This will sound weird, but the first thing I think of when I think of Niklas Hjalmarsson is his legs.
They were these spindly little things, barely more than toothpicks. Like a thoroughbred racehorse, Hjalmarsson had this strong body perched atop these fragile-looking stems. That’s not terribly uncommon in hockey, where trunk strength is everything, but Hjalmarsson’s legs always stuck out to me. They looked like old man legs, not world-class athlete legs.
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But the punishment those legs took, the damage inflicted — the number of times a frozen rubber projectile slammed into those shins, those calves, those thighs — is hard to fathom. To so many hockey fans, the enduring image of Hjalmarsson is him hurling himself in front of a slap shot, going down to one knee to take up as much space in the shooting lane as possible, then trudging off the ice in pain but never missing a shift.
A quick search of my transcription archives revealed the following: Patrick Kane called him a “warrior.” Jonathan Toews called him a “warrior.” Marian Hossa called him a “warrior.” Bryan Bickell called him a “warrior.” Joel Quenneville called him a “warrior.” Stan Bowman called him a “warrior.”
Johnny Oduya called him “a Swedish warrior.”
But for me, the enduring image of Hjalmarsson is him shuffling around the locker room like Ebeneezer Scrooge, just in shorts and bare feet instead of a billowy nightgown and slippers. He’d be limping a bit. Favoring one foot or the other, or one side of one foot or the other. He was a little bow-legged. He was in pain. Often.
No, Niklas Hjalmarsson wasn’t a warrior. He was a hockey player. But he brought a mentality and a toughness that few ever have, even in one of the world’s toughest sports. Kane has his hands. Toews has his will. Patrick Sharp had his shot. Duncan Keith had his skates. Hjalmarsson had his body.
Oh, he had a great stick, too, and was a better skater than he probably got credit for. But it was his body that steered players to the outside. His body would clear opposing forwards out of his crease. His body that he used as his biggest weapon, turning shot-blocking into a brutalist art form.
It’s not a style built to last. It’s why in 2016 he told me he was playing like his current contract — which had two more seasons on it at the time — would be his last. He always wondered if he’d play past 30 if his body would hold up, if he had it in him to keep doing what he did, to keep playing the way he played.
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He made it to 34. But his body started betraying him the past few years in Arizona, as he missed significant time in three of the last four seasons.
Now, per Craig Morgan of AZ Coyotes Insider, the dean of Coyotes writers, Hjalmarsson is calling it a career. That he made it to 34 — still blocking shots, still an elite shutdown defender — is a testament to his rare combination of skill and grit. That he basically just disappeared without a formal statement, a social media post, an acknowledgment of any sort, is a testament to his unassuming personality that endeared him to teammates and probably cost him the recognition he rightfully deserved.
OK, if you’ve been reading the flood of dirges I’ve been writing for Blackhawks icons over the past couple of years — sunrise, sunset, etc. — I know what you’re thinking: How many guys from the Blackhawks’ glory years are we going to call underrated? Corey Crawford was criminally underappreciated, even in his own city. Brent Seabrook’s brilliant career became an afterthought because of his contract. Sharp was a dynamite 200-foot player who constantly toiled in the shadow of the supernovae of Toews and Kane. Hossa never got the Selke Trophy that you could fairly rename for the guy. But ask non-Chicagoans to name the Blackhawks’ seven three-time Cup champions, and Hjalmarsson is the most likely to be left off the list.
Defensive defensemen never get the love they deserve.
Of course, Hjalmarsson’s biggest offensive moment never officially happened. He scored what appeared to be the series-winning goal against the hated Red Wings in the dying minutes of the third period of Game 7 in the second round in 2013, only to have the goal wiped off the board because of a mild and meaningless scrum between Brandon Saad and Kyle Quincey far behind the play. Seabrook, naturally, went on to score the winning goal in overtime. The only reminder of Hjalmarsson’s goal was a half-inch gash in the wooden seat at his locker stall, a scar left from a vicious stick-swing by Hjalmarsson upon entering the locker room for the third intermission. Two years later, the locker room was renovated, and the scar was gone, the goal a mere footnote in the memories of the hardcore fans.
