The Death of Hockey by Bruce Kidd and John McFarlane (1972)

When The Death of Hockey appeared in 1972, Bruce Kidd and John McFarlane were issuing a warning. They argued that hockey — once a community-rooted expression of Canadian identity — was being eroded by the growing influence of commercialization and Americanization. Their title was intentionally provocative, but the book itself is a thoughtful, passionate, and thoroughly Canadian meditation on what happens when a cultural touchstone becomes an industry first and a pastime second.

Kidd and McFarlane write with the conviction of insiders who feel they are watching something precious slip away. They evoke the traditional rhythms of the game: frozen ponds, volunteer-run rinks, neighborhood rivalries, and the informal mentorship that defined Canadian hockey for decades. These passages are the book’s emotional anchor, capturing the romantic ideal of hockey as a community ritual rather than a commercial product.

But The Death of Hockey is not merely nostalgic. The authors systematically examine how the National Hockey League’s rapid expansion, the influence of U.S. broadcasters, and the consolidation of power among franchise owners reshaped the sport’s priorities. They contend that profit motives threatened amateur development, narrowed opportunities for children of modest means, and diluted the cultural uniqueness of Canadian hockey. 

The book was criticized at the time for factual imprecision and for overstating the extent of hockey’s “death,” but even critics acknowledged its sincerity and its willingness to confront uncomfortable truths about the direction of the sport. Its arguments are presented with energy, clarity, and a reformer’s zeal, and the authors repeatedly emphasize that their goal is not despair but renewal.

Does the premise stand the test of time? In many respects, yes. The commercialization they feared has only intensified: billion-dollar broadcast deals, corporate-driven franchise decisions, high-priced youth hockey systems, and the expansion of the NHL into non-traditional markets all reflect the trends Kidd and McFarlane described more than fifty years ago. The rising cost of playing hockey — now one of the most expensive youth sports in North America — echoes their concern that the game was slipping out of reach for ordinary families. Likewise, debates about access, community programs, and the loss of local arenas continue to shape discussions across Canada.

Yet the book’s pessimism has not been fully borne out. Hockey remains deeply woven into Canadian identity, and grassroots programs, though challenged, continue to thrive in many regions. The NHL became more global, more inclusive, and in some ways more innovative than the authors could have foreseen. The game evolved rather than died.

Ultimately, The Death of Hockey endures not as a prophecy of doom but as a passionate cultural critique whose central anxieties remain strikingly relevant. It is a vivid reminder that the soul of a sport is always worth defending — and always at risk.

The Death of Hockey By Klein & Reif: Did This Book Stand The Test of Time?

Jeff Z. Klein and Karl-Eric Reif’s The Death of Hockey (1998) arrives as a sharp, impassioned polemic aimed squarely at what the authors saw as the NHL’s accelerating decline in the late 20th century. 

Written with a mix of wit, anger, and deep affection for the game’s traditions, the book argues that professional hockey was being systematically degraded by corporate greed, overexpansion, and the encroachment of spectacle over substance. Klein and Reif, seasoned journalists with a keen eye for the culture of the sport, paint a dramatic portrait of a league losing its way — a league where too many teams, too many games, and too many business-first decisions were threatening the integrity of “the greatest game on earth.”

The book’s underlying thesis is that money and mismanagement were killing hockey from within. The authors criticize league executives for chasing television markets over hockey markets, expanding into regions with little interest in the sport, and diluting on-ice quality in the process. They lament the loss of small, intimate arenas and the sense of local identity that once defined the game, arguing that the NHL was drifting away from its cultural roots. Their concerns extend to on-ice trends as well: the acceptance of excessive violence, the decline of skill-first hockey, and a creeping “tackiness” in presentation. Although the tone is often acerbic — sometimes to the point of overstatement — the writing is undeniably engaging, fueled by a genuine belief that hockey deserved better stewardship.

As a time capsule of late-1990s hockey anxieties, The Death of Hockey is remarkably vivid. But the question is unavoidable: did its predictions come true? 

The answer is both yes and no. Klein and Reif were correct about several trends. The league’s rapid expansion created short-term instability, and the Sunbelt market experiment was uneven for years, with teams like Atlanta, Florida, and Carolina struggling at various points. Concerns about fighting and safety became even more urgent in the decades that followed, culminating in sweeping rule changes aimed at reducing head trauma — a validation of the authors’ argument that violence had overshadowed skill. Their warnings about commercialization also resonate strongly today, as the NHL increasingly depends on digital ads, outdoor spectacles, gambling partnerships, and corporate integration.

