adam b. ellick
Rinks of Sadness
Published: Feb. 23, 2000 Printer-Friendly Format
The Prague Post
By Adam B. Ellick
LITVINOV, North Bohemia, Czech Republic—
Litvinov's deputy mayor, Karel Zdralil, is an urban philosopher. "If we forget about the problems," he says wryly, "life is very pleasant here.
Alas, the problems are stubborn. In many respects, this gritty north Bohemian chemical plant city of 30,000 is kin to a down-at-the-heels Industrial Revolution coal town.
For decades, Litvinov's air was so heavy with sulfur emissions that the smog turned yellow. Today, the region claims the Czech Republic's second-highest mortality rate. Unemployment, meanwhile, hovers at more than 20 percent.
Some cities would put such pressing social concerns above all others. Not Litvinov. Here, one prospect underscores the larger hurt: Litvinov may lose its hockey club.
In a nation where ice hockey is a sacred rite, financially stricken Litvinov faces the end of an era.
Chemopetrol, the mammoth local industry that makes chemicals for plastics and employs 3,500 workers, has all but decided to stop backing the 41-year-old team HC (Hockey Club) Chemopetrol.
Jan Fritsch, 23, has attended every Extraliga, or top league, game since he was 5. When asked to consider life without hockey, Fritsch pauses for a full five seconds before glancing up.
"Don't even ask that question," he cautions. "I would probably go crazy."
But money talks. Despite Chemopetrol's 25 million Kc ($70,000) annual investment, which makes it the team's majority owner and cash cow, the club isn't turning a profit. Weary officials say Chemopetrol wants to focus its full attention on what it does best: make chemicals. If another local sponsor doesn't step in, Litvinov may lose its team to a larger city with a more willing backer.
Litvinov is the country's smallest town with a professional hockey team at the Extraliga level.
Hockey power
To Litvinov residents, stripping the town of hockey would be tantamount to banning bullfighting in Spain, or theater in London. "It's our culture of expression," Deputy Mayor Zdralil says.
Hockey is a passion play for fans and players alike. Some 200 players from the team's youth squad nurture National Hockey League (NHL) hopes — and dream of rich contracts.
Although the team has never won an Extraliga crown since its communist-era creation, the city's two rinks are a hive of activity. On this early February weekend, the Extraliga squad takes the ice at 5:30 p.m.
Hours later, before a crowd of 4,500, the team beats HC Ceske Budujovice, 4–1. After the game, head coach Miroslav Rykly dutifully credits his players. But under the prevailing circumstances, there are no quick fixes.
The night is still young. Hockey will escort it through Saturday.
At 9 p.m., a women's squad walks through the doors. There are no Friday night parties for these young women; their social lives can wait. They pause only briefly to explain that the night hours represent precious ice time, then briskly walk away.
On Saturday at 7:15 a.m., the men practice again. Meanwhile, at the neighboring rink, the male youth team is wrapping up a win. After lunch, it's mini-hockey for the youngsters.
Hockey, Zdralil muses, helps this depressed town. He attributes Litvinov's crime rate, the lowest in the region of north Bohemia, to hockey. Locals, especially children, flock to hockey arenas instead of roaming the streets.
"If you go to work and come home, you need entertainment," says the team's star, 27-year-old Robert Reichel, an NHL veteran. "In the big city, you have more to do, but here, it's hockey town. It's just hockey, hockey, hockey."
Vladimir Orlovsky, 36, works at Open-World, the town's borderline-artsy bar, perhaps the closest place to a Litvinov cultural attraction. On this Friday night, the attraction is a disc jockey, a few psychedelic posters and 15 patrons.
"I don't care for hockey," Orlovsky says dismissively. "I'm not the only one, but sometimes I just don't have anything to talk about with the people here."
Money matters
In Litvinov, Chemopetrol facilities are everywhere. The most basic way to imagine the city is to consider its skyline. Replace every Prague spire with industrial funnels spitting thick trails of black smoke, and the result might be Litvinov.
Chemopetrol's sponsorship arrangement isn't much clearer than the air.
The annual hockey budget is 70 million Kc, earmarked to underwrite the Extraliga pro team, youth and women's leagues, and the costs of stadium utilities. As majority owner, Chemopetrol's share covers more than a third of those costs, with secondary sponsors and the city picking up a trifle.
Such sponsorship is a relic of the communist era, when state companies owned teams and built sports complexes as part of the existing sports culture.
"Without our presence, the sport would not be present here," Chemopetrol spokesman Miroslav Novak says. Although it wishes to end its hockey link, Chemopetrol needs a buyer. "It's a hard sell," Novak admits.
