What the Carlson Brothers may have lacked in equipment and pedigree they more than made up for in ice time. The longest season in the state of Minnesota is winter. It’s even longer in the northern part of the state, where winter comes early; a backyard rink craftsman can start shaping a clean sheet of outdoor ice as soon as October, and that sheet has the potential to last through March. It was there on the pristine outdoor ice of Virginia, Minnesota, that the brothers first learned how to play and hit and work, and, yes, fight like hell for everything they got.
“Tell me about your local rink where you learned to play,” I ask.
“It’s funny that you mention that, because there was a great local rink in Vir- ginia,” Carlson says. He sits up, leans his thick, muscled frame in, and thumps his tombstone hands on the table. All the attention in the room is pulled toward him with the force of a black hole. “My dad and some other guys ended up getting all the wood, all the fiberglass, and the boards. There was this certain chemical we had that we used to bend the boards to make all the corners. We had the lights, too, and painted all the lines.”
Mr. Carlson got a tank from one of the mines where he worked and attached a bar on the back with a nozzle. They’d drive the tank over to the indoor hockey rink, appropriately named the Miners Memorial Building, and fill it with hot water. Then they attached a rug to the back and pulled it around the rink, smoothing out the fresh water that was being put down.
“It was perfect! It would make a perfect sheet of outdoor ice! It was just fabu- lous!” Carlson belts out. “It was a public rink. But we swept it with brooms and flooded it. We’d tell kids that they couldn’t play on it because they didn’t do any work. They’d scream and yell, ‘But it’s not your rink!’ Then I’d say, ‘Well, it is tonight.’ Who’s going to argue with that? Who’s going to argue with us? Hahahaha who-ha.”
It was more than just a sweet sheet of ice, though. For Jack Carlson and his brothers and their father, it was a way of life. It was something that brought them together and kept them together. They were skating all the time, day after day, month after month, always together and on the same line. That’s all they did. The community recognized the brothers’ connection, too. The guy who ran the indoor rink in Virginia would call their dad and tell him he’d secretly open the rink up just
for them on Sunday mornings. He’d just open the back door at seven in the morn- ing, and they could skate till noon. So that’s what they did.
“Basically, Steve was the most skilled, Jeff was the toughest, and I was some- where in between,” Carlson says.
The brothers had a natural on-ice chemistry and a shared dream of playing pro- fessional hockey together. Always together. After several years playing amateur hockey in northern Minnesota, Jack, Jeff, and Steve got their first tryout in profes- sional hockey as a line.
“We wanted to play in the USHL, and we got a tryout in Waterloo, Iowa. We go down there. It’s a two-day scrimmage. There are eleven goals scored in the two days. We’re playing on one line and we have eight of the eleven goals.”
But, just like in Hollywood, sometimes even a great performance, a great look, or great stats won’t land you the gig. The Carlson Brothers’ hockey dreams didn’t immediately come true, and that reality came with a heavy dose of others’ judg- ment.
“We got called in to the management office,” Carlson says. “The manager says, ‘You guys aren’t good enough to play in the USHL. We can’t use you.’ ”
Of course, the Waterloo manager wasn’t the only one to fail to see their gifts right away. One of the greatest insults the Carlson Brothers ever received came years later, from John Mariucci, the legendary Minnesota Golden Gophers coach and State of Hockey icon. “One time, the three of us had a tryout with Mariucci,” Carlson says. “He said they only wanted me. But we played as a line and wanted to stay together as a line and told him as much, because, you know, we’re brothers. Mariucci said, ‘Take your clown act somewhere else, then.’ Clown act, he said. I said, ‘Okay. We will.’ ”
Unbowed, the Carlson Brothers moved on from their Waterloo, Iowa, tryout and landed another tryout, another audition, and this time they got the gig.
“We played for the Marquette Iron Rangers in Marquette, Michigan, which was also in the USHL.” Carlson’s smile of vengeance grows large. “The year that we got cut in Waterloo, we played for Marquette. I was voted MVP. I scored 42 goals and had 175 penalty minutes in 55 games. Steve was the center and had 79 points. Jeff was right wing and had 70 points and 170 penalty minutes in 55 games. But Barzee said we weren’t good enough. Okay.”
Now Carlson is really rolling, his laughter and his memory bowling along and there’s nothing than can stop them. “When we were in Marquette, we played a hockey game inside the state prison. Oh boy, was that scary. It was inside the prison yard. So, Todd, we got eighteen players, and we’d go through a set of doors and . . . clang! A door would close behind you. Then a door would open in front of you. Then . . . clang! The door behind you would shut. We went through five sets of doors like that inside the state prison to play a hockey game. Holy buckets. Then the prison officers tell us we can’t look at the prisoners. They tell us we can’t even speak to them. But it was a normal game. The fans were yelling and scream- ing. It was a treat for them.”
Next, the Minnesota Fighting Saints of the WHL held an open tryout, for pub- licity reasons more than as a source for future talent. That changed, though, when the Carlson Brothers stepped onto the ice and nearly tore the boards down as a three-man wrecking crew. All three brothers were signed and sent as a line to the Saints’ minor-league affiliate in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. That town would become the inspiration for the fictional steel city that the Charlestown Chiefs play in in Slap Shot.
The brothers took their glorious opportunity to play professional hockey together and skated with it—and, well, through it. They felt comfortable playing in Johnstown because it was a steel town. Then Bethlehem Steel shut down and the town became primarily a mining community, just like their hometown of Virginia, Minnesota. It was blue-collar, smokestacks filling the horizon, and the people worked really hard just to scratch out a living. They’d come to the games, drink some beer, and have a good time, and the Carlson Brothers were more than happy to put on a show for Johnny Paycheck.
“Our time in Johnstown playing for the Jets was fabulous. The living arrange- ments were so nice. All three of us lived together in the same place!” Carlson re- lates with excitement. “I can always say that my teammates always had my back. But when you’re playing with your brothers, it’s awesome. I mean, I didn’t even have to yell on the ice. I knew exactly where they were. If one was going to dump it in, I knew it. We’d just cycle the puck and cycle the puck. The communication between us was so great.”
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