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And then, on Thursday, Mike Bossy died at 65 after a battle with lung cancer.
Bossy was, arguably, the greatest pure goal scorer in the history of the NHL — with apologies to Wayne Gretzky, the game’s greatest player and scorer. He only played 10 seasons before back and knee injuries forced him to retire at the age of 30.
During his career, Bossy averaged more than 57 goals a season, scoring at least 50 goals in each of his first nine seasons before injuries in his final season limited him to 63 games and 38 goals. He remains the only player to score at least 50 goals in nine consecutive seasons; Gretzky also did it nine times, but not consecutively. Bossy scored 60 goals five times, including a high of 69 in 1978-79, his second NHL season.
If he hadn’t been forced to retire with injuries that became so bad he couldn’t tie his skates, his numbers almost certainly would have been second only to Gretzky.
He was a key part of the Islanders core that won four straight Stanley Cups from 1980 to 1983 and reached the Stanley Cup finals a year later. That group won 19 straight playoff series, a record that still stands across North American sports. Bossy, Gillies, Bryan Trottier, Denis Potvin and Billy Smith are all in the Hockey Hall of Fame, as are head coach Al Arbour and general manager Bill Torrey.
Now, only Trottier, Potvin and Smith remain.
For me, these deaths are personal. I became an Islanders fan during their first season in 1972-73 following my tradition of rooting for New York expansion teams: the Mets, the Jets, even the ABA’s New Jersey Americans, who became the Nets after one season.
The Islanders were 12-60-6 that first season but, remembering that the Mets had won 40 games in 1962 and the World Series in 1969, I brashly told friends the Islanders would win a Stanley Cup before the New York Rangers broke their Cup-less skein that dated to 1940.
Torrey, among the most underappreciated team architects in sports, drafted Potvin, Gillies, Trottier and Bossy during the next four seasons — taking Bossy with the 15th pick of the 1977 draft after teams had passed on him because they didn’t think he could take the physical pounding of being an NHL sniper.
Bossy scored 53 goals his first season, was the rookie of the year and only got better after that. The Islanders made the playoffs in their third season and upset the Rangers in a first-round three-game series.
I was assigned to cover the NHL playoffs beginning in 1980. George Solomon, my boss at The Post, knew I liked hockey and began assigning me to whichever series hockey writer Robert Fachet didn’t cover. That season, the story in the NHL was the Philadelphia Flyers, who had broken the record for consecutive games without a loss and were the No. 1 seed.
The Islanders, after a poor start, had rallied to be the No. 5 seed. They won the Cup, beating the Flyers in six games, clinching the title on Bob Nystrom’s goal at the 7:11 mark of overtime on a Saturday afternoon in May on passes from Lorne Henning and John Tonelli. I did not have to look up any of those details.
I was in an Atlanta hotel room that afternoon, getting ready to cover a Washington Diplomats soccer game because only Fachet covered the finals. It was probably a good thing, because when Nystrom scored, I jumped so high I almost hit my head on the ceiling.
For the next seven seasons, I covered the Islanders in the postseason. Was I biased? Absolutely, but I tried to make sure it didn’t come through in my writing.
The Islanders had what reporters call a great locker room. Smith would say just about anything. One night, when a female radio reporter slipped walking across a bench behind his locker to try to get her microphone closer to him, he caught her in midair and said, “See, I’m not always a dirty player.”
Guys like Bob Bourne, Nystrom and Trottier would fill your notebook, win or lose. Bossy was the most soft-spoken, almost shy about his greatness. On a team filled with big guys who looked to hit, he was the exception. Three times, he won the Lady Byng Trophy, for sportsmanship and playing ability.
I did my best reporting on that team after morning skates and off-day practices. There were no limits on access, especially at their Hicksville, N.Y., practice facility. One morning, I was talking to Bossy when he suddenly asked me how old I was. “Same as you,” I said. “I’m 26.”
“You aren’t married are you?” he said, noting no ring on my left hand.
He leaned forward and put a hand on my knee. “John, you can win 100 Stanley Cups or 10 Pulitzer Prizes, but you’ll never find real joy until you have a family.”
Bossy had married his childhood sweetheart, Lucie, when he was 20 and they had two daughters and, later, two grandchildren. I’ve never forgotten those words.
The Islanders went downhill after Bossy and the core five retired. They had one run to the conference finals in 1993, then went 22 years without winning a playoff series. They had one owner who turned out to be a financial fraud and another who wouldn’t settle for a new arena or a renovation of the Nassau Coliseum, insisting he wanted an arena, a hotel and a shopping center. That never happened. The team, disastrously, moved to Brooklyn’s Barclays Center, before moving back to the Coliseum a year ago while its sparking new arena near Belmont Park was being finished.
Bossy had many post-playing jobs and was doing color commentary for French-language television when he announced in October that he was stepping away to be treated for lung cancer. His passing wasn’t a shock; word had spread in hockey circles that he was in very bad shape. But the news still stunned, and stung, especially for those of us who remember him streaking down the ice and releasing the lightning-quick shot that led to so many goals — along with his good-hearted sweetness off the ice.
The Islanders played Friday night in Montreal, Bossy’s hometown. There was a moment of silence, and there will certainly be a lengthy tribute when the Islanders play at home Tuesday.
The Islanders are now wearing two circular patches on their uniforms: one for Gillies’s number nine and one for Bossy’s number 22.
I never went to dinner with Bossy but spent a good deal of time with him over eight playoff seasons. He wasn’t just another player who patiently answered questions. He was someone I liked a great deal, a friend. I’m heartbroken.
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