The History of the Canada Cup and the World Cup of Hockey by James Bren

When I first saw the Amazon listing for James Bren’s The History of the Canada Cup and the World Cup of Hockey I was immediately intrigued but skeptical. 

I was excited because I co-wrote a book on the exact topic way back in the early 2000s. To see someone else tackle the subject and promise to chronicle one of the most important international tournaments in hockey history genuinely excited me.

But I was skeptical because when I looked into the author, I was immediately suspicious of an AI book. 

It turns out I was right to be skeptical of the book and the mysterious Mr. Bren.

The execution of the project leaves much to be desired. While the subject matter is inherently fascinating—the Canada Cup’s Cold War drama, the evolution of international rivalries, and the effort to modernize elite global competition through the World Cup—the book rarely rises to meet the richness of its topic.

The most glaring problem is that much of the text reads unmistakably like AI-generated filler. Not always - there is interesting coverage of the creation of the tournament and the creation of the trophies, including the fascinating story of the duplicate trophy created in 1981 just for the Soviets. 

But far too often, Bren's book lacks insightful analysis, firsthand research, and compelling storytelling, The book relies on generic phrasing, simplistic transitions, and repetitive summaries that offer little depth. The narrative often feels like a surface-level Wikipedia condensation stretched across chapters, rather than the product of original thought or historical investigation. Key moments—like the 1987 Canada Cup, widely considered one of the greatest series ever played—are recounted with bland, mechanical descriptions that fail to capture tension, context, or character. 

The book feels like it has been assembled rather than authored. The reader looking for an introduction to this historical tournament will get a functional overview but not much more. Canada Cup and World Cup of Hockey fans deserve more. 

In the end, Bren’s book underscores a growing problem in sports publishing: rapidly produced, AI-assisted content masquerading as historical work. Bren seems to offer a whole catalog of these books - about 30 titles such as histories of the NHL, NFL, NBA, FIFA, PGA, tennis, rugby, auto sports, martial arts, cricket, and the Olympics. Bren must be the world's foremost expert on all sports or just a machine spitting out AI generated content hoping people will fall for it and buy enough to make some money.

To be fair I have not read any of the other titles, though Bren was kind enough to include samples randomly throughout the Canada Cup history. Out of nowhere the book includes coverage of the WNBA and Formula One. (this is self published through Amazon's on demand publishing service so hopefully that is corrected for your copy should you buy one).

The Death of Hockey by Bruce Kidd and John McFarlane (1972)

When The Death of Hockey appeared in 1972, Bruce Kidd and John McFarlane were issuing a warning. They argued that hockey — once a community-rooted expression of Canadian identity — was being eroded by the growing influence of commercialization and Americanization. Their title was intentionally provocative, but the book itself is a thoughtful, passionate, and thoroughly Canadian meditation on what happens when a cultural touchstone becomes an industry first and a pastime second.

Kidd and McFarlane write with the conviction of insiders who feel they are watching something precious slip away. They evoke the traditional rhythms of the game: frozen ponds, volunteer-run rinks, neighborhood rivalries, and the informal mentorship that defined Canadian hockey for decades. These passages are the book’s emotional anchor, capturing the romantic ideal of hockey as a community ritual rather than a commercial product.

But The Death of Hockey is not merely nostalgic. The authors systematically examine how the National Hockey League’s rapid expansion, the influence of U.S. broadcasters, and the consolidation of power among franchise owners reshaped the sport’s priorities. They contend that profit motives threatened amateur development, narrowed opportunities for children of modest means, and diluted the cultural uniqueness of Canadian hockey. 

The book was criticized at the time for factual imprecision and for overstating the extent of hockey’s “death,” but even critics acknowledged its sincerity and its willingness to confront uncomfortable truths about the direction of the sport. Its arguments are presented with energy, clarity, and a reformer’s zeal, and the authors repeatedly emphasize that their goal is not despair but renewal.

