Ding Dong! The Wicked Wirtz is Dead!

The morning of Sept. 26 began like any other morning. I finally succumbed to the sun beating through the blinds at 12:30 and staggered out of bed. It didn’t feel any different from any other day. However, in so many ways it turned out to be.

Not because I did laundry, which only happens when I run out of boxers and not a day sooner. And it wasn’t because it was a scorching 88 degrees only a few days before we flip the page on the calendar to October.

It became a strange day shortly after I turned on my computer and began my routine of checking web site for the latest updates. This process begins at ESPN.com as I browse the headlines on the right side of the page. Every now and then, a headline will make me upset or angry. It’s even more rare for one to bring me utter jubilation. And about as frequently as I exercise—the last time was high school by the way—will a headline make my jaw drop and force me to sit, stare and re-read it.

All of those things happened to me on Sept. 26. The headline read: “Blackhawks owner Wirtz dies of cancer at age 77.”

As I sat there shell-shocked and a bit of drool made its way down my chin (my jaw was still open and I’d just awoken, okay); angel Jeremy and devil Jeremy appeared on my shoulders.

The angel immediately pointed out that this is the death of a human being, something that should never be celebrated or make one go into a state of gaiety as the case may be. I muted the angel real fast. The devil reminded me of the drastic fall of the Chicago Blackhawks organization. From a once proud team that saw its diehard fans pack Chicago Stadium and make the walls shake to the worst organization in professional sports, it’s been a difficult time wearing either of my Indian-head sweaters proudly over the last decade.

No, I am not a heartless person; though, Bill Wirtz might have been. NHL commissioner Gary Bettman released a statement expressing sympathy to the Wirtz family and the Blackhawks organization. He talked about the numerous great things Wirtz did for the NHL. Though I imagine he did the latter while flipping vigorously through the Wirtz file in search of the positives and with every toe and finger crossed.

Sure, my condolences go out to his family. I can’t imagine he was that big of a jerk that he alienated his own family. Though as a lifelong Blackhawks fan and citizen of Chicago I am rejoicing in the passing of Mr. William Wirtz. In today’s society, we have grown used to celebrating one’s life upon their death. That isn’t possible with this one.

Mr. Wirtz robbed me of a childhood of great hockey that my relatives witnessed throughout the 60s, 70s, 80s and early 90s. As television contracts and player contracts continued to rise well into the multi-million dollar range, Wirtz continued to show his true colors. He wouldn’t televise home games, believing if people wanted to watch his team they’d come to the stadium. Sure, so they can pay for parking, tickets, food and beverages and each game would cost a father $200 to take his son, and that’s with seats in the highest level.

I should know. My father had season’s tickets for the Blackhawks for three straight seasons in the mid-90s. I like to look back and refer to those years as the transition years. The Hawks weren’t as good as they used to be, yet were far from hitting rock bottom. It was during these years that Wirtz refused to pay his players fair market value and shipped them off for pieces that didn’t cost him anything.

Trade #1: All-Star goalie Ed Belfour to the San Jose Sharks for a backup goalie not important enough to remember, Mikael Sykora (a big defensman that did little more than take up space) and Ulf Dahlen (who was way past his prime, but would have been a good catch 4 years earlier). Keep in mind this was after the organization had traded away a guy by the name of Dominik Hasek. Belfour, of course, would go on to win a Stanley Cup with the Dallas Stars.

Trade #2: Fan favorite Jeremy Roenick to the Winnipeg Jets/Phoenix Coyotes for Alexei Zhamnov. Roenick went on to have numerous All-Star seasons and remained one of the elite goal scorers in the league. Zhamnov was one of the laziest players I ever saw. He had all the potential in the world, yet only chose to play once a week. I suppose this one sticks with me the most because I still have a Roenick autographed jersey in my bedroom and thus began my hatred of Wirtz.

Trade #3: Chris Chelios to the Detroit Red Wings for Anders Ericksson. Ericksson was such an irrelevant factor I can’t even remember if he spent more than one season as a Blackhawk. Chelios, a Chicago native, was another fan favorite and perennial All-Star defensman. He cried upon leaving Chicago, especially to join the hated Red Wings. This was the ultimate “F*** You!” to the fans and sent the message that winning no longer mattered, it was just about the almighty dollar.

Our years of season tickets became reduced to selling most games and going to the games that featured a star player from another team. Sure, I went nuts the two times the Hawks managed to score a goal each game, but the thrill was gone. Though I did get to see Gretzky, Lemieux, Jagr and Messier among others.

During that time with season’s tickets, the organization opened the doors to the United Center for season ticket holders to come in and walk around the concourse to have items signed by any member of the team. The big names were Tony Amonte, Bob Probert and Jeff Hacket. We really got our money’s worth.

As I was walking, I spotted Mr. Wirtz strolling the building with a few bodyguards and taking it all in. A gutsy move for a man so loathed by the fans that they went out of their way to shower him with “Boo’s” on a celebratory night for the jersey retirement for Denis Savard.

I grabbed the jersey we were having signed out of my dad’s hands and ran up to him seeking an autograph. His bodyguards nearly tackled me. My 100-pound body at the age of 12 could have done Wirtz a lot of damage. He reluctantly signed my jersey and told me to stop running. He also reeked of something. At the time I had no idea what. But I’ve learned with time it was alcohol. That whole sequence sums up Bill Wirtz.

Over the last decade, my dad and I constantly laughed at what the organization has become. My solution was that Wirtz needed to sell the team. Every time I suggested this, my Dad cut me off. “He’ll never sell, we’re just going to have to wait until he dies.”

Hallelujah! The day has come! I can only equate this feeling to how the Munchkins in the Wizard of Oz felt when the Wicked Witch died.

My Dad saw the Hawks hoist the most beautiful trophy in sports when he was a kid, which was 47 years ago. I still dream about seeing it with my own eyes. Now, that dream is a realistic possibility.
It wasn’t while Bill Wirtz was alive.