On winter nights in Warburg, Alta., when the wind cut across open prairie fields and the stars hung sharp and bright above the town, hockey was not something you went to watch; it was something you lived. The rink sat outdoors, exposed to the elements, and before it had a roof, parents lined up along the snowbanks to follow the puck with their eyes, occasionally calling a halt to play when it vanished beneath fresh powder. Someone would shovel. Someone would laugh. And then the game would continue.

It was there, on that exposed slab of ice in a village of a few hundred people, that Lindy Ruff learned the game the way many western Canadians did, through repetition, resilience, and imagination. Goalie pads were couch cushions strapped on with rope. Gloves were borrowed baseball mitts. Pucks were frozen sponges, hard enough to sting and unpredictable enough to demand alertness. There was no glamour, no promise of fame. There was simply the game.

More than four decades later, Ruff’s name would sit among the most enduring in National Hockey League history, as a long-serving player, a Stanley Cup finalist, an Olympic gold medalist as a coach, and one of the winningest bench bosses the league has ever known. Yet the foundation of all of it, the toughness, the adaptability, the competitive fire, was poured on those winter nights in Warburg.

“Hockey was just what we did,” Ruff would later say. “If there was no coach, my dad coached.”

Prairie Roots

Ruff grew up in a household where sports were not just encouraged but expected. Winters belonged to hockey; summers to baseball. Long Alberta winters meant more ice time, more backyard games, more informal competitions that sharpened instincts and built durability. Ruff skated on streets, shovelled makeshift rinks, and battled his brothers daily, learning lessons that could not be taught by systems or drills.

At age 12, Warburg finally raised enough money through walk-a-thons to put a roof on the rink. It was a milestone for the town and for Ruff, who still remembers the moment vividly, not because the game changed, but because the community effort reinforced something he already understood: hockey was collective. It required sacrifice, patience, and shared purpose.

As Ruff grew, so did his frame. Tall and lanky, he gravitated naturally toward defence, where skating, reach, and an appetite for contact mattered. Western Canada Hockey League scouts began circling. In the fall of 1975, Ruff and his older brother Randy were invited to the Edmonton Oil Kings’ training camp. Both were released.

It was a disappointment—but not a derailment.

The brothers returned south to Drayton Valley, where they became part of a provincial Midget B championship team. The setback hardened Ruff’s resolve. He was not discouraged by rejection; he absorbed it. It was a trait that would surface again and again throughout his career.

Taber and the Hard Lessons of Junior Hockey

Opportunity came through an unlikely channel. Hank Shimbashi, a Warburg dentist whose brother Pat owned the Alberta Junior Hockey League’s Taber Golden Suns, saw something in Ruff. In the fall of 1976, Lindy and Randy headed south to Taber, boarding an old yellow school bus that carried not just players but ambition, uncertainty, and the weight of small-town expectations.

Life in junior hockey during the 1970s was not gentle. Travel was long. Facilities were modest. And intimidation was not merely tolerated—it was weaponized. Ruff lived with a billet family that had six children, finding warmth and structure away from home, but on the ice, there was no such comfort.

He learned quickly.

One night in Red Deer during his rookie season, a bench-clearing brawl erupted. Rick Wannamaker, a 20-year-old veteran defenceman with experience in Flin Flon, grabbed Ruff and pummeled him. Both of Ruff’s eyes were cut badly. When he approached his mother after the game, shaken and bruised, she urged him to come home. His father, standing behind her, shook his head.

“No.”

The message was clear: if you were going to play this game, you had to endure it.

Ruff responded the only way he knew how, by playing. In 1976–77, as a 16-year-old, he skated in 60 games for Taber, recording 46 points. He was no longer just surviving; he was excelling. His skating, puck movement, and willingness to engage physically began to attract attention from higher levels.

Among those watching were the Lethbridge Broncos.

First Taste of the Western League

Broncos coach Mike Sauter summoned Ruff for his first Western Canada Hockey League game against the New Westminster Bruins, one of the most feared teams in junior hockey. The Bruins were not only tough; they were elite, featuring future NHL standouts like Barry Beck, Stan Smyl, and Brad Maxwell. They wore black jerseys that made them look even bigger.

“I was scared,” Ruff admitted years later.

He skated faster than he ever had, trying to avoid being flattened. Yet amid the chaos, Ruff found a moment. He assisted on a goal, left an impression, and returned to Taber with clarity. If he wanted to survive, let alone thrive, at that level, he needed to be stronger, tougher, and more assertive.

He went to work.

Becoming a Bronco

By the fall of 1977, Ruff arrived at Broncos training camp ready. Howie Yanosik, the new head coach, saw a 17-year-old defenceman who belonged. Ruff felt it too.

“I felt like I could play with these guys.”