Yet in other ways, their pessimism underestimated the sport’s resilience. Far from dying, hockey has enjoyed periods of significant growth since the book’s publication. The league’s southern markets slowly stabilized, and teams such as Tampa Bay, Nashville, Carolina, Florida and Vegas emerged as thriving hockey communities with strong fan bases. Rule changes following the 2004–05 lockout ushered in a renaissance of speed and offensive creativity — the very style of hockey the authors feared was being extinguished. Talent development is deeper than ever, the women’s game has grown exponentially, and the NHL has seen record revenue in the 21st century. 

While the league still wrestles with many of the issues Klein and Reif highlighted, the existential crisis they predicted never fully materialized. And in many regards, the league has never been better.

Ultimately, The Death of Hockey remains a compelling and thought-provoking read, especially for fans interested in the evolution of the sport. Its critiques are often sharp and still relevant, but its apocalyptic framing has not entirely stood the test of time. Hockey didn’t die — it changed, sometimes painfully, sometimes for the better. Klein and Reif captured a moment when the game felt endangered, and even if history has been more nuanced than their thesis suggested, the book endures as an important voice in the conversation about what hockey was, what it became, and what it ought to be.

The Don Cherry Story by his daughter Cindy Cherry

In The Don Cherry Story, Cindy Cherry offers a warm, intimate, and often disarmingly candid portrait of her father, the famously polarizing hockey commentator Don Cherry. Rather than attempting a traditional biography, Cindy constructs the book as a deeply personal memoir—one shaped as much by her own experiences growing up in the Cherry household as by Don’s public triumphs and controversies. The result is a narrative that feels refreshingly unfiltered, emotional, and unmistakably authentic.

The book shines brightest when Cindy writes about the man behind the loud suits and louder opinions. She paints Don as a fiercely loyal, deeply caring family figure who was shaped by hardship, unwavering work ethic, and an immense love for the game of hockey. She recounts the difficult years in minor-league coaching, the challenges Don and her mother faced, and the unexpected ascent to national fame through Hockey Night in Canada. These personal stories give the reader a richer, more human version of Don than what Canadians saw on television.

Cindy is equally compelling when tackling the more complicated chapters of her father’s life, including the fallout from his public controversies. She approaches these moments with unapologetic loyalty but also surprising nuance, describing not just Don’s reactions but the toll they took on their family. Her perspective adds emotional dimension to events that were often flattened or sensationalized in the public eye.

While the memoir’s focus sometimes drifts toward Cindy herself, these sections never feel unnecessary; instead, they deepen the book’s central theme—how Don’s life and legacy were inseparable from the people who loved him most. Her storytelling is conversational, heartfelt, and infused with the humour and stubbornness that have long defined the Cherry family.

Ultimately, The Don Cherry Story succeeds as both a personal tribute and a thoughtful exploration of an iconic, complicated Canadian figure. Fans of Don Cherry will find much to appreciate, but even readers unfamiliar with his career will be moved by this honest and affectionate family portrait.

Certified Beauties by James Duthie

I still remember when the affable James Duthie released his first book. The Day I Almost Killed Two Gretzkys was a joy to read, full of fun stories. He subsequently came out with The Guy On The Left, referring to his famous role as TSN studio host, and Beauties. His newest book, Certified Beauties, is a continuation of the previous title.

The series is a fun and sometimes heartfelt celebration of hockey as more than just a sport.  In this collection, the TSN broadcaster curates a rich tapestry of stories that range from hilarious pranks to deeply emotional moments, pulling back the curtain on what players, coaches, and hockey lifers really talk about when the cameras are off.

This particular book features a bit too much locker-room bravado for my liking. But that is just me. I tend to not want to know what hockey heroes are like off the ice. I just care that these guys are great hockey players, and really good people. After hour pranks - such as the time Darcy Hordichuk captured an alligator and left it on Roberto Luongo's door step - aren't for me. But they do make for funny reading for the fan who does like that type of hijinks.

I really enjoyed the much more touching, human stories. Such as the memorable tale about Sarah Nurse rising to stardom amid the chaos of the COVID-19 pandemic. Or the lifelong friendship between Darryl Sittler and Börje Salming, including Salming’s final pilgrimage to Toronto. These moments reveal the humanity behind the helmets.

