Here's a new to me book all about the wonderful world of Table Hockey!
It's so new to me, that I do not know anything about it. You can get copies from the book's website - http://www.tablehockey101.com. At that site you can see sample pages from the book, and it is clear the book itself is a piece of art. A must have for any Table Hockey fan.
The most glaring problem is that much of the text reads unmistakably like AI-generated filler. Not always - there is interesting coverage of the creation of the tournament and the creation of the trophies, including the fascinating story of the duplicate trophy created in 1981 just for the Soviets.
But far too often, Bren's book lacks insightful analysis, firsthand research, and compelling storytelling, The book relies on generic phrasing, simplistic transitions, and repetitive summaries that offer little depth. The narrative often feels like a surface-level Wikipedia condensation stretched across chapters, rather than the product of original thought or historical investigation. Key moments—like the 1987 Canada Cup, widely considered one of the greatest series ever played—are recounted with bland, mechanical descriptions that fail to capture tension, context, or character.
The book feels like it has been assembled rather than authored. The reader looking for an introduction to this historical tournament will get a functional overview but not much more. Canada Cup and World Cup of Hockey fans deserve more.
In the end, Bren’s book underscores a growing problem in sports publishing: rapidly produced, AI-assisted content masquerading as historical work. Bren seems to offer a whole catalog of these books - about 30 titles such as histories of the NHL, NFL, NBA, FIFA, PGA, tennis, rugby, auto sports, martial arts, cricket, and the Olympics. Bren must be the world's foremost expert on all sports or just a machine spitting out AI generated content hoping people will fall for it and buy enough to make some money.
To be fair I have not read any of the other titles, though Bren was kind enough to include samples randomly throughout the Canada Cup history. Out of nowhere the book includes coverage of the WNBA and Formula One. (this is self published through Amazon's on demand publishing service so hopefully that is corrected for your copy should you buy one).
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 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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
According to Goodreads readers, Mouton’s work stands out for its comprehensive coverage and striking photography. Every page immerses the reader in the Canadiens’ history — from Howie Morenz’s dazzling artistry in the 1920s and Maurice “Rocket” Richard’s fiery dominance in the 1940s and ’50s, to the dynastic power of the Béliveau, Dryden, and Lafleur years. Mouton pairs crisp, informative text with rare archival images that capture both the grandeur of championship moments and the quiet humanity behind them.
What truly elevates this book is its tone — reverent but not sentimental, proud but not boastful. Mouton writes as someone who lived the Canadiens’ story from the inside, yet never loses his sense of wonder at what the team represented: not only victory, but identity, tradition, and excellence. His narrative moves smoothly across eras, reminding readers that the Canadiens’ greatness was built on continuity — a shared belief in doing things “the Montreal way.”
Readers describe the book as a “must-have for Habs fans” and “a gorgeous tribute to hockey’s greatest team.” In the end, Mouton’s Illustrated History is more than a coffee-table book — it’s a museum in print, preserving the spirit and splendor of a dynasty that defined the sport.
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In The Chicago Black Hawks Story, veteran sportswriter George Vass captures the proud, colorful history of one of hockey’s most storied franchises with a warmth and nostalgia that instantly transports readers to another era. Written in 1970, the book traces the team’s journey from its rugged beginnings in the 1920s through the glory years of Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, Glenn Hall, and Pierre Pilote — a period when hockey in Chicago pulsed with energy, passion, and civic pride.
Vass writes with the romantic tone so characteristic of old-school hockey journalists — part historian, part storyteller, and unabashed fan. His prose celebrates the game’s characters as much as its champions. He paints vivid scenes of smoke-filled dressing rooms, train rides between snowbound cities, and raucous nights at the Chicago Stadium when the crowd’s roar seemed to shake the rafters. The book isn’t burdened by analytics or cynicism; instead, it’s driven by affection for the players and an unshakable belief in hockey’s purity and spirit.
