RIP Eddie Giacomin: Number One Forever

Eddie Giacomin was one of my first sports idols. Not Mickey Mantle. Not Walt Frazier. Not even Joe Namath with his fur coats and his finger-wagging swagger. No, for me it was Eddie Giacomin , the man in the crease, the guy who guarded the net at Madison Square Garden like it was Fort Knox. He made me want to believe that if you were tough enough, stubborn enough, and had enough tape on your goalie stick, you could stop anything life shot at you.

Eddie wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. He came up the hard way, clawing through the minor leagues, nearly losing his career to a terrible kitchen fire, and somehow willing himself into the Rangers’ net in the mid-60s. Once there, he didn’t just play goalie. He owned the crease. He was old-school before old-school was a phrase , a stand-up goalie who used his stick like an extra limb. He led the league in shutouts, shared a Vezina with Gilles Villemure, and played hurt like it was part of the uniform. Bobby Hull skated over his hand once , over his hand! and Eddie kept playing. The Blackhawks said he had guts. That’s putting it politely.

Eddie wasn’t just a goalie, he was a showman, though I doubt he ever thought of himself that way. Case in point: December 5, 1967, when the Rangers somehow landed a spot on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. Yes, the same couch that played host that night to Mamie Van Doren in a low-cut dress, suddenly had two New York Rangers Bernie “Boom Boom” Geoffrion and Eddie Giacomin skating right into America’s living rooms.

Now, this wasn’t your typical late-night chat. Boom Boom came out in full gear, skates and all, ready to teach Johnny the finer points of whacking a puck. And Eddie? Pads, glove, blocker, mask, the whole package, standing there like it was a Tuesday night at the Garden. Johnny even slipped into Gilles Villemure’s jersey while Ed McMahon just sat there cackling.

Boom Boom taught Carson how to “get mad at the puck” which, for Johnny, was about as natural as Ed Ames throwing a tomahawk. Then Eddie invited him to play goalie, walking him through the basics: cut down the angle, stay big, don’t blink when a frozen piece of rubber comes flying at your head. Naturally, Boom Boom fired away, Carson flailed, and the audience laughed until they cried.

It was pure magic: part hockey clinic, part comedy sketch, part love letter to the Rangers. Eddie wasn’t mugging for the camera, he was just being Eddie calm, serious, explaining the craft with the same intensity he brought to a playoff game. And in that moment, he wasn’t just New York’s goalie. He was America’s goalie.

For a decade he was the heart of the Rangers, the pulse of a team that was always on the edge of greatness. And then came 1975. The Rangers were struggling, management wanted younger and cheaper, and suddenly Eddie was put on waivers. Detroit scooped him up. And just like that, my childhood got a swift kick in the stomach.

For me, Eddie wasn’t just another Ranger. He was my guy. My childhood goalie. My hero in the crease. Which is why October 31, 1975, will forever feel like the darkest Halloween of them all. That was the day the Rangers waived him.

Let’s put this in context. You have to understand: before Tom Seaver got traded to Cincinnati, before Brad Park and Jean Ratelle got shipped to Boston, the Giacomin waiver move was the sports trauma of my youth. If Eddie could be cut loose, then anything was possible — and none of it good. It was the real horror of Halloween not ghosts or goblins, but the sight of No. 1 suddenly belonging to someone else.

When he returned to the Garden just a couple of nights later wearing a Red Wings sweater, it was surreal. The crowd chanted his name, tears rolled down his cheeks, and for once Rangers fans rooted against their own team. We even booed when the Blueshirts scored, because that night wasn’t about New York. It was about Eddie. And it was as raw and real as sports gets. The fans of Madison Square Garden, actually rooted for the opponent to beat their own team. That’s how much he meant. That night remains one of the great Garden moments of all time, and I was lucky enough to be there, throat sore from chanting, heart cracked but proud.

Eddie played a few more seasons in Detroit before retiring in 1978, closing the book on a career that saw 290 wins, 54 shutouts, and countless bruises hidden behind the mask. He later coached, dabbled in broadcasting, and in 1989, the Rangers retired his number one to the rafters ,fitting, since he’ll always be number one to me.

He entered the Hockey Hall of Fame in 1987, but honestly, for Ranger fans of a certain generation, he didn’t need a plaque in Toronto. He had already carved his place into our hearts. He wasn’t just a goalie , he was an anchor, a symbol of grit, determination, and the bond between player and fans that can never be manufactured.

Eddie Giacomin passed away today at the age of 86. And while the stats, the trophies, and the honors will be written about everywhere, I just keep going back to that Garden night in 1975, chanting his name with thousands of others, tears in our eyes, cheering for a Red Wing. That was Eddie. That was love. That was what sports is supposed to be.

Rest easy, Eddie. You’ll always be standing tall between the pipes in my memories. And in case you didn’t hear me the first time: ED-DIE! ED-DIE!