Dennis Maruk: The Unforgettable Story of Hockey’s Forgotten 60-Goal Man

By Dennis Maruk, Ken Reid and Marcel Dionne

From feared NHL sniper to ship captain and bellhop — with hockey’s greatest ‘stache

Only 20 men in NHL history have scored 60 or more goals in a single season: Gretzky, Lemieux, and Hull all hit the magical mark. And so did an undersized, take-no-prisoners centre named Dennis Maruk. When Maruk found the back of the net 60 times in 1981–82, he was the toast of Washington — he even dined with the president. A few short years later, he was out of the game. Maruk not only left the rink, his life did a complete 180. Instead of flying up the ice and in on goal, he was behind the wheel of a service ship in the Gulf of Mexico. Instead of setting up teammates, he was setting up furniture for Goldie Hawn. He was never sent down to the farm as a rookie, but after the game he was a farmhand for John Oates. And instead of fighting in the corners, Dennis Maruk found himself fighting for his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ECW Press
• Release date: Oct 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773050621

Book preview

story.

1 THE BOAT

I peered out the window. My eyes searched for any sign of the sky, but there was nothing. The only thing I could see was wave after wave crashing into the thin pane of glass that separated me from an impromptu swim. And I wanted absolutely no part of that.

Dennis, take over the boat, the captain said. The captain was older and smaller than me. A nice man and a veteran sailor who had spent 30 years on the sea, he was skinny and missing a few teeth. He clearly looked the part.

Take over the boat? What in the hell was this guy talking about? We were in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, surrounded by massive oil tankers, and, trust me, this was not the night to be out for a pleasure cruise.

I’ve gotta get some sleep, the captain said.

The boat was a 160-foot-long supply ship. The mission: deliver supplies to tankers throughout the Gulf of Mexico. However, my mission on this night was a bit different: survive. There were two deck hands and two captains on board. One crew was asleep, and my captain and I were at the helm. For some strange reason, the captain thought it was the perfect time to throw me, a greenhorn, to the wolves . . . or was it the fishes? I’m tired. I’m going to lie down. You run the ship. Those were the captain’s orders.

I guess I didn’t have much of a choice. Before he climbed into his bunk, the captain gave me one final tap on the shoulder. I looked up from the computer-controlled monitors and into the captain’s eyes, ready for my one and only lesson before I took control of the ship.

There’s one thing you gotta look out for on the radar, he bellowed. THE BIG WHITE BARS. Those are the rigs, the big oil containers, and the boats. Wake me up when you see one of those.

He told me not to worry, everything was on radar. Well, he said, almost everything — there might be the odd ship that hadn’t been registered. Gee, that’s comforting — just the odd ship that I can’t see as wave after wave crashes into us in the dead of the night. I can handle that — on my third day on the job. (Yes, I’m being sarcastic.)

With that, the captain was off to bed. Waves were crashing around me, the boat was tumbling from one side to the other, and I was the only guy awake on the ship. For the first few minutes behind the helm, my heart was pounding. I wanted to quit. I couldn’t do this. But quitting was not an option.

I looked over at the captain, who was nodding off. I asked, How long are you going to sleep? I figured he’d say a couple of minutes. Instead, he just looked over at me and said, A couple of hours.

And just like that, I was a boat captain on the high seas, navigating through the night — and through life.

Just a few years earlier, sailing the high seas was not part of my future plans. After all, I was dining with the president of the United States, on my way to becoming just the seventh man in NHL history to score 60 goals in a season. But life had delivered its fair share of surprises, and there would be many more to come.

My name is Dennis Maruk, and this is my story.

2 THE WHITE/BLACK/GREY ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

Dennis had one of the best Fu Manchus in the league. Today, he sometimes still tries to grow it, except it’s grey. He led the ’70s look in the league. It would have been noticed more, but he was in Washington.

— Wendel Clark, Leafs legend

Before we go any further, let’s address one thing right off the bat — my moustache. These days, when I show up at a charity hockey game or at any other function where I’m part of the festivities, the first question I usually get once I enter the room is, Hey, Maruk! Where’s the moustache?

Based on that question, I’m sure you can conclude that the "Moustache" is not around anymore. But I wore it for my entire playing career. When I scored 60 goals, it was there. When I met the president, it was there. When I showed up in Oakland, it was there. And on all my hockey cards, it’s there. You didn’t see the Capitals on Hockey Night in Canada very often back in the day, but if you opened a pack of O-Pee-Chee hockey cards in 1982, you knew the Caps had a guy with a wicked handlebar. Well, that was me. So let’s get to the bottom of how I became known as the man with the Fu Manchu.