Does the premise stand the test of time? In many respects, yes. The commercialization they feared has only intensified: billion-dollar broadcast deals, corporate-driven franchise decisions, high-priced youth hockey systems, and the expansion of the NHL into non-traditional markets all reflect the trends Kidd and McFarlane described more than fifty years ago. The rising cost of playing hockey — now one of the most expensive youth sports in North America — echoes their concern that the game was slipping out of reach for ordinary families. Likewise, debates about access, community programs, and the loss of local arenas continue to shape discussions across Canada.

Yet the book’s pessimism has not been fully borne out. Hockey remains deeply woven into Canadian identity, and grassroots programs, though challenged, continue to thrive in many regions. The NHL became more global, more inclusive, and in some ways more innovative than the authors could have foreseen. The game evolved rather than died.

Ultimately, The Death of Hockey endures not as a prophecy of doom but as a passionate cultural critique whose central anxieties remain strikingly relevant. It is a vivid reminder that the soul of a sport is always worth defending — and always at risk.

The Death of Hockey By Klein & Reif: Did This Book Stand The Test of Time?

Jeff Z. Klein and Karl-Eric Reif’s The Death of Hockey (1998) arrives as a sharp, impassioned polemic aimed squarely at what the authors saw as the NHL’s accelerating decline in the late 20th century. 

Written with a mix of wit, anger, and deep affection for the game’s traditions, the book argues that professional hockey was being systematically degraded by corporate greed, overexpansion, and the encroachment of spectacle over substance. Klein and Reif, seasoned journalists with a keen eye for the culture of the sport, paint a dramatic portrait of a league losing its way — a league where too many teams, too many games, and too many business-first decisions were threatening the integrity of “the greatest game on earth.”

The book’s underlying thesis is that money and mismanagement were killing hockey from within. The authors criticize league executives for chasing television markets over hockey markets, expanding into regions with little interest in the sport, and diluting on-ice quality in the process. They lament the loss of small, intimate arenas and the sense of local identity that once defined the game, arguing that the NHL was drifting away from its cultural roots. Their concerns extend to on-ice trends as well: the acceptance of excessive violence, the decline of skill-first hockey, and a creeping “tackiness” in presentation. Although the tone is often acerbic — sometimes to the point of overstatement — the writing is undeniably engaging, fueled by a genuine belief that hockey deserved better stewardship.

As a time capsule of late-1990s hockey anxieties, The Death of Hockey is remarkably vivid. But the question is unavoidable: did its predictions come true? 

The answer is both yes and no. Klein and Reif were correct about several trends. The league’s rapid expansion created short-term instability, and the Sunbelt market experiment was uneven for years, with teams like Atlanta, Florida, and Carolina struggling at various points. Concerns about fighting and safety became even more urgent in the decades that followed, culminating in sweeping rule changes aimed at reducing head trauma — a validation of the authors’ argument that violence had overshadowed skill. Their warnings about commercialization also resonate strongly today, as the NHL increasingly depends on digital ads, outdoor spectacles, gambling partnerships, and corporate integration.

Yet in other ways, their pessimism underestimated the sport’s resilience. Far from dying, hockey has enjoyed periods of significant growth since the book’s publication. The league’s southern markets slowly stabilized, and teams such as Tampa Bay, Nashville, Carolina, Florida and Vegas emerged as thriving hockey communities with strong fan bases. Rule changes following the 2004–05 lockout ushered in a renaissance of speed and offensive creativity — the very style of hockey the authors feared was being extinguished. Talent development is deeper than ever, the women’s game has grown exponentially, and the NHL has seen record revenue in the 21st century. 

While the league still wrestles with many of the issues Klein and Reif highlighted, the existential crisis they predicted never fully materialized. And in many regards, the league has never been better.

Ultimately, The Death of Hockey remains a compelling and thought-provoking read, especially for fans interested in the evolution of the sport. Its critiques are often sharp and still relevant, but its apocalyptic framing has not entirely stood the test of time. Hockey didn’t die — it changed, sometimes painfully, sometimes for the better. Klein and Reif captured a moment when the game felt endangered, and even if history has been more nuanced than their thesis suggested, the book endures as an important voice in the conversation about what hockey was, what it became, and what it ought to be.

