and Yzerman retired, but in attempting to explain, they’d probably say they lost a player that belonged to all of us. They’d say something like how they always believed they’d win a championship with such a player, they’d talk about the championships such a player had won, and they’d always be hopeful for more championships with said player wearing their team’s sweater.

Pens fans boo Jagr because our team would’ve had a better chance to win another Cup with the vibrant, productive Jagr we’d come to love than with the temperamental Jagr we had and traded away for 3 prospects. Edmonton fans will boo Pronger when he returns because they know their franchise defenseman was a huge reason why their team was so, so close to sipping champagne from the Stanley Cup this year. Fans throughout the league know what it’s like to boo returning former players who have left because of trade requests/demands or through free agency.

Yet how many of the next generation of hockey fans will get the chance to experience that "something" that Pens and Wings fans felt at those retirement press conferences this year? How many fans will never have even once thought of booing their franchise player? How many will ever have the chance to watch a franchise player play with one franchise and associate said superstar with a sole franchise—with my team?

Certainly, as a Pens fan, I hope my Pens lock Sidney Crosby up extremely long term. I’m certain Washington fans want the same for the reigning Rookie of the Year. However, even if players like Ovechkin and Crosby are locked up long term, the current CBA necessitates that choices will have to be made. What happens if two players on a team blossom into superstars who both command the league’s maximum salary? What happens when other players need to be paid salaries above the league average? Something will have to give, and that something will be good for fans everywhere in that every team will have a real chance to produce a contending team.

Yet for that something that is good for fans everywhere, something else will be missing. The "something" that Pens and Red Wings fans can’t voice or explain but will just know as "something" when Lemieux and Yzerman’s jerseys are raised to the ceilings at their respective arenas. "Something"—one franchise, one superstar, one team for life—it’s something that makes the game the game, and it’s something that reminds us why we love the game so much.µ