Lisa Olson Nhl

For the moment, Wayne Gretzky has chosen to walk away gracefully, with dignity. Of course he is concerned about his personal legacy -- The Great One's ego didn't melt from the Phoenix sun, no matter how ordinary he proved to be working in an environment that never felt as natural as his office behind the net. But the broader picture here -- beyond Gretzky's resignation as head coach and director of hockey operations of the Coyotes Thursday, beyond his bruised feelings and grumblings to friends about being treated unfairly -- still circles around one cold fact:

Wayne Gretzky is hockey.

And the NHL would be wise to do whatever it takes to assure its greatest ambassador remains a part of the game, somewhere, somehow.

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DETROIT -- Extraordinary. Wait, that word isn't grand enough to describe what happened here Friday night. Thrilling? Stunning? It was both, and so much more. It was babyface goalie Marc-Andre Fleury making a couple of huge saves in the final, throat-clutching seconds. It was Sidney Crosby lifting the silver chalice and kissing it once, twice, barely buckling under his twisted knee. It was heavy-handed Maxime Talbot scoring a pair of improbable goals, while Evgeni Malkin raised his game to an entirely different level.

It was Marian Hossa dropping to his knees in sorrow, the pain that accompanies having to watch another team celebrate on his home ice for the second straight season almost unbearable. It was Chris Osgood, dazzling in goal, but not dazzling enough. It was a wave of wing-wheeled, veteran Europeans pushing the reigning champions as hard as they could be pushed, and the young, energetic pups in black refusing to budge.

It was Pittsburgh 2, Detroit 1, the Stanley Cup changing hands in spectacular fashion.

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DETROIT – Sure, the flying octopi help. So do the throngs of rabid fans wearing jerseys ringed in the color of blood, and a no-nonsense building that doesn't require fancy bells and whistles in order to rock, and old-school rituals that get passed down like success.

As Red Wings coach Mike Babcock was saying Thursday, on the eve of one of the grandest, coolest spectacles in sports, this city is a part "of Canada that just got lost ... and these people love hockey, absolutely love hockey."

Former great Ted Lindsay, born on the cusp of the Great Depression, makes a point of stopping by for team meetings before each round, plopping down in his stall in the dressing room. Legends roam the halls, from Gordie Howe to Steve Yzerman. Players here retire, or maybe they get traded, or go elsewhere for a salary bump, but few ever really shed the thrill that comes with lacing it up for Hockeytown, USA.

PITTSBURGH -- Marian Hossa must know how he'll be perceived. The cameras will zoom in close, searching his face for elation or tears. Outsiders might mock or pity him, possibly both. Hockey insiders will again debate the repercussions of his professional and personal choices. Was he a fool to bolt the Penguins, leaving all those millions on the table? Does he regret signing with Detroit, a team he thought had the best chance of winning it all?

No matter how Hossa's controversial, admirable journey ends Friday night in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals, he deserves a tap of the stick for following his heart rather than the dollar. In Hossa's perfect world, he'll live out every rink rat's childhood fantasy and score the goal that gives the Red Wings their second consecutive Stanley Cup, allowing Detroit to party in front of a home crowd that's grown accustoming to feting Lord Stanley. Hossa's decision to swap Penguin black for Detroit red will be justified, perhaps even lauded as a fine example of the satisfaction that follows when rejoicing collectively trumps profiting individually.

PITTSBURGH -- What a shame hockey didn't own this night. Americans from Florida to California should have been glued to the extraordinary image of Marc-Andre Fleury doing somersaults in front of the net to save the Penguins' season, of Rob Scuderi using the edge of his skate to stop what surely would have been a dagger to the gut, of scruffy-faced athletes pushing the sport to a transcendent, desperate finish.

When it was over, when the last frantic second expired on Pittsburgh's 2-1 Game 6 win over the Detroit Red Wings in the Stanley Cup finals, the 17,132 lucky souls who witnessed this gem in person managed to dislodge their hearts from their throats and turn The Igloo into something that sounded pretty close to a rapturous revival. It was tough to decide where they should genuflect first.

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NEW YORK -- As the clock wound down on a weak, pitiful showing by the New York Rangers, as Brandon Dubinsky prepared for a tetanus shot after allegedly being bitten by a Washington Capital and Blair Betts was undergoing tests for concussion after being fore-armed in the head by another Capital, Alex Ovechkin skated nonchalantly past the Ranger bench.

And he smiled.

And the Rangers turned away.

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NEW YORK -- This wasn't the time to wonder where these New York Rangers have been hiding all season, or whether they'll soon suffer through another identity crisis. This wasn't the place to ask if the Rangers will be one-and-done wonders, justifying their owners' satisfaction with mediocrity.

No, this was an oh-happy-joy night to be savored by Rangers fans, because the Blueshirts have slipped into the NHL postseason for the fourth straight season. Even more delicious, the Rangers had to beat their bitter rivals, the Philadelphia Flyers, to clinch a spot, setting the scene for the perfect hockey vortex at Madison Square Garden.

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