The 1977–78 Broncos were a formidable group, led by Steve Tambellini, Dean Solheim, Rod Guimont, and Darryl Sutter. They captured the Central Division title. Ruff, meanwhile, embraced a physical identity. Alongside the fearless John Scammell, he led the team in penalty minutes, finishing with 219 while adding 33 points.

He wanted contact. He wanted presence.

In the playoffs, despite the team’s disappointment, Ruff elevated his game, posting 10 points in eight games. NHL scouts noticed. He was no longer just a hard-nosed junior defenceman; he was a legitimate prospect.

Captaincy and Confidence

The 1978–79 season opened with three Ruff brothers at Broncos camp: Lindy, Randy, and 15-year-old Marty. During a scrimmage, Lindy collided with Marty, who immediately wanted to fight. Lindy declined.

“We’ve fought enough at home,” he said. “We don’t need to do it here.”

Patty Ginnell took over as head coach that season and saw in Ruff something more than skill and snarl. He saw leadership. Ginnell named Ruff captain, a remarkable honor for a player in just his second full season of junior hockey on a team loaded with offensive talent, including five 40-goal scorers.

Ruff was humbled.

Ginnell was intense, demanding, and unyielding. After losses, practices were brutal. One drill had players rounding the net at full speed, colliding head-on. Physicality was not optional; it was identity.

Ruff thrived.

“My skating and shot improved. I was stronger,” he said. “And I looked forward to getting even with the guys who beat me up the year before.”

Through the first 24 games, Ruff had 27 points and 108 penalty minutes, on pace for 81 points and 324 minutes. He was widely considered one of the top defencemen in the WHL.

Then everything stopped.

The Injury

On Dec. 3, 1978, in Calgary, Ruff raced for the puck on an icing call. Kelly Kisio tripped him accidentally. Ruff crashed into the boards, his femur snapping on impact.

He screamed, in pain unlike anything he had ever felt.

Doctors drilled a rod into his leg to stabilize the break. He spent 10 days in traction. With nurses on strike, the medical team debated whether to operate or leave him immobilized for two months. When surgery was approved, Ruff felt relief.

Broncos’ owner Dennis Kjeldgaard arranged for NHL scout Lou Jankowski to drive Ruff back to Lethbridge. Decades later, Ruff would coach Jankowski’s grandson Mark in New Jersey, recounting that drive as one of the quiet kindnesses that stayed with him.

The injury ended Ruff’s regular season and cast doubt over his NHL future. Scouts hesitated. Ruff did not think about the draft. He thought about the team.

An Accidental Coaching Debut

In January 1979, Ginnell was suspended for two games after throwing his hat at an official and charging onto the ice during a loss to Calgary. With no assistants on staff, he turned to his captain.

Ruff ran the bench on Feb. 3, 1979, against Regina, with Ginnell hiding behind the bench in disguise. Officials spotted him and ejected him from the building. Ruff was alone.

The Broncos won 3–2.

Asked what he planned to do for an encore, Ruff deadpanned: “Retire unbeaten, hopefully.”

It was his first coaching victory.

Fighting Back

Ruff pushed through rehabilitation, returning on crutches by late February. Doctors advised against a comeback. Ruff ignored them. In the playoffs, he dressed for six games, his leg weak, his ice time limited. In Game 7 against Calgary, he served a penalty, stepped out of the box, moved the puck quickly, and helped generate a tying goal.

It would be his only playoff point.

The Broncos advanced, but Ruff’s season ended painfully. The unwavering support of his billets softened the disappointment. Vern and Agnes Holland, who remained close to him and his family long after his junior days ended.

Draft Day Shock

Ruff’s agent did not expect him to be drafted. Ruff worked that summer with skating coach Laura Stamm in Penticton, determined to rebuild his strength.

On Aug. 9, 1979, his parents called.

Buffalo had selected him in the second round, 32nd overall.

“I didn’t even know where Buffalo was,” Ruff joked.

Days later, he walked into an NHL dressing room filled with giants. He felt out of place. Scotty Bowman said little. Jerry Korab fell ill. Ruff stayed.

On Oct. 11, 1979, he scored his first NHL goal, an empty-netter, despite a far more heroic retelling that he quickly debunked with laughter.

The Long Arc

Ruff played 12 NHL seasons, captained the Sabres, scored 20 goals in a season, and endured injuries born of reckless commitment. He lost his brother Brent in the Swift Current bus crash, a tragedy that reshaped his life.

Coaching followed unexpectedly. Florida. Buffalo. Dallas. New York. New Jersey and Buffalo once again. Olympic gold. More than 1,700 games coached. More than 860 wins.

Yet through it all, Ruff never forgot where it began.

Southern Alberta. Taber. Lethbridge.

“The friendships,” he said, “the feeling of family, that’s what I remember most.”

From snowbanks in Warburg to NHL benches across the continent, Lindy Ruff’s journey was never linear. It was forged through adversity, loyalty, and an unbreakable bond with the game, one built long before the rink ever had a roof.