Duthie’s own voice feels warm and authentic, whether he’s narrating in the book or in the audiobook version. With a foreword by Sidney Crosby, who invites readers to “have a seat on the bench,” the book feels less like a journalist’s compilation and more like a fireside chat among friends.

But the book reads like short anecdotes rather than deeply developed narratives. Maybe that is the book's charm. This isn’t a memoir or a deep investigative piece, it’s a mosaic of voices and moments, designed to be picked up and read in pieces rather than plowed through in one sitting.

O Canada: War and Hockey

I live in a small northern town and magazines and books are not easily found outside of our small Walmart. So whenever I travel to the city (Vancouver or Victoria usually) a stop at Chapters or Indigo (and the many great independent and used bookstores on Vancouver Island) is always a must. Being able to see and physically handle all the new hockey books is a pure treat. Nothing will get you appreciating the ability to flip through a book in a bookstore than living in the far north.

On my most recent trip I stumbled upon a very interesting periodical at YVR airport that I had no idea even existed. Though I initially thought the layout and presentation was not as appealing as I would have liked, I decided to spend fifteen bucks and read it on the youninety minute flight home. 

Fifteen bucks for a magazine that you flip through once and forget about is a lot. But let me tell you I was completely wowed by the captivating writing throughout the publication.

The magazine is O Canada: War and Hockey. Published in 2025 and fortunately not removed from this particular YVR shelf after Remembrance Day, the magazine is one of many specialty magazines from Legion magazine - Canada's Military History Magazine.

I never thought I'd ever have purchased anything about military history, as I have no real interest in the topic. But of course when you tie hockey into the equation and I'm sold. 

And why should you part with fifteen bucks for this magazine like I did? Because the text is so well written and so educational that you will not regret it. Every page I found myself saying to myself "I didn't know that" and "I gotta look into that more." I am far from an expert on these eras of hockey, but it is hard for me continually find myself learning so much in such a short time.

None of the articles had a byline to credit any writers, but I knew I had to find out who was behind this.

And then I found it, on like the second page. I always read magazines backwards, hence why it took me so long. Anyways, it seems that Stephen Smith of Puckstruck fame was quietly commissioned to write the entire magazine. "Of course!" I told myself. His research and writing ability have him at the very top of my favorite writers list. 

Go out to your local newsstand and get yourself a copy of this magazine before they pull it off the shelves. Though I suspect it will be every year going forward near Remembrance Day. You can also order copies at LegionMagazine.com. 

The Class by Ken Dryden

First and foremost, it should be said that this is not a hockey book. It is a book written by one of hockey's most interesting people and best writers.

Ken Dryden has always been more than the sum of his résumés. Goaltending icon, Member of Parliament, cabinet minister, lawyer, thinker, and bestselling author — his books have long revealed his gift for stepping back from life and seeing the larger patterns beneath it. In The Class: A Memoir of a Place, a Time, and Us, Dryden turns that lens inward, but the result is far broader than a personal memoir. This is a thoughtful, often moving examination of how ordinary lives unfold within the currents of social change, and how the people we grow up beside quietly shape us.

The “class” of the title is Grade 9G at Etobicoke Collegiate Institute, the so-called “Selected Class” of 1960, a group of 35 students chosen for an advanced academic stream. Dryden reconnects with many of them more than sixty years later. He calls them, visits them, listens. The book emerges from these conversations — stories of theatre directors, engineers, teachers, homemakers, entrepreneurs, and people who lived quieter, more private lives. There are successes, frustrations, reinventions, and the everyday resilience that rarely makes headlines but forms the real fabric of a generation.

What elevates The Class is Dryden’s refusal to make himself the center. Though he is the most famous of the group, he positions himself simply as one of the 35, and often as the one who drifted away most completely. His curiosity about his classmates feels genuine, even urgent. The book becomes an inquiry into the forces that shape us: families trying to find their footing in postwar Canada, teachers who saw potential where the students themselves didn’t, suburban expectations, widening horizons, and the era’s quiet but sweeping cultural shifts.

Dryden writes with the same clarity and gentle intelligence familiar from The Game. The narrative moves between personal portrait and social history, showing how the classmates’ lives reflected broader national changes — the expansion of higher education, the rise of the middle class, and the evolving roles of women in work and family. He captures the poignancy of paths diverging: how people who once sat at adjacent desks can grow into entirely different worlds, yet share a common foundation that matters more with age.

