A couple of years ago, Sean Avery – a board-certified wildman – was railing about hockey’s charisma deficit.
“There is zero individuality in the NHL today,” the former New York Ranger said. He banged on for a while more about the lack of “flavour,” and then closed off the topic by waving his hand – “They all look the same to me.”
It was hard to argue. NHL players do all look pretty much the same. Once they all put on the helmet, it’s a bit like the Imperial Army going over the boards. And once they get off the ice, they sound identical. A lot of “pucks in deep” and rapid deployment of some of the least original nicknames since the concept was thought up.
Please God, stop adding a ‘-y’ to the end of the first syllable of every guy’s surname.
“Oil Can.” That’s a nickname. “The Fighting Pig.” That’s a nickname. “Turkey.” That’s a nickname.
Reevesy, Burnsy, Jonesy and Gretz aren’t nicknames. They’re poor diction. They’re the result of a crushing lack of imagination. It feeds into a larger problem. Hockey has a few perennial ones and the most pernicious might be its inability to produce characters.
Good character, sure. There’s plenty of that. Maybe that’s the issue. When the head men of your sport are Gordie Howe and Bobby Orr, there’s an institutional pressure to show correct deportment while out in public.
Boston Bruins left wing Brad Marchand is not running around lighting things on fire. But he has the sort of awfulness you’d rather not expose your mother to. He has no social awareness.Charles Krupa/The Associated Press
Does Brad Marchand remind you of Gordie Howe? Perhaps when his elbow is meeting someone’s nose in slow-motion, but not in any other instance. Marchand has flavour. The NHL should pray he has enough to spice the league for the next month.
Marchand is one of those people – you probably have a friend like this – whom you like despite the fact he is awful.
This isn’t a terrible sort of awfulness. He’s not running around lighting things on fire. But it’s the sort of awfulness you’d rather not expose your mother to. He has no social awareness.
Because of that, and nowhere but in the hearts of people who enjoy watching other people act up, Marchand has been the star of this NHL postseason.
You’ll recall his highlights – goading opponents to rage, snapping sticks with his skate blade, tapping friends hard in the back of the head to remind them he’s arrived.
But it’s the off-ice demeanor that really endears him. Marchand is what happens when the naughtiest boy in class leads every school assembly in prayer.
After Boston knocked off Columbus, Marchand had had enough of being hockey’s most interesting man.
He may have been annoyed that Sportsnet’s Kyle Bukauskas asked him pregame about skate sharpening (a cheeky reference to the stick-snapping incident).
Everywhere outside this country, that sort of question is an elite-level comedic setup. By Canadian lights, it’s impolite. This is why no one in the world has ever said after meeting a stranger, “He was so glamorous and fascinating. But I should have expected that. He’s from Canada.”
Marchand was miffed. Or maybe not. Maybe he sensed an opportunity to turn a small moment into a bigger one. Before Bukauskas finished his thought, Marchand skated away.
After the game, he began Marshawn Lynch-ing in a follow-up interview with Bukauskas. Monosyllabic answers delivered with a flat aspect meant to convey annoyance. Bukauskas, to his enormous credit, rolled with it like he was recording a stand-up act. Which it sort of was.
Marchand continued his protest inside the locker room. But he couldn’t keep it consistent. After a little while, he was smirking through his answers, close to laughing, trying to find a way to say “No” without using the word “No.”
Somehow, Marchand’s dumb, petty idea had turned into something charming. It’s probably the only thing most fans outside Massachusetts and Ohio will remember about the series. It was the sort of moment that rises above the dreary run of highlight packages and amuses the non-obsessive.
Marchand is allowed to carry on like this because he occupies an unusual role in the league – an agitator and enthusiastic heel as well as a star. Since fighting was marginalized as a skill, few NHLers are given the freedom to be good and bad at the same time.
It’s an especially rewarded combination in Boston, where a long streak of appealing ruggedness (i.e. unapologetic sadism) is written into the civic compact.
And maybe it’s got something to do with being a teeny-tiny player (Marchand really is pocket-sized out of skates) from Nova Scotia taken in the consolation rounds of the draft – and so perhaps doesn’t take himself so seriously.
Whatever the mix, it’s produced the most consistently watchable player – and I’m talking from the time he arrives at the rink to the time he hits the parking lot postgame – of the modern era.
In a perfect world, other NHLers would get a look at how Marchand carries himself and feel something like shame. If the league had 60 Marchands, Connor McDavid would be making Steph Curry money. It would be must-watch from Alberta to Albuquerque. Instead, we get Woodsy, Brownsy, Slats and the rest of the boys doing their very best to say their very least and still calling it entertainment.
There’s no way to change this until a few dogs at the very top of the food chain decide they want it to change. So it’s not happening. Alex Ovechkin tried his best, but was defeated by Sidney Crosby’s Dudley Do-Right impression. The next generation – McDavid, Auston Matthews, et al – may be even more media-trained and bland.
Why does the NHL hate fun? Because everyone employed by it got together and took a vote.
Thankfully, Marchand skipped it. You may hate him. You may think he’s a scourge on the game. But you pay attention to what he’s up to, which is more than you can say for many of his colleagues who play the game the, ahem, right way.