It would seem his days as the battering ram who hulks and sulks, the ox who plods down the ice and plows into back-checkers, that icebreaker barge who can split a skull but never splits the D, are over. Or at least expanded in their scope a bit.
Milan Lucic logs minutes every night because of his size. Folks expect him to forecheck, hit, bellow, battle, and scrap at a moment’s notice. No clause in his contract compels him to stain the twine black with goals, notch an assist every night. Lucic has built himself a lifelong brand around crowding the crease and crashing into corners, not cramming the scoresheet.