When I was 14 years old, I got my first summer job. I didn’t work at a burger joint, or pump gas, or help out at a farm like a lot of hockey players did. I bought liquor. Yep. My first summer job as a kid in Toronto was going on liquor runs for other kids. How did I get the gig? The answer is simple. Not only was I blessed with an ability to play the game of hockey, but I was also blessed with the ability to grow a beard at a very young age. They are two unique talents, one perhaps just a bit more profitable than the other.

This is how the Fu came about. One summer day, I was watching a baseball game on television. Into my sights came a pitcher named Al Hrabosky. He was a hard-throwing lefty known as the Mad Hungarian. Not only did he have a unique handle, but he had a unique handlebar as well. This dude sported the thickest moustache I had ever seen. He was going nuts on the mound. He was a mad man and I remember thinking to myself, Oh shit, I gotta grow the Fu Manchu. So I did, and I kept it throughout my entire hockey career.

The Fu made me look a little meaner than I was, maybe a little tougher than I was, and definitely a lot older than I was. It made me look old enough that I could go for liquor runs when I was barely into my teens. I would walk in with dirty jeans and a dirty T-shirt. I’d look like I had just come off a work site and was getting a few for my buddies. I’d walk in with work boots on and a hat and the ’stache. Now, you may think a guy who looked like this would go for a case of Molson Stock Ale or Old Vienna. Not me. I’d reach for the nearest bottle of lemon gin. That’s what my friends and I used to drink.

Of course, if I was risking life and limb by going to the nearest liquor store for the boys, I’d make money off the deal. I’d take their order, make the purchase, and my friends would tip me out. It was a sweet gig.

And here’s the thing. I never got asked for ID. That Fu Manchu served me well. It made me look meaner on the ice and it got me an all-access card into any adult-beverage store. I think the first time I ever got asked for ID was just a couple of years ago. It was at a pub in Ottawa during the All-Star Game. They checked everybody going in. I was thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me. But I didn’t have the Fu Manchu at the time. I told you it makes me look older.

I shaved the thing off a few years ago; it just didn’t feel right anymore. Back in the day, though, it was my trademark. I think it still is. Hey, there’s Maruk, the 60-goal guy . . . you know, the guy with the Fu Manchu!

Right before my first team picture with the California Golden Seals, the boys made me shave the Fu into a little Hitler moustache. It was my initiation, and it looked horrible. It took about a week, but it grew back. Not everything sprang back to life, though. The boys didn’t just stop at the ’stache, they also shaved my eyebrows off, which were never able to make the comeback that my moustache did. I used to have real thick eyebrows. Not anymore. Now they look terrible.

I wanted that Fu Manchu on the ice. The boys may have thought shaving most of it off was funny, but my Fu helped me find my identity in the game. I was small. And like I said, it made me look just a little tougher. As a player, if you think something helps you, then it helps you. I have Al Hrabosky to thank for making me feel bigger.

I was mean on the ice. I was never a happy camper out there — I had a great time but I was stubborn. And if I had two goals, I wanted a third one, and I would do whatever it took to get number three. Sure, the Fu was a point of style, but it was much more than that. It was part of what made me believe I could go into a corner against a guy who had eight inches and 45 pounds on me and come out with the puck.

I gave up on the Fu for a while in Cleveland and went with a big thick beard, but it just didn’t work. My teammates all kind of looked at me, wondering where the Fu went. That’s you, they said. Bring back the Fu. Keep it, keep it.

I’d like to think that Lanny McDonald and I rocked the best moustaches in hockey history. And since I’d like to use this book not only to share my story but also to educate, here’s my quick four-step guide on how to grow a Fu that will make you a much better player both on and off the ice.

Grow a beard.

Shave beard into a goatee.

Shave the middle of the goatee under the bottom lip.

Keep the ’stache a good inch and a half wide on each side.

Voila! Enjoy your Fu Manchu.

3 HATING HOCKEY

In our neighbourhood, the next-door neighbour had three boys and there were a couple of kids down the street, so we were constantly on the road playing ball hockey. Dennis commentated as we played — everybody was a different NHL player.

— Ken Maruk, Dennis’s little brother

You know all those hockey stories out there about a young boy lacing up his first pair of skates, taking his first strides on a beautiful frozen pond with snowflakes falling from the sky on a beautiful winter’s day? You do? Good.

