Craig Smith

Lore & Background

When the Nashville Predators skated onto the ice for their inaugural season, the franchise had no history, no retired numbers, no playoff trophies. What it did have was a group of players who understood that building a hockey culture in a new market meant winning the little battles first. Craig Smith was the embodiment of that philosophy. As a center who took faceoffs deep in the neutral zone, who dropped his shoulder on the penalty kill, and who made the kind of hits that reminded opponents Nashville was not a pushover, he gave the young team a spine.

In those early seasons, the Predators were often the underdog. Opposing teams would come into the Sommet Center (and later the new arena) expecting a scrappy expansion club. Smith's game made those expectations feel misplaced. His faceoff percentage was a quiet weapon; his willingness to play through contact and keep the puck in the corner made him a linemates' favorite. He was the player who, after a tough shift, would tap his helmet and point at the next man, saying 'again.' That repetition, that refusal to let a bad shift define the period, became part of the early Predators identity.

Fans in the lower bowl at the Predators' home arena learned to recognize the sound of a Smith hit before they saw the replay. The thud, the crowd's collective exhale, the way his linemates would immediately mob him to break up any retaliation—that was the Nashville sound in the late '90s and early 2000s. He never chased headlines, never led the league in scoring, but the players who shared a bench with him in those formative years consistently named him the guy who made the room better. In a franchise that would later produce stars and legends, Smith was the foundation they were built on.

In Their Own Story

The Sommet Center was half-empty in the second period, the kind of cold November night where the wind off the Cumberland made the glass fog. Smith had just taken a cross-check to the jaw on a faceoff in his own zone, blood spattering the blue line. He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, looked at his winger, and said two words: 'Get ready.' The next faceoff was his. He won it. The puck went to the defenseman, the rush came, and the arena—those few thousand who'd braved the cold—erupted. He never looked up. He was already skating back, already setting for the next one. That was Craig Smith. That was the first Predators.

Reader's Guide

Craig Smith wore #14 for the Nashville Predators during the franchise's formative years in the late 1990s and into the mid-2000s, anchoring the center position with a two-way game that defined the team's early identity.

His legend was not built on goal totals or highlight-reel speed. It was built on the hundredth faceoff of a period, the penalty-kill shift where he buried an opposing winger into the boards and kept the puck alive, the post-game moment where he'd pull a younger player aside and walk through the next shift step by step. In a young franchise still learning how to be an NHL team, Smith was the constant. He made the penalty kill look rehearsed. He made the defensive zone look like home turf.

The anecdote every early-era fan remembers: a playoff push night, Smith taking a blindside elbow that cracked his visor, getting up, and immediately demanding the next faceoff. The ref called a penalty on the other guy. Smith didn't celebrate. He just pointed at the dot, tapped his helmet, and said, 'Next one's mine.' The lower bowl roared like the building was on fire. That was the Predators in their rawest, proudest form, and Smith was the heartbeat.

Did You Know?

• Craig Smith's faceoff ability was so reliable that early Predators coaches built entire power-play and penalty-kill structures around his ability to win the draw deep in the zone.
• In the Predators' earliest seasons, Smith was frequently the player sent out to deliver the first hard hit of a game, a ritual that became a local fan expectation.
• Teammates from the late-'90s era have described Smith as the player who set the tone in the locker room after losses, often staying behind to run through the next shift while the rest of the team packed up.
• His jersey number #14 became a familiar sight in the lower bowl of the Predators' home arena, with fans learning to identify his shifts by the sound of his sticks and the thud of his hits before the broadcast cut to him.