Not the lake ice of Canada, not the polite suburban rinks of the Midwest. No—Detroit ice is different. It’s sharpened by labor, scarred with grit, and streaked with the memory of names that echo like street legends: Howe. Lindsay. Yzerman. Lidström. Datsyuk. Zetterberg.
The Detroit Red Wings are more than a hockey team. They are a civic institution. A secular religion. A generational anchor for a city that knows a thing or two about comebacks.
The team began in 1926, when a grain magnate named James Norris bought the faltering Victoria Cougars of the Western Canada Hockey League and moved them to Detroit. At first, they were the Detroit Cougars. Then the Falcons. But it wasn’t until 1932 that Norris gave them the name that would stick: The Red Wings—inspired by the logo of a Montreal cycling club he belonged to, the “Winged Wheelers.” It was a fitting emblem for a city built on wheels and speed.
By the 1940s and 50s, the Red Wings were not just a team—they were a dynasty. With the fearsome Gordie Howe, the bruising Ted Lindsay, and the stalwart Terry Sawchuk between the pipes, Detroit collected Stanley Cups like lunch pails. They won in 1936, 1937, 1943, 1950, 1952, 1954, and 1955—becoming the beating heart of the NHL’s Original Six and the pride of a blue-collar city that wore its team’s toughness like a badge of honor.
Gordie Howe wasn’t just a hockey player. He was a force of nature in skates. He scored, he hit, he bled, he led. He redefined what it meant to be durable. To this day, players who score a goal, get an assist, and throw a punch in the same game earn a “Gordie Howe Hat Trick.” Detroit never forgot that.
But after the glory came the dark ages. The 1970s and 80s were lean years. The Wings were so bad they earned a nickname no team wants: “The Dead Wings.” The arena seats were empty, the wins were scarce, and the memory of the good years faded under the hum of losing seasons and management missteps.
Then came the resurrection.
In 1983, the Ilitch family—owners of Little Caesars Pizza—bought the team. They hired Jimmy Devellano to rebuild the franchise from the ground up. He drafted a quiet Canadian center named Steve Yzerman, and the course of Red Wings history shifted.
The 1990s became Detroit’s second golden age. Yzerman. Fedorov. Lidström. Draper. McCarty. And behind the bench, Scotty Bowman, hockey’s mad genius. The Wings brought in a wave of elite Russian players—the “Russian Five”—and turned strategy into symphony. They were fast. They were fearless. And by 1997, they hoisted the Cup again, breaking a 42-year drought.
The city erupted. This wasn’t just a championship—it was a vindication. The following year, they won again. And again in 2002, and once more in 2008. Hockeytown was more than a nickname now—it was truth, stitched into red and white.
The team moved from the storied Joe Louis Arena to the sleek Little Caesars Arena in 2017. Some fans mourned the loss of The Joe’s rust and rumble, but the bannered history came with them. The Winged Wheel still turns.
Today, the Wings are rebuilding again. The Ilitch family still owns them. Yzerman returned—not as captain, but as general manager, charged with restoring the team’s competitive fire. It’s slow work. But Detroit knows how to wait. And more importantly, it knows how to believe.
To be a Red Wings fan is to love patience, passion, and pain. It is to throw an octopus onto the ice without irony. It is to wear the winged wheel like armor.
And in Detroit, you don’t just play hockey.
You live it.
Some teams are remembered for their trophies.
The Red Wings are remembered for their blood, banners, and belief.
And those things, unlike ice, never melt.