INTRODUCTION
Ukes, Krauts and Coneheads
Clark Gilles rose from the bench at his stall, and the New York Islanders’ dressing room immediately went silent.
“I remember, he was like John Wayne, or The Marlboro Man,” teammate Bryan Trottier told a radio interviewer. Gilles, the National Hockey League’s preeminent power forward on a team at the cusp of winning four straight Stanley Cup titles, was a man who believed that actions spoke louder than words. So when he spoke, people tended to listen. Carefully.
The subject of the moment was naming his line—a serious business in hockey circles. Nicknaming forward lines was once upon a time one of the more colorful traditions in the sport, one that has waned in recent years. For that, we can blame free agency’s revolving door; players move from team to team with such frequency that three guys playing together long enough to establish an identity, and maybe earn a nickname, is fairly rare. (The Perfection Line in Boston was the recent exception that proved the rule as the calendar rolled into the 2020s.)
We can also blame the coaching carousel. With so much pressure to win in today’s 32-team NHL, coaches are quick to mix things up, try different line combinations at the first sign of adversity. For most, it’s a matter of acting swiftly or risk hitting the unemployment line. That carousel slows for no man.
Line naming—the topic Gilles was about to address—is an inexact art form. Nicknames often originate in the media. Some clever writer or broadcaster up in the press box will refer to a certain group with a colorful moniker it winds up in the sports pages or on the air, and it sticks. Sometimes, as in the case of the Islanders at that moment, a name will come from the team’s public relations/marketing staff. And soon, the team hopes, it will adorn pricey merchandize in the club’s souvenir shop.
Other times, it’ll come straight from the players, as Gilles would soon decree.
It didn’t take long after coach Al Arbour put them together for the line of Gillies, Trottier and Mike Bossy to find success. Trottier, the playmaking center who played a sterling 200-foot game; Gillies, whose size and toughness made it impossible to move him from the front of the net; and Bossy, arguably the greatest pure goal scorer in the history of the game. They were electric together, and it didn’t take long for one of the forward thinkers in the Isles’ media department to suggest a public campaign to name the group.
At the time, as Trottier recalls in his book (“All Roads Home, A Life On And Off The Ice,” McLelland and Stewart, 2022) and in interviews, there were some worthy line names around the league. Like the French Connection in Buffalo, the Triple Crown Line in Los Angeles, among others. So in a meeting with the players that included the media and members of the club’s executive staff, the marketing man started to unveil the plan. Until then, the unit—which at times deployed other wingers before Bossy—had been known locally as the LILCO Line. That was the household acronym for the Long Island Lighting Company, the power conglomerate that provided the juice to light the red lamp behind the goaltenders, as the line did with spectacular regularity. A good name, to be sure, but it didn’t get much play beyond the New York metropolitan area. This group deserved something better, according to prevailing wisdom.
“We need a good name for our Trottier-Gillies-Bossy line,” the PR guy said, “so we’re going to have a contest, open it up to everyone—fans, the media. . .”
That’s when Gillies slowly rose, ending the marketing guy’s message in mid-sentence.
“First of all, it’s not the Trottier-Gillies-Bossy line,” the big man said. “It’s the Gillies-Trottier-Bossy line.” And no one argued.
“He always wanted his name first. We didn’t care,” Trottier said as he recalled the moment.
Gillies continued: “And there ain’t gonna be no contest. You can just call us The Trio Grande.”
Discussion over. Dynasty at the starting gate.
“Clarkie, I love that. It’s the best name ever!” Trottier told him