What makes The Chicago Black Hawks Story so endearing is its innocence. Vass writes from a time when hockey was more intimate — when fans felt they knew their heroes, and the game still belonged to the working class. His admiration for Hull’s power, Mikita’s ingenuity, and Hall’s stoicism feels genuine, never distant or clinical. He weaves their stories with those of early pioneers like Charlie Gardiner and Max Bentley, showing how every era built upon the one before it.
Reading Vass today is like opening a time capsule — a reminder of how sports once felt simpler, more human, and more romantic. The Chicago Black Hawks Story is a love letter to hockey before the modern age, penned by a writer who truly loved the game and the people who played it.
The book’s strength lies in its oral history format. Rather than imposing his own voice, Irvin allows the players, coaches, executives, and journalists of the era to tell their own stories. We hear from legends like Maurice “Rocket” Richard, Jean Béliveau, Henri Richard, Ken Dryden, Toe Blake, and Scotty Bowman — each offering their perspective on what made the Canadiens unique. These voices don’t just recount games or statistics; they reveal the inner workings of a dynasty built on discipline, loyalty, and an almost spiritual connection to the city of Montreal. The result is an unfiltered chronicle that feels both intimate and epic.
What makes this book so successful is the author himself. Dick Irvin Jr. is not merely a journalist reporting on history; he is part of the Canadiens’ legacy. The son of legendary coach Dick Irvin Sr., who led the team from 1940 to 1955, Irvin Jr. grew up around the Montreal Forum, surrounded by players who became his family’s friends. Later, as a broadcaster for Hockey Night in Canada, he spent decades covering the Canadiens firsthand. This lifelong proximity gives him unmatched access, credibility, and empathy. He understands not just the details of the team’s history, but the emotions behind it — the pride of pulling on the CH sweater, the pressure of representing Quebec, and the heavy expectations that came with being part of hockey’s greatest franchise.
Irvin’s writing reflects that deep respect. He never sensationalizes or overanalyzes; instead, he curates memories with the patience of a craftsman and the heart of a fan. His interviews uncover moments of vulnerability — a glimpse into Rocket Richard’s fiery competitiveness, Béliveau’s quiet leadership, or Dryden’s introspective view of fame. The collective voices paint a picture of a team that was both human and mythic, showing how the Canadiens defined excellence in the NHL for generations.
The Habs: An Oral History is more than a hockey book; it is a cultural time capsule. It captures how the Canadiens helped shape Quebec’s identity in the postwar era, and how hockey became a unifying force in a province undergoing profound social change. By preserving the memories of those who built that legacy, Irvin has created a vital document of the sport’s most cherished dynasty.
In the end, no one else could have written this book. Dick Irvin Jr. didn’t just study the Canadiens — he lived their story. His work stands as both a tribute and a testament to the enduring power of the Montreal Canadiens and the generations who carried their torch.
The current offering at Classic Auctions features the holy grail for hockey book collectors
From the listing:
“The Trail of the Stanley Cup" is a definite prerequisite to any important hockey library. Author Charles L. Coleman's complete history of hockey and Lord Stanley's trophy from 1893 to 1967 is contained within these three books. Only 1,000 copies of the special leather- bound editions of the first and second volumes were produced and presented to important hockey figures, while the third was limited to 1,500 copies We have a three volume matched set of the leather-bound editions, with each originally presented to hockey writer and historian Bill. Fitsell. Each numbered "819", stamps with Fitsell's address in Kingston are also found on the first page of Volumes I and II. All three volumes show light handling wear, with each accompanied by their original attractive black slip cases with gilded images of the. Stanley Cup (there is some wear to the slip cases). We should also note that there are some handwritten notations in Vol I, and a number of bookmarks and small paper notes inserted into Vol II, and we have left them in place as presented to us."
All Roads Lead Home, an autobiography by hockey legend Bryan Trottier, was first released in 2022. The paperback has been released for the fall 2024 hockey season . I'm finally getting to this title now.
I don't know why I waited so long. It is such an easy, fun read that I just breezed through right through it. do not find myself saying such things about most hockey books. So that in itself says something about Trot's story.
