Brass Bonanza Plays Again

<p>What happens when a major league pro sports team leaves a city? The Hartford Whalers left on April 13 1997—leaving behind devastated fans. The players left too—except one who stayed and suffered like the fans.</p><p>Tiger Burns is an unlikely hero—even for a hobbit-sized smash-faced hockey goon with 600 fights. Standing 5’3” with one-eye cauliflower ears and a full-rigged ship tattoo on his chest his most unusual feature is this: he loves Hartford and its team the Whalers. In a league where players date super models ice princesses and Miss Americas he is a misfit. But in a league of Los Angeles New York and Boston so is Hartford. </p><p>Brass Bonanza Plays Again tells the riches-to-rags story of Mark Twain’s hometown once the nation’s richest now the butt of jokes. It relates the true saga of a small city’s beloved team moved away like Brooklyn’s Dodgers. And it weaves the tragicomic tale of the muscle-bound gnome who blows the jump-the-shark game against arch-rival Boston on April 11 1990 lives homeless under a bridge only to rise up and lead a dead team out of the stands onto the ice. </p><p>Tiger rallies not only a dead hockey team but awakens the ghosts of Hartford’s past. He brings to life a ragtag band of 19th century legends and is saved by a guardian angel Rube Waddell one of sport’s “goats” from the 1905 World Series. Can a one-eyed homeless underdog make a faded city believe and rescue a star-crossed spirit? In Brass Bonanza Plays Again we have Rocky (on Skates!) meets Field of Dreams. </p><p>Rocky came out of a Philly row house Rudy out of an Indiana steel mill and now Tiger Burns comes out from under a Hartford bridge to bring a dead team to life. A book of provincial aspirations and condescension Brass Bonanza Plays Again tells the story of this small city midway between New York and Boston long considered just a urine-stop or ass-wipe between Wall Street and Cape Cod. </p><p>The New York Times recently printed an essay “In Search of the Great American Hockey Novel” lamenting that hockey unlike other sports has yet to be celebrated in a notable work. “Where is the Chekhov of the Chicago Blackhawks?” the Times asks. “Who is the Stendahl of the stick to the groin?” To that we humbly say: read on.