#craig patrick

Nice, but now come the hard questions, like the one about Don Cherry. Crosby is asked if he's upset that the notoriously acerbic commentator-Canada's hockey judge, jury and executioner-has continually ripped him for being a showboat, a baby, a diver, a visor-wearer and an undeserving alternate captain.

Gulp. "Je ne pense beaucoup de ça," Crosby answers. "Je ne change rien. C'est mon style" ("I don't think a lot about it. I'm not going to change anything. It's my style.")

After a few more thrusts and parries, the French reporters quiet down and the English speakers pipe up. Back to normal-if normal is 75 people at a rookie's pregame press conference. Near the end of the hour, another writer hurls a question in French. Crosby makes eye contact, starts to talk, then stops to ask, like a cashier at a Tim Hortons, "Would you like that in English or French?"

The NHL wants to speak our language. It wants to please, to win us over. But it has always stumbled. Remember the blue puck? How about the change from catchy division names-Norris, Patrick, Adams-to boring geographical categories? The league made the crease off-limits to skaters in 1991, called the infraction all mind-numbing season long in 1998-'99, and then somehow Brett Hull's skate became invisible on the Stanley Cup-winning goal.

How about the North Americans vs. the World in the All-Star Game? And cheerleaders in the stands? And replacing shrines like The Forum and Chicago Stadium with McArenas? Don't forget expansion: trying to woo crooners in Nashville, exfoliators in Anaheim, Buckeyes in Columbus and the Starcrossed in Minneapolis-St. Paul. The only constant was clutch-and-grab, which felt like wallet-clutch-and-landgrab. Even a truly good idea, the Olympic break, ended up introducing us to a product that made us wonder why the NHL couldn't offer anything even close.

The league tried to be all things to all people, but it proved to be nothing to anyone. Then came the lockout, and nobody south of Windsor really cared. The league came back with ¼ a new logo! Two-line passes! Lots of penalties! Weird diagonal lines behind the goal! But there were still too many teams and not a big enough playing surface. And, oh yeah, another attempt to cozy up to us: "My NHL." Whose NHL? The true believers in Montreal? Rowdies on Long Island? Vickophiles in Atlanta? Go to any rink and look at the CEOs in the lower bowl and the diehards in the rafters. Hockey has as many different meanings to these groups as snow has to Inuits. My NHL? Mon dieu.

And then came Sidney.

He belongs to the casual fan. Can't follow the puck? Just follow No. 87.

Sid the Kid had 303 points in two years in the juniors, and the NHL hasn't slowed him down much. A behind-the-back pass here, a shot from the knees there, a skate-off lamplighter from anywhere. He scored 21 goals in his first 44 games, which is plenty for an 18-yearold rookie, but even more impressive when you consider that Crosby netted just one goal in nine games after taking a shot off his foot on Nov. 25 in Florida. When new Penguins coach Michel Therrien moved him from wing to center, his natural position, Crosby scored seven goals in six games.

Even hockey neophytes can see why he's so good. Imagine you're humming along on the open highway, maintaining a steady speed of 65. Easy, right? Now imagine you're fiddling with the radio, taking a sip of soda, checking the rearview mirror and talking on your cell phone. Still going 65? Not so easy, eh? The point is, Crosby excels for the same reason Dwyane Wade and LaDainian Tomlinson do: he has the ability to adapt quickly and do at full speed what others must slow down to accomplish. Oh, and he also has the thighs of a Greco-Roman wrestler and the first step of a bank robber.

He belongs to the discerning fan. We all know that Gretzky predicted Crosby would threaten his records. And no one is surprised that Sid's boss and landlord, Mario Lemieux, says things like, "He reminds me of Peter Forsberg-very physical. He has great vision." But listen to how each of the following stars sees his own specialties in Crosby. Here's Forsberg, known for his cleverness and ferocity: "He's quicker than I was. Maybe a better shot, too. He plays every single night. I like that. That makes average players great players." And Mike Modano, known for his versatility: "He can play an open style; he can play an aggressive checking style. The league hasn't had a guy like this in a long time." And Paul Kariya, known for his awareness and vision: "He sees the game really well. He has tremendous poise and patience. He's an amazing hockey player."