Ultimately, The Class is a book about time — the time we had, the time we lost, and the time that remains. It’s a generous, humane work, and one of Dryden’s most quietly powerful. For readers who enjoy memoir, social history, or simply the remarkable stories of ordinary people, it is a deeply rewarding read.

Hammered: The Fight of My Life by Dave Schultz with Dan Robson

More than four decades after first attempting to tell his story, Dave “The Hammer” Schultz has finally set the record straight. Hammered: The Fight of My Life is a raw, honest, and surprisingly reflective memoir from one of hockey’s most feared and misunderstood enforcers. Written with acclaimed journalist Dan Robson, this new book gives Schultz the voice and depth he was denied back in 1981 — when his first autobiography, ghostwritten by Stan Fischler, left him dissatisfied and misrepresented.

In the 1970s, Schultz was the face of the Philadelphia Flyers’ “Broad Street Bullies” — the bruising, brawling teams that brought both fear and back-to-back Stanley Cups to Philadelphia. He was the NHL’s ultimate enforcer, setting records for penalty minutes and embodying the rough-and-tumble ethos of the era. Yet beneath the blood and bravado, there was always a more complicated man, one wrestling with his own identity, guilt, and the consequences of his violent role. Hammered finally gives that man space to speak for himself.

The contrast between Schultz’s 1981 autobiography and this new effort is striking. The earlier book, The Hammer: Confessions of a Hockey Enforcer, written by Fischler, leaned heavily into caricature — portraying Schultz as a one-dimensional tough guy, the ultimate hockey villain with little nuance. Schultz has since said that the book didn’t feel like him, that it lacked his true voice and failed to convey the emotional cost of life as an enforcer. Worse yet, Fischler included text Schultz never approved which led to Schultz's estrangement from the Flyers and legendary Flyers captain Bobby Clarke.

A major reason for this success is Dan Robson, one of the premier writers in contemporary hockey journalism. Known for his narrative depth and sensitivity, Robson brings the same literary touch he’s shown in previous collaborations. He knows how to get to the heart of his subjects, to find the humanity inside the myth. With Schultz, he finds a man haunted by concussions, the aftermath of countless fights, and the weight of being both hero and villain in equal measure.

Together, Schultz and Robson craft a story that is as much about redemption as reflection. Schultz speaks candidly about his role in hockey’s culture of violence, his struggles with mental and physical health, and his uneasy relationship with the legacy he helped build. There are moments of humor and nostalgia — tales from the Flyers’ glory years and his time under fiery coach Fred Shero — but the tone is more introspective than boastful.

For fans of hockey history, Hammered offers a new and necessary perspective on one of the sport’s most infamous figures. For Schultz himself, it feels like closure — a long-overdue chance to tell his story his way. This isn’t just a book about fighting on the ice; it’s about fighting for truth, identity, and understanding. After forty years, Dave Schultz has finally landed the knockout punch that matters most.

Goalies: Guardians of the Net by Denis Brodeur and Daniel Daigneault

For those who live and breathe goaltending — who understand that the crease is both sanctuary and battlefield — Goalies: Guardians of the Net is a visual and historical treasure. Authored by Denis Brodeur and Daniel Daigneault, this 1997 release is an ambitious and loving tribute to hockey’s most unique and misunderstood position. With more than 150 goaltender biographies and well over 500 action photos, the book serves as both an encyclopedia of puck-stoppers and a photographic celebration of their art.

The strength of Goalies: Guardians of the Net lies in its remarkable imagery. Many of the photos are drawn from the vast personal collection of Denis Brodeur, a man who lived a life immersed in the crease and in the rink. Brodeur, a former Canadian Olympic goaltender who backstopped his country to a bronze medal at the 1956 Cortina Games, later became one of the most respected photographers in the NHL. His eye for the position is unmistakable — every frame captures not only the athleticism of the goaltenders, but also their isolation, courage, and style. 

While Denis Brodeur’s legacy as a photographer would stand on its own, it is his role as the father of Marty Brodeur — the winningest goaltender in NHL history — that ensures his name resonates with modern fans. Yet this book predates Marty’s greatest triumphs, giving it an interesting historical lens. When published in 1997, Martin was still writing the early chapters of his Hall of Fame career. The elder Brodeur’s inclusion of his son’s early exploits feels like a proud father’s nod amid a larger chronicle of goaltending excellence.

