If Dennis Polonich wasn’t a hockey player, he’d be one of the henchmen in a gangster film noir. And he’d be the short guy with a toothpick in his mouth, wearing a Fedora, playing with a coin and standing outside a storefront.
Polo, as they called him when he played for the Red Wings in the 1970s, would have been one of the muscle sent in to “work over” or “give the business” to a hapless store owner who balked at the offer of protection.
It wouldn’t have mattered if the mark Polo was sent to beat up was half a foot taller than he. He’d be just as pugnacious as ever.
Polonich wore No. 8 when he played for the Red Wings, and that was about how many inches above five feet he stood, even on skates. Most of his fighting opponents missed when they swung at Polo because they kept swinging over him.
There wasn’t a player in the NHL whom Polonich wouldn’t take on. He was the Red Wings’ designated pugilist, their fearless thug.
You didn’t even need to follow the team to know that Polo was the scrapper; all you needed to do was look at his face. He had a no ...
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Article written by Greg Eno
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