'Legion of Doom' gets its day in the sun

'I WAS conflicted," said Michael Sabatina.

Everyone was, all the time, it seemed, when it came to Eric Lindros.

Everyone still is.

It is a disease that affects the legacy of most Philadelphia stars, even upon their enshrinements. Name them: Donovan McNabb, Allen Iverson, Mike Schmidt; and, of course, the Big E.

When the largest Eric Lindros controversy engulfed a tottering Eastern Conference power, Sabatina sensed angst between his team and his hero. And he was just 11.

He was not a typical 11-year-old; but then, Flyers fans aren't typical, are they?

They might not be typical, but they are informed and they are passionate and they are loyal. Only, this conflict - Fragile Superstar vs. Stubborn Establishment - presented no clear protagonist. Everybody lost.

Lindros and his parents lost when they accused the team of medical malfeasance, when, really, it was an honestly bungled diagnosis. Bobby Clarke and the Flyers team that he helped build - first as its greatest center, then as its general manager - could not win. They chafed under Lindros' accusations, rightly considered heretical.

It diminished everyone.

That, along with a litany of other bizarre episodes, defined Lindros' 8-year run as the face of the Flyers as much as his 659 points (and 946 penalty minutes) in 486 games.

Most of the narrative of the absurd was ignored last night, when Lindros and linemate John LeClair saw their names lifted to the rafters and added to the Flyers Hall of Fame.

For the principals, the narrative remains a raw reality.

Significantly, Clarke did not attend last night. He told the Daily News he harbored no ill will, but, once Lindros declined a 1-year, $8.5 million offer in 2001 and forced Clarke to trade him, Lindros essentially ceased to exist for him.

Appropriately, Lindros' parents did not participate in the ceremony. Earlier, they declined an interview request from the Daily News, saying that they preferred Eric have this moment to himself.

Sadly, when Lindros thanked a group of medical personnel who kept the Flyers healthy in his day, he pointedly did not mention John Worley. Worley was the trainer who, after a game in Nashville in April 1999 diagnosed Lindros' collapsed lung as a rib injury. As fate would have it, Worley attended last night's game . . . as the Wild's trainer.

"I think time dilutes most feelings," Lindros said before the game. "Life's short."

Apparently, time does not dilute all feelings. In hockey, wounds run deep. So do memories.

Joe Deeney was 21 in 1992, when the Flyers traded a franchise's worth of assets to acquire the rights to Lindros, the giant young centerman with soft hands and love for contact. More than 2 decades later, Deeney recalls the thrill of the promise that Lindros brought as the Super Mario era neared its apex.

"It was like turning the page on the old regime," Deeney said. "We were going to start off new, with a player who was as good as Lemieux, or so we were told."

A decade later, for some, Lindros was a pariah; for some, but not for all. He had won the Hart Trophy in 1995 as a 22-year-old, had been to six All-Star Games and pushed the team to the 1997 Stanley Cup finals.

"I was sort of disappointed in Clarke, the way he treated him at the end," Deeney said.

It was a night for both Lindros and LeClair, two-thirds of the Legion of Doom line that carried the Flyers to the finals. Mikael Renberg, who skated the wing opposite LeClair, presented each with their busts.

But, really, any tension in the Wells Fargo Center was spent on Lindros. There were a few LeClair No. 10s, but No. 88 jerseys were everywhere. Even anthem singer Lauren Hart wore one.

Sabatina was wearing his second one; this one, of course, much bigger. He was wearing his first one in 2000, when his dad brought him from their home in Glen Mills to see Game 7 of the Eastern Conference finals. In that game, Scott Stevens clobbered Lindros at center ice.

"I was at the game where Stevens leveled him. I cried and I cried," Sabatina said. "My dad was telling me it was a legal hit, and I was crying, saying it wasn't."

It has Lindros' fourth concussion in 5 months, an unthinkably brutal aggregation these days. Concussions ultimately cost Lindros his career. He says he suffers no ill effects.

Certainly, he sounds fine. Now 41, he carries a few extra pounds. His curly hair is high and tight and gray on the sides.

LeClair has well-earned laugh lines around his eyes.

Flyers players wore 10/88 patches on their uniforms, but each player probably should have had his own night, individually. Nevertheless, they worked together seamlessly, as always.

Before the game, the team set up a carpeted presenting area at center ice. The current Flyers watched in uniform from their bench.

LeClair's mother, his wife and their three kids sat on one side of the presenting area. Lindros' wife and 4-month-old son sat on the other, along with team president Paul Holmgren and former teammates Shjon Podein and Eric Desjardins.

Lindros and LeClair accepted applause and the accolades in tandem as endless video montages recalled their glory days.

No one booed.

"It's a complex situation. He deserves some absolution," Sabatina said. "The fact is, he's the second-best center this franchise has ever had. People need to come to grips with that. There's nobody on the roster now, or will ever be, a player as dominant as he was."

Deeney agreed. Without Lindros' induction, there was no way he would watch a game against an unremarkable Minnesota team.

"I specifically came for this," Deeney said.

So did Sabatina, now attending law school and living in Wilmington, Del.

"I wouldn't come to this particular game, but it was Lindros, you know?" Sabatina said. "When I was a kid, he was the be-all and end-all of Flyers hockey. I had his poster all over my room. I had his jersey. I went to the Flyers carnival, twice. I had pictures with him and myself."

Most fans have granted Lindros the absolution he deserves.

The principals in the equation are less forgiving.

On Twitter: @inkstainedretch

Blog: ph.ly/DNL