The accompanying text by Daniel Daigneault complements Brodeur’s imagery with concise, informative biographies. Each goaltender profile offers context on careers, playing styles, and defining moments, ranging from early 20th-century pioneers to contemporary stars of the 1990s. While the writing is straightforward, it is effective — the prose allows the photos to shine while still giving readers a meaningful historical foundation.

For goaltending enthusiasts, this book is more than a collection; it’s a visual history of resilience and obsession. For hockey fans of any stripe, it’s a reminder of how much the game owes to those who stand alone, facing the storm. Goalies: Guardians of the Net remains one of the finest photographic tributes ever assembled to the position — a must-have for anyone who understands that the heartbeat of hockey begins in the crease.

Gino: The Fighting Spirit of Gino Odjick by Patrick Johnston & Peter Leech

As a lifelong fan of the Vancouver Canucks and especially of the electric 1994 squad that came so heart-breakingly close to winning the Stanley Cup, I found the new Gino Odjick biography to be an essential read—not just for its tribute to one of our cult heroes, but for the full portrait it gives of the man behind the jersey, the Indigenous role-model, and the teammate who made a difference on and off the ice.

Gino: The Fighting Spirit of Gino Odjick profiles one of the most beloved athletes in Vancouver history. It is written by local journalist Patrick Johnston and Gino's close personal friend Peter Leech. It was a must write turned into must read book. Sadly the project happened after Gino's premature death.

Gino Odjick arrived in Vancouver as a raw, imposing presence—an enforcer by trade, but quickly becoming so much more. The authors trace his origins from the Algonquin community of Kitigan Zibi (near Maniwaki, Québec) where Gino’s father Joe, himself a survivor of Canada’s residential school system, instilled a deep sense of loyalty, pride, and responsibility.

If you were cheering the early 1990s Canucks those long nights at the Pacific Coliseum (or replaying them now), you’ll remember the personality that Odjick brought to that team. He wasn’t the leading scorer; his role was to protect, intimidate, energize—and in doing so he became indispensable. The book delivers clear context on that peak era of Vancouver hockey, and helps you appreciate how Gino’s presence amplified the skill of teammates like Pavel Bure while binding the locker-room together.

In one particularly good chapter (“If anyone went into Pavel’s airspace…”) the authors explore the friendship between Gino and Bure—two very different men, coming from very different backgrounds, yet connected by outsider status, passion and mutual respect. Gino’s willingness to stand up for Bure, to protect him on-ice and to have his back off-ice, made him far more than just the heavy: he was a galvanizing teammate.

For anyone who remembers that “Gino! Gino! Gino!” chant echoing through the building, the book gives you the back-story of why those chants meant more than just brute force: they meant heart, community, and connection to a broader story.

What elevates this biography beyond sports nostalgia is how it chronicles Gino’s significance as an Indigenous figure in Canadian hockey and beyond. The authors do not shy away from Gino’s personal struggles—his battle with alcohol, his illness (AL amyloidosis), and the toll of his NHL role—but they also highlight how his adversity turned into advocacy.

In British Columbia and Québec alike, Odjick became a bridge: from Kitigan Zibi to Vancouver, from the rink to Indigenous youth halls, from fighting in the corners to speaking in communities. The book spends delightful space on his partnership with the Musqueam Indian Band in B.C., where he lived and invested himself, and on the broader importance of a First Nations player thriving in the NHL at that time. For the ’94 Canucks fan, this means appreciating that Gino’s legacy isn’t confined to the Pacific Coliseum—it ripples into classroom visits, Indigenous empowerment, and cultural pride.

Johnston and Leech don’t hide any of Gino's troubled life. The book honours Gino’s achievements and character, but also gives the reader access to the human behind the myth—his mistakes, vulnerabilities and complexity. He had significant health, mental health and substance abuse issues for sure. A riveting read for the reasons above, yes—but also one that yields sorrow and hope in equal measure. Reviewers call it “nuanced, heart-warming and unsettling” in the way it confronts both triumph and tragedy.

If you’re a Canucks fan who cheers especially for that gritty, heartfelt 1994 team, Gino offers more than memories—it gives understanding. Understanding of how a player often overlooked on the score sheet became the emotional heartbeat of the team, how his friendship with Pavel Bure added dimension, and how his Indigenous identity and community work made him a leader beyond the rink.

One thing is for sure - after you read this book, the next time you are watching Gino Odjick fight videos on YouTube or hear the Gino! Gino! Gino! chant at the rink, you will have a far deeper appreciation of Vancouver's most popular athletes.