How much fun is Crosby to watch? Just ask this group of channel-surfin' puckheads who've gathered around a TV in Tampa after getting off work one night in November. Hey, check it out: Pittsburgh and Montreal are going to shootouts. Whoa, nice save there. It's down to the last shooter. Here comes Crosby! The rookie jabs his left leg out, faking a wrist shot, then dekes Jose Theodore into the concession stand and deposits the winner. The guys in Tampa love it. Nobody needs Barry Melrose to explain the beauty of that move. And so what if these guys just happen to be known collectively as the New York Rangers? They're fans too.

"Unbelievable," veteran forward Ville Nieminen says of Crosby. "It's his league now."

He belongs to the traditional fan. You know, the guy who buys VHS tapes of fights between Bob Probert and Dave Manson. See, El Sid is one tough hombre. When he was playing three years ago for Shattuck-St. Mary's prep in Minnesota, the school's baseball coach recruited him and pal Jack Johnson (picked third in the 2005 NHL draft by Carolina) to play some JV ball. Crosby pitched, and heard all sorts of comments ("overrated!") from the other team. So he and Johnson came up with a plan. When Johnson stepped up to bat the next inning, he stood on the plate, got plunked and charged the mound-with Crosby right there next to him.

Then there was the time Crosby got heckled in a midget game by the mother of a future NHL star. She was sitting in the corner of the rink, right behind the glass, so 15-year-old Sid could hear every word. Before a faceoff in the opponent's zone, he scrapped the original plan to tap the draw back to Johnson on the blue line. "I'll take this," Crosby said. Then he controlled the puck, skated in, scored-and circled over to the loud mom, putting a hand to his ear. The woman (he won't say who) didn't make a peep for the rest of the game.

Look back at NHL phenoms of years past. Gretzky had Marty McSorley and Dave Semenko protecting him; Yzerman had Probert; Modano had Shane Churla; Kariya had Stu Grimson. Even Forsberg had Chris Simon. Crosby has ¼ Andre Roy, who is under doctor's orders not to fight. Not that there's much fighting in the new NHL.

"Sid doesn't have a lot of people who come flying in," says Johnson, still defending his guy now. "I think he deserves it-someone to watch his back at all times."

Crosby has always taken hits. Once, when he was still playing back home in Halifax, he turned up ice just in time to see a thug coming full speed the other way and crashing into his knees. Then there's all the stuff that happens behind the play: the shoves to the back of the head, the chops to the hands-the usual. "For every whack I've given," he says, "I've gotten four or five."

But Crosby can fend for himself. Like when Philly defenseman Derian Hatcher carved up his face (twice) and knocked his teeth out in November. The refs missed it, then threw Crosby in the box for unsportsmanlike conduct. He listened to the Flyers fans hurl all sorts of pleasantries-"Stuff I'd never heard," he says-then scored a bloody-mouthed game-winner on a breakaway in overtime to give Pittsburgh just its third victory at Philly in 11 years. Crosby spun around to hug his teammates, looking like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

"I was really angry," he says. "I wanted to beat that guy so bad."

He belongs to the blue-collar fan. Look past the fact that he signs every autograph and accepts every media request. Forget the boy-next-door looks and the mailbag full of prom date requests. People don't want a golden child from a house of privilege. They want some grit, some pain, some lessons learned. Crosby's got that, too. His dad, Troy, was a fierce, aggressive "Ron Hextall type of goalie" (Troy's words) in the Canadiens' junior system before becoming a facilities manager at a law firm. (He's now happily unemployed.) Sidney's mom, Trina, was a cashier at a grocery store and delivered flyers to help raise money for hockey equipment. Both parents lost their fathers at an early age. Trina's dad died of a heart attack when she was 11. Troy says his dad walked out on his three kids when Troy was 7. Troy's mom, Linda, lived on welfare, and Troy lived with a chip on his shoulder. "My way to succeed was in hockey and sports," he says, "to show we're not a failure as a family."

Troy sat Sidney down a few years ago and told him about his biological grandfather. He didn't make it a big deal, and Sid didn't say much. "It's not something I like to talk about," the teen says now. It's just a cautionary tale about accountability and honor. "Troy and I both have learned how difficult it is to lose somebody who's important to you," Trina says. "We have a very strong idea of being grounded. We understand the real world and how it works."

