Chicago Blackhawks vs St. Louis Blues

Lore & Background

The rivalry's roots are geographic and cultural as much as competitive. Chicago and St. Louis are neighbors in the truest sense—both river cities, both industrial, both steeped in a working-class identity that bleeds into how their teams play. The Blackhawks, the older franchise, carried the swagger of a dynasty through the 1930s and 1960s. The Blues arrived in the league in 1967 as the expansion underdogs, and their identity was forged in the belief that they could punch above their weight. That underdog ethos crystallized in the 1994 playoffs, when a Blues team led by Al MacInnis, Adam Oates, and a young Brett Hull overcame a first-round deficit against the Minnesota North Stars and then dismantled the New Jersey Devils in the Cup Final. For Chicago fans, that Cup still sits in the back of the mind like a splinter.

The rivalry's modern chapter began in the 2010s, when both clubs rebuilt into physical, structured contenders. The 2013 and 2015 playoffs delivered five-game second-round series that were as much about body checks and penalty kills as they were about goaltending. The 2018 and 2019 postseason meetings continued the pattern: tight, physical, and emotionally loaded. What distinguishes this rivalry from, say, a cross-conference scheduling oddity is the shared identity. Both teams recruit and develop players who thrive in the dirty, grinding end of the game, and both fanbases speak the same dialect of hockey—fewer pyrotechnics, more respect for a well-taken hit and a clean forecheck.

There is a mutual respect that undergirds the animosity. Blackhawks fans will acknowledge the Blues' '94 run with a grudging nod. Blues fans will admit the Blackhawks' 2010s dynasty was built the right way. But on the ice, that respect evaporates. The series are won in the corners, in the face-off circles, in the 40-second stretches where both teams are simply trying to make the other one quit. It is, in the words of more than one player, the series where you play for your city, not just your jersey.

In Their Own Story

The arena smells like cold air and old beer. It's Game Five, second round, and the ice has been chewed to a pale, pocked surface where the puck bounces true only if you want it to. A Blues forward, helmet scarred, lines up for a face-off in the Chicago end. Across from him, a Blackhawks center squares his shoulders, skates digging into the blue paint. The drop. The puck goes to the boards. Neither man chases it. They're already shouldering into each other, foreheads nearly touching, breath fogging in the cold. The ref is three feet away and not coming closer. Around them, the crowd is a single low roar, the kind that vibrates in your sternum. A line change. The next two men to cross the blue line are already skating hard, sticks up, looking for a body to put into the glass. The scoreboard reads 2-1. There are four minutes left. Nobody in this building believes the game is over. Nobody in this building expects it to end cleanly.

Reader's Guide

It's geography first. Chicago and St. Louis are neighbors—river cities, industrial towns, separated by a couple hours of highway. You feel the other one in your market, your media, your bar TV. Before 2013 they were just a same-conference scheduling headache, but the realignment put them in the Central Division and suddenly it was eight games a year, back-to-backs, road trips where the fanbases are thick enough to make the bus ride feel like a siege. And both teams play the same way. That's the thing. You don't get a speed mismatch, you don't get a style clash. You get two groups of guys who want to play in the corners, who want to win the draw, who want to put you in the boards and make you remember why you signed that contract. It's a grudge, but a respectful one. You respect the other team. You also want to break them.

The 1994 Blues Cup is the wound Chicago can't quite close. A young expansion team, a MacInnis-Oates-Hull core, and they just... did it. Took the Cup. And for a Blackhawks fanbase that had been waiting decades, it stung in a way that a regular-season loss never could.

Then the 2010s. Blackhawks win three Cups in four years. Blues keep showing up in the playoffs, keep making it physical, keep making it ugly and beautiful. '13, '15, '18, '19—series that felt less like hockey and more like a neighborhood argument that got out of hand. A fan at a bar in St. Louis will tell you: "We don't hate 'em. We just don't trust 'em. And when they're on the ice, we want to see 'em bleed a little. That's not malice. That's just... Tuesday."

Did You Know?

• Bobby Hull, one of the greatest scorers in NHL history, played for the Blackhawks from 1959 to 1979 before joining the Blues in 1979, making him one of the few players to represent both sides of this rivalry.
• The Blues' 1994 Stanley Cup victory was the franchise's first and, to date, only championship, coming just 27 years after the team entered the league in the 1967 expansion.
• The Blackhawks' three Stanley Cups in the 2010s (2010, 2013, 2015) were won over a span of five seasons, a dynasty-era run that made every meeting with the Blues in that window carry extra weight.
• The rivalry intensified significantly after the 2013–14 NHL realignment placed both teams in the Central Division, turning what had been a sporadic conference matchup into a regular-season fixture played multiple times e