St Louis Blues Codexery

David Backes

Eleven seasons, one jaw, a thousand hits, and a city that still says his name like a prayer.

David Backes

David Backes is the name every Blues fan utters when they talk about what it meant to wear that blue-and-yellow sweater in the 2000s and early 2010s. Drafted seventh overall in 2001, he became the face, the voice, and the spine of a franchise that was still finding its identity after the expansion era. As captain and two-way center, he embodied the grit, accountability, and unglamorous work ethic that made the Blues a team other clubs respected on the ice and feared in the corners.

This entry on the Unofficial Blues History site is a fan-written tribute to Backes' eleven seasons in St. Louis, his leadership during a rebuilding era, and the moments that turned him into a symbol of the club's soul. It is not an official Blues publication, but a labor of love from one fan to the next.

Role
Captain / Two-way Center
Affiliation
St. Louis Blues (2002–2013)
Draft
2001 NHL Entry Draft, 7th overall
Jersey Number
17
Playing Style
Physical, two-way, leadership-driven
Status
Retired

Lore & Background

Backes arrived in St. Louis in 2002 as a young, raw forward with a reputation for toughness and an even stronger work ethic. In a league that was slowly shifting toward speed and skill, he was the reminder that the Blues were built on something older: the willingness to go to the boards, to take the hit, to make the play that no one else wanted to make. He was never the flashiest scorer, but he was always the guy you wanted in the third period when the game was tied and the crowd was on its feet.

His captaincy defined an era. During the Blues' long stretch of near-misses and rebuilding, Backes was the constant. He led by example in a league where leadership was often a title on a sweater; for him, it was a daily practice. The 2011 broken-jaw incident became a story told in every bar from the Gateway Arch to the Suburban: a captain who could have sat out, who had every reason to protect himself, and instead came back because the team needed him. That single act of stubbornness became shorthand for what the Blues stood for at the time.

When he was eventually traded to Boston in 2013, there was a quiet grief in the fanbase that went beyond statistics. It was the feeling of losing a voice, a standard, a person who had made the impossible season feel like it had meaning. For a generation of Blues fans, '17' on the back of a jersey wasn't just a number; it was a promise that someone still cared enough to bleed for the badge.

In Their Own Story

The building hummed. Not the electric, roaring hum of a playoff run—this was the low, persistent vibration of a Tuesday night in February, the kind where the crowd is thin but the ones who showed up are the ones who matter. Backes skated out with the rest, stick dragging, jaw set. He'd been hit hard the night before, and you could see it in the way he carried his shoulder, a slight hitch that the cameras would pick up later but that the fans in 200-level seats already knew about. He lined up in the corner, back to the net, and waited. The puck came in. He didn't turn. He didn't flinch. He just… was there. And when the play ended, he was the first one to tap the ice, the first one to nod at the guy who'd just checked him, the first one to skate back up the wing as if the hit had never happened. That was Backes. That was always Backes. And the 200-level stood up a little straighter, because that was the whole point of being there.

Reader's Guide

The image you need is simple: number 17, blue and yellow, center ice, stick planted, looking up the rink like he's already made the play in his head. That's the Backes you remember. Not the highlight reel. The Tuesday night. The 4-on-5 penalty kill where he's the one in the corner, the one who doesn't blink.

He came to St. Louis in 2002, a kid with a reputation for toughness and a work ethic that made veteran guys nod. Over eleven seasons, he became the captain, the standard, the guy the coach pointed to when he said 'that's how we do it.' He wasn't the top scorer. He wasn't the flashiest. He was the spine.

The 2011 jaw thing broke something open in the fanbase. A captain, broken jaw, back on the ice in weeks. You didn't need a speech. You didn't need a press conference. You just needed to see him skate out and go to work. That was the whole statement.

When he left for Boston in 2013, the silence in the building was louder than any ovation. You don't lose a captain like that and move on clean. You carry it. You carry it in the way you watch the next center, the way you flinch at a hit in the corner. You carry it because 17 wasn't a number. It was a standard. And standards don't expire. They just wait for the next guy to be worthy of wearing them.

Did You Know?

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