Mike Bossy skated to his own beat

I am sitting in a Route 110 diner that no longer exists in a universe I will always remember. It is 1977, and sitting across from me, chewing on a cheeseburger, is Mike Bossy, the Islanders' heralded No. 1 draft choice. He has a pale, thin face and long, untamed hair. He looks down — quiet, nervous, unsure.

“It’s pretty certain I’m not going to burn up the league right away,” he says.

Of course, he would score 53 goals that season, setting a rookie record at the time. He would become one of the best — arguably the best — snipers in the history of the NHL. Quickly gaining the confidence he did not possess at that early meal, he became a huge star without surrendering the principles that set him apart as much as his remarkable skill.

He refused to fight at a time when fighting was a measure of hockey manhood. When a teammate once laughed at having speared an opponent, Bossy turned his eyes on the player and shook his head in disapproval.

He skated to his own beat and, unlike many others, he was willing to unlock his goal-scoring secrets for the curious. He once told me that he most often would fire a shot without ever looking up to locate the net, using his extraordinary quickness and the element of surprise to beat a flabbergasted goalie.

He was unfailingly polite and honest, and he was as gracious a player as there ever was. Returning on a flight from the NHL All-Star Game in 1981, he gifted me his orange, star-spangled jersey without being asked.

Another time, he had loafed for two periods only to score twice in the third period to salvage a 2-2 tie in St. Louis.  At the luggage carousel the next morning, amid a clutch of teammates, he noted that he loved playing, naturally, but never enjoyed just watching hockey games as a spectator.

“Why not?” I teased. “You watched one for two periods last night.” And he laughed along with everyone else.

A few years after Mike retired prematurely because of a chronic back condition, I joined the franchise as a vice president. I immediately set out to repair his relationship with the club, which had become awkwardly estranged. I called him regularly over several months until he agreed to return to Long Island to have his No. 22 retired.  At the news conference to make the announcement, reporters asked Mike why he had decided to come back.

“Well,” he chuckled, “I got a little tired of Pat calling me every week.”

It was a thoughtful gesture, but the actual reason was far deeper and more revealing. “I missed the cheering,” he told me.

When I learned of his diagnosis of lung cancer, I emailed him, and, considering the seriousness of his battle, I was stunned to get a reply within minutes. He thanked me and asked about my family. That was Mike.

And now I miss the cheering for him, too.

Pat Calabria covered the Islanders for Newsday from 1975 through 1985 and later was a club executive.