Harder still is what happens if no buyer is found. The company says it refuses to answer "what if" questions, but locals are certain that the whole hockey club, at all levels, would be sold off.
For townsfolk, layoffs and hard times have conspired to make hockey a luxury. Attendance has fallen since 1994, when the team played to a packed arena. HC Litvinov averages some 5,000 fans for home games, well short of the arena's 7,000 capacity.
Vladimir Novotny, the team's spokesman, cites "difficult economic times." Moreover, the post-1989 talent drain saw the best Czech players moving to North America.
Petr Bohac, president of the Fan Club, runs a souvenir stand and organizes road trips. The club once counted some 90 registered members. Now it has none. "No one has the money," Bohac says bluntly. After a payday, his shop may net about 20,000 Kc. But on this night, between pay periods, he says he'll be lucky if he sells about 2,000 Kc worth of pins, mugs and jerseys.
Still, loyalists won't give up the fight. Before face-off, they assemble at the arena's south, standing-room, end. Carrying bass drums and draped in black and yellow attire, they chant "Lit-vi-nov," drums booming.
Within minutes, Litvinov takes a 2–0 lead. After each goal comes the fight song: "Goooal, Goooal, Gooooal. He who wants to win must have will. Litvinov has the will. Thank you guys. We'll help you win."
Love of the game
Vaclav Cerny, 58, is a typical coach. "I'm just completely addicted to hockey," says the youth league manager. His office walls are covered with team photos, medals and postcards of naked women. When he speaks in his redolent smoker's voice, the 14-year-olds listen.
In 33 years, Cerny has coached many of Litvinov's NHL stars, including Reichel, Petr Svoboda, Jiri Slegr and Robert Lang. He shaped their games from boyhood.
He can't even recall how many junior titles he's captured — "dozens of them," he guesses. His teams win games by 26-0 or 14-0.
Cerny worries about Chemopetrol's pullout. "This could be a total end to our club, but right now we still don't know," he says of his youth team. "We're trying to win games, so we'll be more attractive for investors."
Cerny works seven days a week, eight hours a day. "My wife tells me to take my bed to work, because I have no other hobbies. Without hockey, maybe I would sit at the park and watch grandmas and grandpas."
"I look forward to the end of the [season], so he'll have time for me," his wife says ruefully.
Tomorrow is Feb. 6, his first day off since Christmas Eve. So what will he do? At 9 a.m. he'll be rinkside to study 18-year-old seniors. In the afternoon, he'll watch second- and third-graders play mini-hockey.
"But I'll leave for lunch," he says, laughing.
Child's play
Zeal is contagious. Martin Tuma, 14, a defenseman with NHL potential, practices four nights a week. He hits Playstation video hockey every night.
"The kids say school and health are most important," Cerny says, "but that's just because they are supposed to."
Tuma finished his school term with top marks. In Litvinov, all young hockey players are placed in the same class. This helps with practice schedules and away games. Cerny came up with the idea in the 1970s.
Tuma's father, Václav, is the assistant coach. He says his son's next few years are crucial. He must stay healthy, work hard and avoid drugs.
And of course, the club must remain in Litvinov.
"I'm scared because of the rumors going around," Martin Tuma says. "Without hockey, we would just be another average city."
And he would be just another average kid. "Losing hockey would be worse than a divorce," Vaclav says.
Home sweet home
Robert Reichel can sympathize with the ardor because he's from Litvinov.
After a nine-year stint in the NHL, capped by a bitter contract dispute in which he sought a $2 million (72 million Kc) deal from the Phoenix Coyotes, Reichel returned to his hometown last year and accepted a multimillion deal — in crowns.
He leads the team in goals and assists. Mention Reichel to locals and they smile.
"The regular people have no power," Reichel says, referring to fans. "If management wants to change the teams, the regular people have nothing to say about it. Maybe some of them will demonstrate, but what for?"
Despite his income, Reichel says he can't afford to save the club. But he's trying his best on the ice. Litvinov is in a tight fight for a playoff spot with a quarter of the season left. A good showing in the post-season berth might also help with potential investors.
Says Reichel: "Without hockey the town will go down. People will have nothing to do. We will wonder what to do every night."
Reichel enjoys small-town life, but he's considering an NHL comeback. If that fails, he says he'll retire — in Litvinov.
"If you are born here, you're used to this life. A beer at the pub and a night at the disco. You have everything here. My home is here. People don't get that. It's strange, but small city people are happy here."
So long as there's hockey.