Professional hockey has no award honoring raw bone-crunching ferocity, but one may have to be invented for Dave Schultz. His punches and subsequent penalties have earned him the adoration of Philadelphia Flyers fans, and the nickname "Hammer." The referees, clearly, know him as Mr. Misdemeanor: in seven years of big-time hockey, Schultz has spent more than 30 hours in rinkside clinks. This year he seems certain to shatter the National Hockey League single-season record of 291 minutes.

His brazen attack has unquestionably helped the Flyers—once a mediocre expansion team—fight their way to the top of the Western Division. "I don't go out there just to fight," says Schultz, a forward, "but when you check rough, they may give a little more room to shoot, or they may not crowd you in the corners. It helps." This season that little extra room has already helped Schultz score 18 goals—double his last year's total.

To the 17,000 fans packing Philadelphia's Spectrum arena for every home game, "Hammer" is a main event on skates. His presence on the ice acts like adrenalin on the mood of the crowd. But while fans may expect more rough-necking from No. 8, Schultz's teammates have done their bloody best to keep him from monopolizing the violence. After five uneventful NHL seasons, the Flyers' gentlemanly team style was discarded last year, and the change led to a new league record in penalties—and to the season's playoffs.

At his locker room stall after a recent two-brawl Flyers victory, Schultz articulated the team's esprit de gore: "I'm never afraid to get into a fight here. It's easier knowing someone'll back you up. The guys are great—everyone takes somebody."

Brought up in Saskatchewan, 24-year-old Schultz had a "very religious" and comparatively peaceful youth. "I never fought," he recalls. "I always ran like crazy from street fights." Like many Canadians he learned to play hockey moderately well, but realized that to get to the NHL, he would have to make up in ferocity what he lacked in finesse. "I know why I was brought here," he admits. "I never would have made it without fighting. But I don't like the image."

Off the ice, the rugged 6'1", 195-pound left-winger—who has somehow managed to retain all of his teeth—reverts to more placid pursuits. He and his wife, Kathy, live in a Cherry Hill, N.J. split-level, where Schultz can sit for hours building model airplanes and boats, preferably delicate ones with hundreds of fussy little parts. "I did a jigsaw puzzle last summer," he remembers fondly. "It had 1,500 pieces, all flowers. Every one of them looked the same. It took days."

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