The Don Cherry Story by his daughter Cindy Cherry

In The Don Cherry Story, Cindy Cherry offers a warm, intimate, and often disarmingly candid portrait of her father, the famously polarizing hockey commentator Don Cherry. Rather than attempting a traditional biography, Cindy constructs the book as a deeply personal memoir—one shaped as much by her own experiences growing up in the Cherry household as by Don’s public triumphs and controversies. The result is a narrative that feels refreshingly unfiltered, emotional, and unmistakably authentic.

The book shines brightest when Cindy writes about the man behind the loud suits and louder opinions. She paints Don as a fiercely loyal, deeply caring family figure who was shaped by hardship, unwavering work ethic, and an immense love for the game of hockey. She recounts the difficult years in minor-league coaching, the challenges Don and her mother faced, and the unexpected ascent to national fame through Hockey Night in Canada. These personal stories give the reader a richer, more human version of Don than what Canadians saw on television.

Cindy is equally compelling when tackling the more complicated chapters of her father’s life, including the fallout from his public controversies. She approaches these moments with unapologetic loyalty but also surprising nuance, describing not just Don’s reactions but the toll they took on their family. Her perspective adds emotional dimension to events that were often flattened or sensationalized in the public eye.

While the memoir’s focus sometimes drifts toward Cindy herself, these sections never feel unnecessary; instead, they deepen the book’s central theme—how Don’s life and legacy were inseparable from the people who loved him most. Her storytelling is conversational, heartfelt, and infused with the humour and stubbornness that have long defined the Cherry family.

Ultimately, The Don Cherry Story succeeds as both a personal tribute and a thoughtful exploration of an iconic, complicated Canadian figure. Fans of Don Cherry will find much to appreciate, but even readers unfamiliar with his career will be moved by this honest and affectionate family portrait.

Certified Beauties by James Duthie

I still remember when the affable James Duthie released his first book. The Day I Almost Killed Two Gretzkys was a joy to read, full of fun stories. He subsequently came out with The Guy On The Left, referring to his famous role as TSN studio host, and Beauties. His newest book, Certified Beauties, is a continuation of the previous title.

The series is a fun and sometimes heartfelt celebration of hockey as more than just a sport.  In this collection, the TSN broadcaster curates a rich tapestry of stories that range from hilarious pranks to deeply emotional moments, pulling back the curtain on what players, coaches, and hockey lifers really talk about when the cameras are off.

This particular book features a bit too much locker-room bravado for my liking. But that is just me. I tend to not want to know what hockey heroes are like off the ice. I just care that these guys are great hockey players, and really good people. After hour pranks - such as the time Darcy Hordichuk captured an alligator and left it on Roberto Luongo's door step - aren't for me. But they do make for funny reading for the fan who does like that type of hijinks.

I really enjoyed the much more touching, human stories. Such as the memorable tale about Sarah Nurse rising to stardom amid the chaos of the COVID-19 pandemic. Or the lifelong friendship between Darryl Sittler and Börje Salming, including Salming’s final pilgrimage to Toronto. These moments reveal the humanity behind the helmets.

Duthie’s own voice feels warm and authentic, whether he’s narrating in the book or in the audiobook version. With a foreword by Sidney Crosby, who invites readers to “have a seat on the bench,” the book feels less like a journalist’s compilation and more like a fireside chat among friends.

But the book reads like short anecdotes rather than deeply developed narratives. Maybe that is the book's charm. This isn’t a memoir or a deep investigative piece, it’s a mosaic of voices and moments, designed to be picked up and read in pieces rather than plowed through in one sitting.

O Canada: War and Hockey

I live in a small northern town and magazines and books are not easily found outside of our small Walmart. So whenever I travel to the city (Vancouver or Victoria usually) a stop at Chapters or Indigo (and the many great independent and used bookstores on Vancouver Island) is always a must. Being able to see and physically handle all the new hockey books is a pure treat. Nothing will get you appreciating the ability to flip through a book in a bookstore than living in the far north.