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Such is the life of a defensive defenseman.
But in hockey circles, Hjalmarsson is hardly underrated. He’s revered. By his teammates. His coaches. His opponents. Even the notoriously tough-to-please analytics community. Evolving Hockey called him “one of the greatest defensive players to ever play the game.” JFresh of Elite Prospects said he was “the best defensive defenceman of the analytics era and should be remembered as one of the best blueliners of all time.” If you watched him every night, you already knew this. But it’s heartening to see the external recognition, too.
In Chicago, though, Hjalmarsson always got the love. He was a hockey Grabowski, getting by on his work ethic and his toughness. Fans would cheer a Hjalmarsson blocked shot the way they’d cheer a Hossa stick-lift or a Seabrook blast from the point. You spend a decade putting your body — felt like his life sometimes, to be honest — on the line for a city, and that city’s going to embrace you.
While the fans appreciated him for his fearlessness on the ice, I always appreciated him for his fearlessness off the ice. Or perhaps more accurately, his Hall of Fame levels of IDGAF. Back in the day, the Blackhawks were famously strict with their players when it came to talking to reporters. Always wear a Blackhawks hat. Always stand up. Always use the reporter’s first name when possible. And never, ever say anything even remotely interesting or controversial. The sight of Marian Hossa panicking and scurrying to the backroom in the visitors’ locker room in Dallas to grab a hat so he could do a quick press scrum with no cameras still makes me laugh.
Two guys never cared about the repercussions of flaunting those rules: Keith and Hjalmarsson. Keith would do press with his shirt off, sitting at his stall trying to catch his breath. Hjalmarsson, meanwhile, just said whatever the hell he wanted to. He was thoughtful. Insightful. Interesting. Entertaining. But more than anything, he was honest. Ask Crawford what happened after a 6-1 loss, and he’d say, “I didn’t think we played that bad.” Hjalmarsson never sugarcoated it. He was blunt — never mean, never threw a teammate under the bus, never made it personal, but he told you exactly how he felt. Every time. No BS, all IDGAF. That’s a rarity in hockey.
One scrum that always stands out to me was in Sochi during the 2014 Olympics. I flagged down Hjalmarsson in the mixed zone after one of Sweden’s games, and the throng of reporters looking for a generic quote or two to fill out their notebooks flocked over, expecting little. Some 15 minutes of pure gold later, a Canadian reporter turned to me in joyous disbelief and said, “What the hell was that?” That was Hjalmarsson. Unfiltered, as always.
At the Winter Classic in Washington in 2015, a bright sun made for some dangerous conditions on the ice. To a man, every Blackhawks player toed the company line and said it was fine, it wasn’t a problem, it was safe. Except for Hjalmarsson, who railed against the league for forcing them to play with that kind of glare on the ice, repeatedly calling it “dangerous.”
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A week later, when the “Road to the Winter Classic” show aired, you could hear countless players on the ice complaining about the conditions to each other and officials. Only Hjalmarsson had the guts to say it on the record.
It made him a go-to guy for those of us on the beat. At least, after losses. Eventually, he figured that out and jokingly (I think?) asked me why we never ask for him after a win. So the next time the Blackhawks won, I went up to him for some postgame quotes.
“Jeez, man, I didn’t actually want you to,” he chirped.
Hjalmarsson was perfectly content as the No. 7 guy in the Core, just going about his business on the ice and blending into the city off the ice. Never needed the attention, the accolades. His retirement is quintessential Hjalmarsson, a total disappearing act. He hasn’t returned texts or calls from reporters trying to ascertain his plans for months. He probably won’t anytime soon, if ever.
Maybe he’ll show up one night at the United Center for a video tribute and “One More Shift.” Or when his name is inevitably raised to the rafters or his face etched in stone on a banner or statue commemorating the Core. Then again, maybe not.
After all, Hjalmarsson never sought the spotlight. But few have ever excelled under it quite like him.
(Top photo: Jonathan Daniel / Getty Images)
