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Bill Simmons: I loved hockey as a kid because of hockey cards, street hockey, the Bruins and hockey fights. And not in that order. The late-1970s Bruins fought so much that my best friend, Reese, and I watched entire games while talking on the phone, just so we could enjoy the fisticuffs live over rehashing them at school the following day. The best three brawlers on those teams were Stan Jonathan (lefty, part-Indian, low center of gravity, the team's best puncher), Terry O'Reilly (a whirling dervish, also lefty, someone who threw as many haymakers as he took) and John Wensink (completely, totally, utterly insane). Wensink had a tussled afro and a bushy mustache, as well as crazy eyes that always reminded me of my Uncle Ricky's Great Dane, Jake. Whenever I played with Jake (we were the same size), Jake would occasionally get a deranged/happy/disassociated look that basically said, "I'm really enjoying this roughhousing, but part of me wants to see what would happen if I chewed off the side of your face." I never quite knew how far I could push Jake, and honestly, I didn't want to find out. That was Wensink. He wasn't the greatest fighter, but once he got riled up, all bets were off — it usually took two referees to pull him away.