Come to a Penguins practice and see who's last to leave the ice. Come to a game an hour before faceoff and see who's there in tennis shoes, stretching with teammate Max Talbot. (When Talbot was sent down in December, Crosby called him just to say, "Don't worry, I won't get a new partner." He went out on the ice alone until Talbot was recalled.) Johnson tells stories about Crosby turning down party invites and movie tickets just to play shinny. "We'd have practice in the morning, and he'd want to play road hockey in the afternoon," says childhood friend Mike Chaisson. "Hockey, hockey, hockey. He was pretty much born on skates."

Stay after a game to see Crosby doing plyometrics and sprints and footwork late into the night-after doing all the interviews and signing all the autographs. "His work ethic is incredible," says former Penguin Phil Bourque. "If you took five guys and gave them the same talent, he'd still be better than them all. You shake your head and go, 'Is he really 18?' "

He belongs to the honest fan. Yes, he's had media training at the hands of IMG. Yes, he comes across as polished as a brand-new skate blade. But this is no puck-bot who spews eye-rolling lines about focus and playing 110%. Crosby will challenge teammates older and younger, openly and quietly, after losses and wins. Even when the Pens got a tough road point in Toronto, he barked, "We didn't deserve to win that game anyway."

Pittsburgh has its share of ring-bearing veterans in Lemieux, Mark Recchi and John LeClair, but the team only turned around when Therrien jumped up from Wilkes-Barre to the big club and made rookies the centerpiece. (The Penguins regularly play up to nine of them now.)

"Challenging someone is good," Crosby says. "You need to do it. Sometimes they don't even realize you're doing it, like when you joke with a goalie, 'What's wrong today? You losing it?' " Just the sort of thing any 18-year-old coach-on-the-ice would say.

He belongs to the Canadian fan. And this is important. The '90s brought the greatest talent the league has ever known, with world stars like Nicklas Lidstrom, Sergei Fedorov and Dominik Hasek, but the influx also threatened to take a nation's sport away. Although Yzerman and Jarome Iginla won gold in Salt Lake City in 2002 to help restore order, it sure helps Canadians to know that the NHL's brightest new star hails from the hard-driving but oft-overlooked province of Nova Scotia. Crosby might have European skills, but he definitely has Canadian style. "When you get a Maritime player, he's coming to work," says Columbus coach Gerard Gallant, who's from Prince

Edward Island. "You're getting a quality person, a good teammate."

The Maritime provinces didn't even have a major junior team until Crosby turned 6, so his rise from his hometown of Cole Harbour through Rimouski in Quebec juniors warms even the hardest secessionist's heart. Crosby grins when asked if he's motivated by the idea of making a permanent name for Maritime hockey. "We were kind of looked at as the lower end," he says. "I want to show it doesn't matter where you come from."

Unless, of course, you come from somewhere outside Canada.

He belongs to the hometown fan. This isn't Eli Manning getting drafted by the Chargers. Pittsburgh may very well lose its hockey team without a new building, and Crosby knows it. "I hope it doesn't happen," he says. "I want to reward this city. Pittsburgh is a great hockey town." He says this a week after his team was booed at home-during the introductions. Crosby knows the history. He knows Lemieux also came in with a franchise on the brink and saved it not once (by winning two Stanley Cups) but twice (by buying the team). Hockey's had holes torn in it by the movement of clubs from devoted communities like Winnipeg, Quebec City and Bloomington. Now Pittsburgh bigs know a new arena will house Crosby, which will dramatically boost the team's TV and marketing worth. That's part of why Penguins GM Craig Patrick said a little prayer right before the final lottery draw last spring.

"The way things had gone here," he says, "I didn't think we had an ounce of a chance to get him. I was holding a little clover in my hand. I've won the Stanley Cup, won gold medals. Getting Sidney Crosby was the happiest day of my life."

And yet, for some reason, Crosby won't belong to the Olympics fan. Not yet. He wanted that last roster spot-so much so that he called his agent, Pat Brisson, 15 minutes before the announcement came and asked him, Would I have gotten a call by now? Yes, Brisson answered. That's when Crosby knew. Not this time. Hey, every gold-medal club needs a Shane Doan.