In the years since his death, friends and family have revealed that Tim Horton drank too much, that he and Lori endured a difficult and sometimes fractious marriage, and that he struggled to reconcile the pro hockey lifestyle with his family life.
The difficulties were not eased by the precarious state of NHL careers in the 1950s and 1960s. Like most players of his era, Horton was treated with contempt by his employer and took summer jobs to make ends meet. In 1955, when he missed much of the season with a broken jaw and broken leg (inflicted by a crushing bodycheck from the Rangers' Bill Gadsby), the Horton family nearly went broke: no play, no pay. When he returned to the lineup the following year he was fined $100 for "indifferent play" and threatened with a trade. The year after that he took a salary cut. The efforts that eventually lead to the doughnut chain were initiated by Horton's realization that hockey offered little financial security.
Horton won four Stanley Cups in Toronto before he was dealt to the New York Rangers, after which he moved on to Pittsburgh and finally Buffalo. As he passed the age of 40 he threatened to retire every spring, only to show up at the Sabres' training camp every September, sometimes signing a contract only days before the start of the season.
There was no doubt that he could still play: he was named the Sabres' 1972-73 MVP at the age of 43. In the fall of that year he signed on for another season, the team throwing in a new sports car as a bonus. In February of 1974, a few hours after being named the third star in a victory over the Leafs, Horton set out alone to drive back to Buffalo. The sports car flew off the highway at about 4:30 am and he was killed.
"Tim Hortons" is a trademark now, a snacking habit of such scope that it can be called a Canadian tradition (among its many nods to suburban Canada, the movie Wayne's World includes a stop at "Stan Mikita's Doughnuts"). But the connection between the brand name and the man is incidental. Although Horton's portrait hangs above the counter at most franchises, it means little to the majority of customers who ring up over $1 billion in sales every year.
But the life story behind the portrait remains compelling, partly because it plays to the current fashion in sports biography: glorious on the outside, small and sad on the inside. We hear the same about Cobb, DiMaggio, Sawchuk, Lombardi and many others. Their troubles dulled their triumphs.
The aborted retirements of his final years suggest that Tim Horton wanted to move on, but couldn't quite let go of hockey. Athletes who excel in their 30s and 40s are often admired for sustaining their youthful enthusiasm in the face of middle age. But maybe it's just as much about desperation. Maybe they can't face the thought of giving it up, not after all these years. "What I get paid for are the practices," Horton once said. "I would play the games for nothing."
