Hockeyville Culture: An Ode to Johnstown

Hockey culture shapes fans and often teams. Look no further than Pittsburgh and in its distant shadow, Hockeyville Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh hockey fans have come to expect world-class skill, precision and scoring. Fans will sit quietly, waiting for an offensive highlight or explosion. The Pittsburgh organization obliges, adding skill and more skill, each off-season.

Just an hour down rt. 22, in Johnstown, where the immortal “Slapshot” was filmed, fans uphold the movie tradition. They demand physical pounding, anger and enough violence to make even the Flyers faithful blush. They do not sit quietly waiting for a nifty pass or shot.

With professional teams of years past, those fans of the newly crowned Hockeyville shaped the roster creation of various incarnations of the Johnstown Wings, Jets and Chiefs. The expectations were always crystal clear, even as the parent clubs may have disapproved. For some players, it was intimidating, irritating and downright disgusting. For others, who excelled in hockey’s dark arts, it was a home like no other.

Before its Kraft Hockeyville sponsored makeover, The War Memorial was a throwback to 1940’s construction. A collage of dingy yellow concrete walls with thick paint and concrete floors lead you through narrow hallways adorned by plaques bearing the remembrances of teams and achievements gone by.

Like gray hairs and deep wrinkles from a hard life lived, the old barn wore every ounce of its hockey history, from the 1953 International League to the final ECHL campaign in 2010.

Sound echoed off the concrete walls almost as loud as the memories of fans, loathe to forget its gory hockey past.

You see, Slapshot was not entirely a fictional movie. The Hanson Brothers and Dr. Hook were not entirely creations of someone’s imagination. The rumor has long been that girlfriends of early 1970’s Johnstown players knew some Hollywood types and told them tales of blood spattered ice and roaring fans. That roar never died down, never evolved.

In 2006-07, as the play-by-play announcer of the Johnstown Chiefs, I walked the halls of the famed War Memorial daily. “Dots”, the players called me because every road trip began with a bottle of Snapple and a box of the much underrated candy, Dots. The stories I could tell!

I also got to know many of the fans, many of whom were proud to point out their scene in Slapshot. They were not shy with their beliefs on proper hockey, which included fighting, and lots of it. They often stopped me to talk about the changing hockey landscape, while others engaged in one-sided conversations about their disappointment with (wimpy) hockey, while I hurriedly tried to exit to avoid the inevitable tag line:

“Tell that coach, they need to fight. That’s what Johnstown wants.”

However, it wasn’t until the season began that I realized, the fans in Slapshot truly were real. They really did expect violence. I once witnessed a four-goal first period by the hometown Chiefs, book ended by fights. During the late period melee, the team’s first line center, Justin Kelly, who had NHL level hands, refused a fight. I shook my head as fans waited in the tiny runway to vent their frustrations at the peaceful resolution. You see, the old barn allowed a direct connection to the players. A connection long since gone in modern arenas.

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As employees in the minor leagues do, I also had to also sell ticket packages directly to the season ticket holders. I recall my disbelief when visiting a local doctor and season ticket holder. He spent half an hour laughing of tales from his 1970’s youth, when players fought with sticks, and he and his mother would depart with blood upon their clothes. Crazy, he called those days. He much preferred the simple fights of today.

The fans voice that year was heard loud and clear, all the way to the owner’s office. Owner Jim Weber bucked the part owner Tampa Bay Lightning to give the fans more of what they wanted. Weber, was an affable sort, who envisioned building a beloved team, which revitalized Johnstown. I appreciated his heart, but it was not to be, as he lost the team a couple of years later. I hope the box of Dots, which I gave him for Christmas in 2006, still sits on his fireplace mantel.

It was also in Johnstown that I received my greatest hockey education. Head Coach Frank Anzalone, who built Lake Superior State into an NCAA National Champion and his son Francis Anzalone, I am proud to say, became good friends. They would break down the game for me, allow me to watch video, and treated me as a human, not a media hack. At just 26 years old, Francis is now the head coach of the Aberdeen Wings in the NAHL. You WILL see that kid in the NHL, I promise. Think Bill Belicheck type prodigy, with rigid integrity. The Anzalone family helped me survive a mentally bruising year in Johnstown. I never did figure out to go with the flow, instead of against it.

Though I’ve lost touch with the Anzalones over the last couple years, I think of them often during hockey season. Francis was then an aspiring broadcaster, who was far superior to many in the NHL. Dressed in a suit and tie, he would shadow broadcast Johnstown Chiefs games from a small perch high in the rafters of the arena, recording the games on a cassette only he would hear. I always admired his ambition and dedication. On several occasions, Francis was kind enough to make the drive to Pittsburgh to co-host my NHL Home Ice show. In person and on the air, I would often listen intently and ask questions; a courtesy I pay to only the most qualified.

Before he became the Director of NCAA scouting for the Calgary Flames, Frank would also appear on my syndicated radio show to break down systems and schemes of teams around the league. I was always humbled by their knowledge and generosity.

Johnstown is a funny place. It was at once a place which extolled the purest virtues of everything I thought wrong with hockey and a place with such heart that I think of it often. The fans made demands with unabashed vigor and pride, as I cringed, wondering when my time in hell would end. But intense hockey and situations bond you to those around you. The team autographed stick, a goalie paddle from Morgan Cey, still hangs in my home office.

Few will ever know what it was like to be the real life Jim Carr or play in front of four thousand fans, cheering for goals while hoping for a fight. Nearly 10 years later, the frustration and joy of that year is fresh in my memory.

Many of the players, I strongly rooted for, even as I tried to keep my distance to maintain some objectivity. A few became friends. A couple progressed through the minors and played in the NHL, including enforcers Andre Deveaux and Jay Rosehill. The link to Deveaux is an interesting read on his near incarceration after a game in Sweden! I watched every debut with pride, as I bet many Johnstown fans did.

I miss those moments, like when a relentless fan, who I earlier dismissed after 15 minutes of ranting at me as I tried to quietly eat my lunch at a dark little tavern near the arena, screamed obscenities across the tiny arena to my press box, which hung just above the ice. Surely, listeners could hear! Security laughed, as I muttered to the audience what became a theme, “Well, that’s Johnstown”.

It was Johnstown. Gritty. Hard. Unapologetic. It would not bend to me or anyone else who thought they knew better. There is a second tier junior team in the War Memorial now, The Johnstown Tomahawks. Though I’ve not been able to muster the courage to go back, I imagine the fans are far more forgiving and less demanding of young men beginning their hockey life. I hope.

And like its arena, Johnstown is trying to undergo a makeover. But I hope it doesn’t lose its heart, its soul or history in the process.

Next: Roster Cuts Coming, Lineup Predictions for 2015-16

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