Featured Goalie

Featured Goalie

Chicky DeAngelis

It was a typical Saturday afternoon. I’d just finished playing, not having a very good outing. As I sat in the locker room, wondering how all those pucks got past me, a very dear, familiar face popped into the locker room. He expressed a slight smile of amusement as he sat down across from me.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“What game were you watching? Because it wasn’t the one you were playing.”

That was Chicky for you. Direct and to the point.

He never wanted people to know his real name. He never even told me. He’d shake his head and change the subject. While I don’t know how he got the nickname, Chicky, I’d smile every time I was invited to his house. I’d walk past his mailbox, his real name clearly listed. I never let on.

Chicky DeAngelis was as old-school a goalie as you’d ever meet. He came from the era of Johnny Bower toughness. Once, during a scrimmage, a fellow teammate asked him, “Chick, why don’t you show these guys how tough you are and play without a mask?”

His reply? “I did that for 22 years.” That right there gives you some idea of the history behind this netminder.” For years, Chicky wore a vintage Jacques Plante fiberglass mask, painted bright gold, tailored with custom padding. He tried the newer, more popular cage/helmet combinations, but couldn’t get comfortable with them. He eventually switched over to the combo mask but kept his trademark facemask on standby.

DeAngelis began playing in the 1940s, during the war years. “Once I learned to skate, I found that goaltending fascinated me,” he said. “It looked like such a challenging position. I’ve been playing the position ever since.”

Chicky’s style of play was classic stand-up. He had a great glove hand and would often throw a two-pad-stack, something not seen often in today’s game. He tended goal for East Boston High School. After that, he played league games and ice rentals while working for his family’s business, DeAngelis Bakery. He also worked full-time at the Veterans Home in Chelsea, MA, and part-time at the hockey rink.

I met him while attending stick practice. I was just a youngster and was fascinated by this goalie who was my grandfather’s age. When I told my grandfather who my new friend was, he smiled. He told me that Chicky was his goalie when he played and that he was also the catcher on his baseball team.

As the years rolled on, Chicky became my mentor. Sometimes, when we didn’t have a game together, he’d come to watch me play and give me advice.

“Jay, you’re not cutting your angles down enough.”  I’d listen to every word he said. Once, after a game where I was upset, he sat me down to explain how to stay calm after a bad goal or loss. His advice? Get ready, because it’s a classic.

“Be colder than the ice you play upon.” To this day, it’s advice I do my best to follow.

He was truly an iron man in goal. However, his toughness was tested two days after his 68th birthday when he suffered a heart attack while playing in a pickup game with the Boston Bruins Alumni. State Trooper D. O’Leary, who was also playing, recognized the signs of a heart attack. He started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and directed others to perform chest compressions.

“I was out there playing, and next thing I remember, I was in a hospital bed, four days later. I was just looking around, and I asked a nurse, ‘what am I doing here?’” said Chicky. He was upset. Not because his game ended with an ambulance ride, but because the emergency medical staff had to cut off his favorite jersey to resuscitate him. The thought that his hockey-playing days might be over never entered his mind. He just wanted to know when he could get back in his net.

“People were telling me my life would be over after the heart attack, to sit down and watch television the rest of my life,” he says. “But that wasn’t going to happen to me. I wasn’t going to let the attack stop me. I was going to fight. And I beat it. And I’m still here.”

Within three months of quadruple bypass surgery, Chick strapped the pads back on and was back between the pipes. He started slowly, then, in time, resumed his three to five games a week.

Once, when a strap broke on his pad, he gave me a call. When I asked how he was doing, he said, “Oh, I’m just trying to fix this goalie pad strap that I’m having trouble with. It’s hard to work on goalie equipment when you’re also making homemade spaghetti and meatballs.”

Now, he knew how much I liked that dish.

“I guess I’ll have to play without this strap.” He added. I’m smiling at the other end of the phone. I reply,

“If you like, why don’t I come over and fix it for you so you can finish making supper.”  

“Well, if you insist.” He said, adding, “and while you’re here, I can make you a nice plate to eat.” Instances like that become such great moments as life moves on.

He continued stopping pucks for another decade. Then, one day, the phone rang. Chicky had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital.

I’d visit him and wheel him around the corridors in his wheelchair. I called it the “Goalies Helping Goalies” service. That would make him smile. Sitting by his bedside, we would talk about his plans to return to the ice. I’d bring extra goalie gear to his room so he would feel more at home.

A few weeks later, I received the call I knew was destined to come.

The funeral was a celebration of his life. In the side room, along with all the photos of him tending goal, a video played. Returning to goaltending after his heart attack, the local news station got word and did an interview on him. I can still hear the newscaster saying, “You were incredible out there today!” In classic Chicky form, he replied, “Who, me?”

The place was packed. His son greeted everyone, thanking them for coming (Chicky’s beloved wife had passed years earlier). Bruin’s great, Terry O’Reilly, along with so many skaters he played with over the years, came to pay their respects. He was wearing his Bruins jersey, while his goalie stick and gloves were on display.

As the mass ended, the pastor exclaimed to all, “Here lies not just a man… but a goaltender.” The place erupted into thunderous applause. It was, in effect, the standing ovation for one last spectacular save.