“You get the Rangers or you get nothing!”

The backstory

Before I reveal which jersey I picked that day, it’s necessary to fill in the background.

I grew up in New Haven, Connecticut, in a two-story house full of New York Rangers fans that included my aunt, my father and my grandpa. They watched the Blueshirts whenever they could (on WWOR-TV) and often took me to see the New Haven Nighthawks, the Rangers’ American Hockey League affiliate from 1977-81 and 1984-87.

The Nighthawks I saw play include Nick Fotiu, Ed Johnstone, Don Maloney, Ed Hospodar, Bernie Nicholls, Doug Soetaert, Steve Baker and John Davidson (albeit for only six games). I loved going to their games. I cheered the Nighthawks and listened to scouting reports about future (or rehabbing) Rangers from my family.

Despite New Haven being home to the Rangers’ farm team, the Boston Bruins were tremendously popular in the Elm City. And especially with kids.

The Bruins were big. They were bad. They had a goalie whose mask had painted sets of stitches all over. They had an eccentric coach called “Grapes” who owned a dog named “Blue.” They had players who beat up the other team and, following one game in December 1979, some fans at Madison Square Garden. They didn’t have Bobby Orr anymore, but some rookie defenseman from Montreal named Ray Bourque showed great promise.

From the HHOF Photo Archives – Gerry Cheevers and his famous mask. http://t.co/07XjH1a8wk pic.twitter.com/B60Bja9sJ0

As a kid, I spent a lot of time on Boston’s south shore because my mother was born there and her parents were still living there.

My mother wasn’t a big hockey fan, though she liked Orr and called the Quebec Nordiques her favorite team merely because it rhymed with the word geeks. I was fortunate to have enjoyed quality time with my grandparents. They lived just south of downtown Boston, in North Quincy, which is where I spent many Thanksgivings and several weeks of every summer vacation.

As you might imagine, street hockey was popular up there. Except for the occasional wiffle ball game or toy “cah” races, much of our time was devoted to hockey. Didn’t matter whether it 12 degrees and snowing or 94 degrees and humid. It was hockey, hockey, hockey.

And once the orange Mylec rock, er, ball was dropped, each of us became a Bruins player. Bourque, “Nifty” Rick Middleton, Peter McNab, Terry O’Reilly, Stan Jonathan, Wayne Cashman, “Cheesy” Gerry Cheevers and Gilles Gilbert were most imitated.

We had tons of fun and laughs, especially when one of us took a Mylec in an unprotected area.

Anyone struck by the orange sphere in those days can attest to two very distinct kinds of pain that resulted. In the dead of winter, the ball would freeze hard as a rock and getting hit would leave a welt. In the summer, being struck on your bare skin was akin to somebody slapping your sunburn.

The welts and burns were worth it. To us, we were as tough as our NHL heroes who called a barn on Causeway Street at Boston’s North Station home.