Bobby Orr in a Chicago sweater was painful to watch, in more ways than one - The Boston Globe
Editor’s note: The Globe is reaching into its archives to bring you “Replay,” articles from the past that highlight something interesting, timely, or revealing. This column by Ray Fitzgerald about injury-plagued Bobby Orr’s first season as a Blackhawk appeared on Sunday, Dec. 5, 1976, under the headline “A painful message.”
Is that all there is? Is what we saw on television out of Chicago the other night all that’s left of the wonder child who once lit up Causeway Street?
Fred Cusick kept telling me the man wearing No. 4 was Bobby Orr, so I guess it was. But the moves weren’t there. The man wearing No. 4 was just another Jean-Pierre Hockeypuck, a defensive defenseman giving an imitation of Don Awrey or Darryl Edestrand — and not a very good one at that.
This was the first time Orr had played against his old team, and it should have been high drama, with Orr giving the brothers Jacobs the back of his hand.
A few weeks ago, doctors did some mysterious things to Orr’s knee. They could have been mechanics discussing a ’59 Buick or a souped-up Camaro that had spent the last decade roaring back and forth across Baja, Calif.
“We’ve flushed it out and it ought to be good for a couple more years. There are only a certain number of miles left on it, but we’ve known that all along.”
They put the knee on their hydraulic lift, gave it a lube job, checked the points and plugs, changed the filter, tossed in some antifreeze and rotated the tires.
“Obviously the knee is permanently damaged,” said Dr. John Palmer. “If he wants to play so badly that he’s willing to put up with the aggravations and periodic idleness, then we’ll do whatever we can to help him carry on.”
Oh, that’s terrific, especially the part about permanent damage. As long as the knee’s a wreck to begin with, there’s no harm in going out for a good skate once in a while.
There are some who might be able to supply a forecast. Gale Sayers might have one. Watch Joe Namath, that limping theater of the absurd, for 10 minutes and you might get a glimpse into Orr’s future.
Yet, doesn’t this competitiveness work against all logic? Every athlete claims he’ll know when to quit, but few are able to resist the temptation to hang on.
Some persist strictly for money. But with Orr it would seem to be more than that. With him, the alternative — retirement at age 28 — is unthinkable and abhorrent to one whose life has been wrapped around a puck and a hockey stick.
Doctors know best, mother always said, but it seems to me they are doing Orr no favors by sending him back on the ice with a knee about as useful as a leaky roof.
Let go, Bobby. Let go while you can still walk down a flight of stairs without holding on to the rail.
Editor’s note: The Globe is reaching into its archives to bring you “Replay,” articles from the past that highlight something interesting, timely, or revealing. This column by Ray Fitzgerald about injury-plagued Bobby Orr’s first season as a Blackhawk appeared on Sunday, Dec. 5, 1976, under the headline “A painful message.”
Is that all there is? Is what we saw on television out of Chicago the other night all that’s left of the wonder child who once lit up Causeway Street?
Fred Cusick kept telling me the man wearing No. 4 was Bobby Orr, so I guess it was. But the moves weren’t there. The man wearing No. 4 was just another Jean-Pierre Hockeypuck, a defensive defenseman giving an imitation of Don Awrey or Darryl Edestrand — and not a very good one at that.
This was the first time Orr had played against his old team, and it should have been high drama, with Orr giving the brothers Jacobs the back of his hand.
A few weeks ago, doctors did some mysterious things to Orr’s knee. They could have been mechanics discussing a ’59 Buick or a souped-up Camaro that had spent the last decade roaring back and forth across Baja, Calif.
“We’ve flushed it out and it ought to be good for a couple more years. There are only a certain number of miles left on it, but we’ve known that all along.”
They put the knee on their hydraulic lift, gave it a lube job, checked the points and plugs, changed the filter, tossed in some antifreeze and rotated the tires.
“Obviously the knee is permanently damaged,” said Dr. John Palmer. “If he wants to play so badly that he’s willing to put up with the aggravations and periodic idleness, then we’ll do whatever we can to help him carry on.”
Oh, that’s terrific, especially the part about permanent damage. As long as the knee’s a wreck to begin with, there’s no harm in going out for a good skate once in a while.
There are some who might be able to supply a forecast. Gale Sayers might have one. Watch Joe Namath, that limping theater of the absurd, for 10 minutes and you might get a glimpse into Orr’s future.
Yet, doesn’t this competitiveness work against all logic? Every athlete claims he’ll know when to quit, but few are able to resist the temptation to hang on.
Some persist strictly for money. But with Orr it would seem to be more than that. With him, the alternative — retirement at age 28 — is unthinkable and abhorrent to one whose life has been wrapped around a puck and a hockey stick.
Doctors know best, mother always said, but it seems to me they are doing Orr no favors by sending him back on the ice with a knee about as useful as a leaky roof.
Let go, Bobby. Let go while you can still walk down a flight of stairs without holding on to the rail.
