On the surface, Dave Hanson and I may appear to have little in common. Ah, but that impression turns out to be false. Here’s what Dave and I share: a personal history in the “you had to be there to believe it” world of minor league hockey. In fact, we were part of the same league. The old (and legendary) Eastern Hockey League, renamed the North American Hockey League, where in the early ’70s I broadcast the games of the Syracuse Blazers. Soon after, Dave skated for the archrival Johnstown Jets. Dozens of players whose exploits and antics fill these pages skated under my gaze as I fired off play-by-play on WSYR in Syracuse. At thirty dollars a game (and five dollars a day meal money on the road), I thought I’d made it big. And if big laughs, great memories, and lasting friendships are the measure, then I had.
So when Slap Shot was released, I was among those who knew firsthand that this portrait of hockey life in hard-scrabble minor league outposts wasn’t all that exaggerated. I mean, I knew Ogie Ogelthorpe, it’s just that his real name was (and is) Bill Goldthorpe. Goldie skated for the Blazers. I assume he did so because league rules stated you had to skate in order to fight. Goldie and I are friends now. Then, not so much.
Ned Dowd, Reg Krezanski, Blake Ball (Slap Shot’s Gilmore Tuttle), Gary Sittler, Rod Bloomfield—I knew ’em all. Plus Ron Ingram, Jamie Kennedy, Ted Ouimet, Claude Charte, Carlo Ugolini, John Brophy, Herman Karp, Nick (the king) Fotiu, and others too numerous to mention, but no less memorable.
With that rich tableau to draw upon (and Paul Newman as its star) Slap Shot became a hit. And soon enough, a cult classic, which it remains today. As a result, the Hanson Brothers got a second hockey life. They took their show on the road and they’re still out there—popping up in puck venues large and small. Beloved heroes of hockey hijinks from Montreal to Medicine Hat, from Pittsburgh to Podunk. It’s been a long stretch of ice time, and between shifts Dave Hanson has managed to produce a loving and laugh-filled remembrance. Pretty good, eh? And if you can’t decipher it all, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Goldie Goldthorpe that day on the Blazer bus as he ripped my copy of the New York Times to shreds: “Don’t be jealous, I’ll teach you to read.” Although, come to think of it, if you made it this far, you can read! And now, as Dave takes over, read on and enjoy.
—Bob Costas