John Blanchette

Every time someone tries to give boxing last rites, someone else applies the cardiac paddles. Floyd Mayweather Jr. returned to the ring 10 days ago and did more than a million pay-per-view buys, punking a UFC card head-to-head and delaying for the moment the conclusion that all fight fans want their combat meaner, nastier, no-holds-barred. So all is well. Except it’s not.

After practicing hockey on the eve of Saturday’s home opener, the Spokane Chiefs choreographed the ceremony to launch the franchise’s 25th season here, right down to the introduction of each and every player to an otherwise empty arena. “Your newest Chief,” came the call, “No. 21, Kyle Beach!”

SPRINGFIELD, Mass. – All John Stockton ever asked was a chance to prove himself against the best – whether that was his older brother Steve in the family driveway on North Superior or Michael Jordan in the NBA Finals. Now the proof is in: his induction Friday into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame.

Sending a basketball, with a pass delivered one-handed and from waist-high, 60 feet over the head and into the hands of a streaking Karl Malone … the nuns next door slamming their windows shut as he cursed his brother in another vicious 1-on-1 driveway war … bolting, eyes moist, from reporters, unable to handle questions about his decision to retire … another excuse-me-Mr.-Fire-Marshal full house at Jack and Dan’s, with every eye trained to his every move on the scattered TVs … bowing his head to accept the gold medal in Barcelona – and again in Atlanta … stripping a helpless Gonzaga opponent at half court and turning it into a layup, back when you could walk into Martin Centre at tipoff and find a front-row seat … firing in the 3-pointer over Charles Barkley to send the Jazz to their first NBA Finals, and leaping into the arms of teammate Jeff Hornacek … and, forever, the short shorts … More than two decades of basketball images merge into one tonight when John Stockton is inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame, taking his rightful place with the game’s greatest figures.

Sending a basketball, with a pass delivered one-handed and from waist-high, 60 feet over the head and into the hands of a streaking Karl Malone … the nuns next door slamming their windows shut as he cursed his brother in another vicious 1-on-1 driveway war … bolting, eyes moist, from reporters, unable to handle questions about his decision to retire … another excuse-me-Mr.-Fire-Marshal full house at Jack and Dan’s, with every eye trained to his every move on the scattered TVs … bowing his head to accept the gold medal in Barcelona – and again in Atlanta … stripping a helpless Gonzaga opponent at half court and turning it into a layup, back when you could walk into Martin Centre at tipoff and find a front-row seat … firing in the 3-pointer over Charles Barkley to send the Jazz to their first NBA Finals, and leaping into the arms of teammate Jeff Hornacek … and, forever, the short shors.

The giant television takes up an entire wall of the master bedroom, and it is here that Gene and Sherry Beerbohm often come home to find their son Lyle and any number of friends watching replays of his mixed martial arts fights – reliving his successes, anticipating championships and enjoying an unspoken toast to a reclaimed life.

Growing up, David Lemanowicz’s vision didn’t seem easily reconciled with that of the typical Canadian boy. Oh, sure, it included hockey, and he would realize some dreams in the game – the first all-star goaltender in Spokane Chiefs history, Florida Panthers draft choice, seven-year pro – and accumulate all the attendant joys and scars along the way.

Family matters to Frank Morton Jr., who has a big one that seems to grow by the year. “I think of family as people that have genuine love for you,” he said. “Doesn’t have to be blood.”