On my most recent trip I stumbled upon a very interesting periodical at YVR airport that I had no idea even existed. Though I initially thought the layout and presentation was not as appealing as I would have liked, I decided to spend fifteen bucks and read it on the youninety minute flight home. 

Fifteen bucks for a magazine that you flip through once and forget about is a lot. But let me tell you I was completely wowed by the captivating writing throughout the publication.

The magazine is O Canada: War and Hockey. Published in 2025 and fortunately not removed from this particular YVR shelf after Remembrance Day, the magazine is one of many specialty magazines from Legion magazine - Canada's Military History Magazine.

I never thought I'd ever have purchased anything about military history, as I have no real interest in the topic. But of course when you tie hockey into the equation and I'm sold. 

And why should you part with fifteen bucks for this magazine like I did? Because the text is so well written and so educational that you will not regret it. Every page I found myself saying to myself "I didn't know that" and "I gotta look into that more." I am far from an expert on these eras of hockey, but it is hard for me continually find myself learning so much in such a short time.

None of the articles had a byline to credit any writers, but I knew I had to find out who was behind this.

And then I found it, on like the second page. I always read magazines backwards, hence why it took me so long. Anyways, it seems that Stephen Smith of Puckstruck fame was quietly commissioned to write the entire magazine. "Of course!" I told myself. His research and writing ability have him at the very top of my favorite writers list. 

Go out to your local newsstand and get yourself a copy of this magazine before they pull it off the shelves. Though I suspect it will be every year going forward near Remembrance Day. You can also order copies at LegionMagazine.com. 

The Class by Ken Dryden

First and foremost, it should be said that this is not a hockey book. It is a book written by one of hockey's most interesting people and best writers.

Ken Dryden has always been more than the sum of his résumés. Goaltending icon, Member of Parliament, cabinet minister, lawyer, thinker, and bestselling author — his books have long revealed his gift for stepping back from life and seeing the larger patterns beneath it. In The Class: A Memoir of a Place, a Time, and Us, Dryden turns that lens inward, but the result is far broader than a personal memoir. This is a thoughtful, often moving examination of how ordinary lives unfold within the currents of social change, and how the people we grow up beside quietly shape us.

The “class” of the title is Grade 9G at Etobicoke Collegiate Institute, the so-called “Selected Class” of 1960, a group of 35 students chosen for an advanced academic stream. Dryden reconnects with many of them more than sixty years later. He calls them, visits them, listens. The book emerges from these conversations — stories of theatre directors, engineers, teachers, homemakers, entrepreneurs, and people who lived quieter, more private lives. There are successes, frustrations, reinventions, and the everyday resilience that rarely makes headlines but forms the real fabric of a generation.

What elevates The Class is Dryden’s refusal to make himself the center. Though he is the most famous of the group, he positions himself simply as one of the 35, and often as the one who drifted away most completely. His curiosity about his classmates feels genuine, even urgent. The book becomes an inquiry into the forces that shape us: families trying to find their footing in postwar Canada, teachers who saw potential where the students themselves didn’t, suburban expectations, widening horizons, and the era’s quiet but sweeping cultural shifts.

Dryden writes with the same clarity and gentle intelligence familiar from The Game. The narrative moves between personal portrait and social history, showing how the classmates’ lives reflected broader national changes — the expansion of higher education, the rise of the middle class, and the evolving roles of women in work and family. He captures the poignancy of paths diverging: how people who once sat at adjacent desks can grow into entirely different worlds, yet share a common foundation that matters more with age.

Ultimately, The Class is a book about time — the time we had, the time we lost, and the time that remains. It’s a generous, humane work, and one of Dryden’s most quietly powerful. For readers who enjoy memoir, social history, or simply the remarkable stories of ordinary people, it is a deeply rewarding read.