Now get rid of that image because that sure as hell wasn’t me.

I grew up in Rexdale, a nice little neighbourhood in Toronto’s west end. I had seven brothers and sisters. The chain went like this, from youngest to oldest, Donna, Karen, Peter, me, Barry, Linda, Kenny, and Lori. Being good Canadian kids, of course we played hockey. These days, you see parents getting their kids out on the ice as soon as they can walk. Maybe a lot of them hope they are looking at a future NHLer. I didn’t hit the ice until I was six years old, and I absolutely hated it. If you had told me that I would play hockey for a living, my six-year-old self would have had no part in it — the tears on my face would have shown you that.

The Maruk kids with Mom and Dad. That’s me on the far right.

My dad, John, made a little ice rink in our backyard. Wanting to be like my older brother and sisters, I decided that I needed skates to take part in Maruk family activities. I took to our little backyard oasis for all of 10 seconds. Too cold and unbalanced, I cried, I’m not doing this, and I didn’t for the next two years. While all the other kids in my family and neighbourhood were out skating and playing hockey, I was more than happy to leave life on the ice to them.

For me, hockey was best played on the road, not on ice. Ball hockey was the number one wintertime activity in Rexdale, and I loved it. It was all hands — and no skates. There were no pucks, only tennis balls. What could be better? Our street wasn’t all that busy in the winter, so we had a perfect place to play. Once in a while a car would come by, and being good Canadian kids, we’d halt the game to let them through. Then it was game on again. That was hockey for me; I forgot all about the ice.

When I was eight years old, my buddy Kevin Blackey, who lived two doors down, wanted to see how I would fare with a puck. I scored a lot of goals on the road with a tennis ball. But Kevin, our resident goalie, wanted to see if I could shoot a puck. He took his spot in the crease, and I took my spot a good 20 feet in front of him and lined up a few pucks. I let the first one rip. It breezed by Kevin and into the net. The same for shot number two. Shot three found the net as well. Kevin was impressed. So was I. I was getting more confident by the second. I ripped into another puck — it accelerated toward the net. And it was rising, headed right for Kevin. He was about to stop me for the first time. But he didn’t want to. The puck hit him right in the family jewels — and his jewels were not protected that day. He was down, wailing. I thought he was going to be sick. I was in shock. I had no idea what I had done until he screamed, I didn’t have my jock on. I simply stated, Oh shit.

His parents quickly arrived on the scene and took the young goaltender right to the hospital. A few hours later, I went over to his place to see him. He said he was going to be a little bruised and sore for the next couple of days. Then he added, You shoot the puck really well. It was time for me to move from the road to the ice.

My transition to the ice was easy. In my first year of organized hockey, I led our league in scoring. The next year, I joined a rep team and never looked back. My game just took off — during all my minor-hockey years, I was near or at the top of my team and league in scoring. I never really gave it much thought. I just loved playing the game, and I loved to score goals — maybe a little too much. If a goalie made a save or I didn’t score, I would slam my stick against the boards. I had a hell of a temper and I got benched a bunch of times.

My first-ever house-league team. I’m in the front row just to the right of our goalie.

As I got older, the goals kept coming, and my temper cooled — at least a little bit. By the time I was 14, I was playing Junior B and dreaming of playing for the Toronto Maple Leafs. My life was going according to plan — until, that is, it came off the rails in the summer of ’72.

4 REALITY BITES

He was traded to the Knights and he was only 16 years old. He just said, ‘Sis, the Marlies traded me to London. I can’t go. This is home.’ I told him it was the opportunity of a lifetime, ‘You’ll never get this opportunity again.’

— Karen Courville, Dennis’s sister

No one really wants to get traded. Okay, sure, if you make a request to be moved, that’s another story, but an out-of-the-blue see-you-later is never the sort of thing that makes your day. Most hockey players learn of the no holds barred cut-throat business of a hockey trade once they become pros. I was first introduced to this side of the game in the summer of 1972.

I was 16 years old. In my eight games with the Ontario Hockey Association’s Toronto Marlies the previous spring, I put up two goals and one assist for three points. Small numbers, but they were just a start. After all, I was a kid and the future looked bright. And my future, I thought, was in Marlies blue and white. I was wrong.

One of my teammates on the Marlies was Marty Howe. Well, great hockey powers wanted Marty’s brother Mark on the Marlies as well, and those hockey powers were Mr. and Mrs. Hockey. Gordie and Colleen Howe wanted their boys to play junior together. Lucky me —