The Face of Hockey?

"He has a horrible shot - a terrible stick. You watch him in practice and sometimes he winds up and takes a slap shot. My five-year-old can shoot better."

Ethan Moreau was one of several Edmonton Oilers having fun at the expense of team mate Ryan Smyth a couple of weeks ago. Such mockery, combined with two key goals in the Stanley Cup Final, enhances Smyth's status as a cult figure, especially in Canada.

"The face of hockey," shouted a patron at the pub where I watched Saturday's game six, when a Smyth close-up appeared on the big screen. With his bad hair, battered face and somewhat goofy persona, Smyth exudes a regular-guy quality. Watching him play completes the picture: you can see him sweat with every stride. Graceful giants like Eric Staal and Chris Pronger are born athletes. Ryan Smyth looks and plays like he'll be doing your oil change the next morning.

In the age of multi-million dollar salaries, the work ethic - not just working hard, but being seen to work hard - is prized above all. It's considered a sign of character (Is there a more overused word in sport?) and therefore a reflection of the solid, down-home values we should all live by. By this standard, Smyth's awkward style and ugly goals make him more of a hockey player than Pronger, not less.

Compared to his peers, Ryan Smyth doesn't have much of a shot. But in deriding him, his team mates are playing with the Smyth image as the guy who has nothing going for him but pluck and determination. Of course, if he really had no hands he wouldn't be making $3.5 million in Edmonton. But the evidence supporting the image continues to mount, whether its the huge, clumsy goal or the teeth sacrificed to the cause. Oiler fans will remember the teeth as fondly as the goal.

The Ryan Smyths of the game are dear to devoted hockey fans. The casual fan, who just wants to see nice plays, is likely indifferent. The non-fan would probably find the hero worship utterly bewildering. As much as anything, Smyth and the response to him represents the great, yawning gulf between hockey and the rest of the sporting world.