Rest in Peace, Keith Arlen Magnuson
Ah...the holidays are finally, firmly behind me now. The tree that we cut down one fine Sunday afternoon in the country, and the ever-growing Christmas village that my boys and their dad so lovingly assembled beneath it, are still up. But the ugly shirts and sweaters from thoughtful-but-just-a-little-clueless relatives have been returned. And I used the money to select some pretty cool clothes for the kids instead. And--perhaps most important for a mom who hasn't had time to even check her e-mail, let alone write anything, for weeks and weeks--the lads are back in school now. Well, two out of three, anyway. One's home sick and has to go to the doc in a little while.
But right now, while I've got a moment, I wanted to try to bring this blog back to life. I'll start with an essay I wrote a few weeks ago, right after former and forever Chicago Blackhawk Keith Magnuson died in a car crash in Toronto.
I'm not much of a hockey fan anymore these days. It's a great game, but I just don't have the time to sit down and watch an entire game anymore, let alone follow a whole long season of it. But any of you out there who remember supporting and following a sports team big time as a kid, or idolizing a particular player, or even if you just have some Chicago connections--you might relate to the thoughts that Mr. Magnuson's death brought on in me.
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Keith Magnuson--even his name sounded cool somehow.
It was quite an apt name for a guy who was such a Magnum force on the ice, and who had Magnetism to spare as a fierce young defenseman for the Blackhawks in those glory years of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.
I was thinking a lot about Keith and his beloved Hawks the other day. But it was something besides his death that first got me to thinking about this guy whom I hadn’t thought about in quite awhile.
In one of those sad, strange coincidences, I hadn’t even heard the awful news yet about his too-early death when I happened upon a photo of him in the Special Olympics newsletter that I’d just received in the mail last Tuesday. That’s what got me to thinking back fondly on those heady days when Keith and his dream team ruled the ice and won the hearts of young Chicago-area hockey fans like me.
As I skimmed the newsletter, a nice photo of a disabled young athlete and his family caught my eye. And who was that smiling, familiar-looking guy with his arm around the athlete? I scanned the caption and sure enough, it was none other than Keith Magnuson. I was touched to see that one of my old heroes was involved with this wonderful organization. Special Olympics is an organization that’s near and dear to my heart, because my oldest son is a teenager with Down syndrome who has earned many medals himself in the games.
Since Keith’s death last Monday night in a car crash near Toronto, I’ve been reading so many heartwarming accounts of his devotion to so many charitable causes, of his kindness and generosity and selflessness. But until I saw that photo in that newsletter, I’m kind of ashamed to admit that I hadn’t known any of this about him. As the ‘70s had marched on and I’d become a teenager, hockey had gradually given way to other obsessions for me. Over the years, I’d completely lost track of Keith and all the other members of the team I’d been so loyal to as a youngster.
And even during my years as an avid follower of the Hawks, there wasn’t the pervasive media coverage of athletes and their personal lives that we now get with 24-hour sports channels. And I was so young that I rarely watched the news. So I hadn’t known much about the kind of person Keith was off the ice. My admiration for him was based almost exclusively on his performance as a Blackhawk. Yeah, he was a fighter, all right. But he wasn’t a cruel, heartless thug about it. He’d never stab a guy in the back. He’d just take off his gloves and come straight at him and give him a good pummeling if the guy had done something to get his goat. More often than not, his fights were about defending the honor of his team.
So I just thought Keith was the absolute coolest among all those very cool Blackhawks players prowling the ice of the Stadium back then. And okay, I’ll admit it; for awhile there I had a pretty serious pre-teen crush kind of a thing going for him, too. That boyish mop of strawberry blonde hair and those long, lanky limbs--not to mention that graceful way he had of zipping around the ice with his hair flying--just said “cute” to an 11-year-old girl.
But when I saw that photo of him at the Special Olympics event, it gave me a whole new perspective on my childhood hero. I thought, “Way to go, Keith!” So my affection hadn’t been misplaced all those years ago after all. Turns out he was much more than just a memorable, very charismatic hockey player and extremely dedicated Blackhawk who was always fun to watch on the ice. He was a caring guy with a very big heart, too. I liked seeing this “new” side of him (new to me, anyway).
So as I put down the mail and began to make dinner, I had lots of warm feelings about Keith and the Blackhawks occupying my mind. I fondly recalled the many evenings I’d spent as a kid watching the Blackhawks on WGN.
Maybe it was easier to be a Hawks’ fan back in those days, when so many of the all-time greats of hockey were playing on the same team--on OUR team, for a change--at the same time. Sharing the ice with Keith were Bobby Hull, Tony Esposito, Stan Mikita and all the rest, whose names and jersey numbers I could’ve rattled off with ease back then, but whose names often escape this fickle fan nowadays. And when videos and computer games didn‘t yet exist, and a kid had only about five or so TV channels to choose from (or if you adjusted the rabbit ears just right, you might pick up a couple UHF channels too), what else was there to watch on those long winter nights but the best game in town?
Well, whatever the reason, I was definitely hooked on those Hawks--especially the tall, lanky red-head who wore the Number 3 jersey--for a few wonderful years. And even after my passion for the game had diminished, I’d still go back in my memory from time to time to recall those glory days of the mighty Blackhawks. And of course, you just can’t think about the Hawks without thinking about Keith Magnuson.
So when my husband got home from work just an hour or so later and broke the sad news to me that Maggie had died in a car crash the night before, it hit me even harder than it might have if I hadn’t just seen that photo and been reminiscing.
All there’s left to say now is thank you, Keith, for all the wonderful memories, and for giving so much of yourself to others. You were way too young to die. You still had so much goodness and caring left to give to the world, to those special athletes, to your friends, your family. You came to the flatlands of northern Illinois by way of the vast prairies of Saskatchewan. But with your intense and long-time devotion to your team and to your adopted city, it was easy to forget that you weren’t a native son.
We sure will miss you, Keith Arlen Magnuson. But you’ll always remain in our hearts.
And right now, those hearts go out to your family.
1:18:47 PM 
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