Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul Page 4

  Mark Leiren-Young

  Vancouver, British Columbia

  The Goal of the Century

  “Avant tout je suis Canadien.”—“Before all I am a Canadian.”

  Sir Georges-Etienne Cartier

  A Québec Father of Confederation

  Time was running out! It was September 28, 1972. The place—Luzhniki Arena, Moscow. It was the eighth and final game between the Russian National Team and Canada’s best NHL players. The score was tied with less than one minute remaining—and no overtime allowed! With the series tied three games apiece, a tie was no good—we needed a goal and a win!

  I had always dreamed of playing in the NHL. Spurred on by my father, a rabid hockey fan, we never missed our weekly ritual of “Hockey Night in Canada” on the radio, with Foster Hewitt doing the play-by-play. Woe betide anyone in our home who talked when Foster Hewitt spoke.

  According to my dad, when I first donned skates at the age of eight I was a natural. One day in grade five, with my eyes firmly fixed on the NHL, I landed in the principal’s office for practising my autograph in class.

  “Don’t worry about my schoolwork,” I told him confidently, “It won’t matter. I’m going to play in the NHL!” He laughed, pointing out that the six-team league used only 108 players and I didn’t have much of a chance. But his words only strengthened my resolve.

  Growing up in rural Ontario meant old, secondhand hockey equipment. Even so, my speed and strength developed, and I frequently scored goals. After a local play-off game I earned a write-up in the London Free Press that attracted NHL scouts, and in 1959 I ended up in Hamilton with the Detroit Red Wings Junior A farm team. By 1962, I had married Eleanor, my childhood sweetheart, and won the Memorial Cup and an invitation to try out with the Detroit Red Wings. It was a banner year, but also a crossroads decision for me at the young age of nineteen.

  In those days, the NHL “owned” their players. There was no free agency and only a very modest “take-it-or-leave-it” pay. With serious concerns about the uncertainty of professional hockey, despite my dreams I began leaning towards education and a “normal” career. Once again, my Dad spurred me on: “Paul, if you don’t give this a try, for the rest of your life every time you watch, hear or read about the NHL, you’ll ask yourself, ‘I wonder if I could have made it?’ It will drive you crazy.”

  That did it! I would give hockey two years, and if I hadn’t made it by then, I’d hang up the blades, go back to school and get on with life.

  I made the Red Wings that year, and I played with them until 1968, when I was traded to the Toronto Maple Leafs. Sadly, Dad died that same year, seven years after suffering a stroke.

  In 1972, the thrill of a lifetime came when an eight-game series was announced between the Russian National Hockey Team and a Canadian team of hand-picked NHL stars. Over the years, the Russians had become a hockey powerhouse and regularly beat our best amateur teams at the Olympics. The years of Canadian hockey domination were gone.

  The plan, in 1972, was to change all that, put the upstart Russians in their place and show the world hockey was still our national sport.

  The whole nation was excited. The first four games would be in Montreal, Toronto, Winnipeg and Vancouver. The remaining four would be in Moscow. The Cold War, today a distant memory, was at its height. This was not just a series between two hockey teams. This was war between their way of life and ours.

  Back then, NHL teams carried only twenty players, and there seemed little chance I would be included. But with an expanded roster of thirty-five for this series, I was invited to try out by coach Harry Sinden. Put on a line with Ron Ellis and a brash young kid named Bobby Clark, we had our work cut out for us. But with dogged determination and hard work we made the team!

  Overly confident, Team Canada entered the first game of the series in Montreal. To our shock we discovered the Russians to be a superbly disciplined and talented hockey team. After a 7–3, blowout loss, we came crashing to earth. Far from the runaway cakewalk we’d expected, this would be a long, tough series.

  With another loss in Vancouver, the country was shocked, the press hostile—and the Vancouver fans actually booed us as we left the ice. We were down two games to one, with one tie and four games left to play in Moscow.

  With the sweat pouring off his face, our captain, Phil Esposito, voiced the frustration we all felt in an on-ice, postgame interview:

  “Listen!” he cried. “We’re doing the best we can! We need your support!”

  That message was a wake-up call to which the whole nation responded. Three thousand Canadian fans followed us to Moscow for the final four games, and thousands of others sent telegrams. Now we knew the whole country was behind us, urging us on. In fact, the Canadian fans in Moscow were outnumbered five to one by the Russians, but managed to totally out-cheer them! Even when we narrowly lost a bitterly fought fifth game by one goal, the Canadian fans all rose to their feet at the end and cheered us off the ice. When we returned to the hotel later, there were a thousand Canadian fans there waiting to cheer us on some more.

  We needed to win all three remaining games in a hostile land, with the European referees calling a different game than those at home. We knew Canada was behind us, we’d played five games and started to gel as a team, but mostly we simply refused to entertain the thought we could lose.

  That was the turning point. We won the sixth and seventh games, and I had the good fortune to score the winning goal in each. In the eighth and final game, however, the Russians led 5–3 after two periods. We needed three goals against a tireless Russian team that always seemed as fresh and strong at the end as at the opening face-off.

  On the first shift Esposito scored; halfway through the period, Yvan Cournoyer tied it up 5–5. When we got to the final minute of the game, I was sitting on the bench— and the tension became unbearable. Finally, with the seconds ticking by, I did something I’ve never done before or since. I stood and yelled at Pete Mahovlich: “Pete! Pete!” He came off the ice, and I leaped over the boards, streaking toward the Russian net. Any hockey fan will tell you that the coach is the only one to make player changes— and looking back it’s hard to explain—but in some strange way I felt I could score the winning goal.

  Closing in on goal, I reached to catch Cournoyer’s pass and the Russian defenseman tripped me, sending me heavily into the boards. Get up, I thought. Get back in the game. The Russians failed to clear the puck. Esposito took a whack at it right on goal, Tretiak gave up the rebound and the puck came to me. On the second shot I took, I scored—stopping the clock at thirty-four seconds left— the winning goal! With the final play-by-play of that last dramatic minute, here’s Foster Hewitt:

  “Here’s a shot! Henderson made a wild stab. Here’s another shot right by and scores! Henderson has scored for Canada! Henderson’s right in front of the net and the fans and the team are going wild!”

  Between the red light and the ensuing bedlam, I distinctly remember thinking my dad sure would have loved to have seen this one. Then the roof seemed to come off Luzhniki Arena. I jumped into Cournoyer’s arms, my teammates swarmed around me, and the three thousand delirious Canadian fans went crazy in the stands. The impossible had happened—we’d won the series!

  When we landed in Montreal, Dorval Airport was a madhouse, and Prime Minister Trudeau was there to personally greet us!

  On October 1, a reception was held at Nathan Philips Square in Toronto. The rain poured down relentlessly, but the 80,000 Canadian fans seemed oblivious. Their eyes were full of such happiness and excitement, and I could feel the waves of emotion pouring over me. Tony Esposito and Alan Eagleson lifted me onto their shoulders and introduced me to the crowd.

  I waved and thought, Don’t these people realize it’s pouring out there? Then together, triumphant and proud, all 80,000 of us sang “O Canada!”

  It’s a moment in Canadian history I will never forget. The moment the final goal was scored is forever etched in the mind of every Canadian wh
o watched that last game in Moscow.

  Recently, of all the Canadian teams that ever played a game of any sport, we were voted “Team of the Century” by the Canadian press. And that momentous final goal was voted the “Sports Moment of the Century.”

  In the more than twenty-eight years since then, I’ve crisscrossed this country often, speaking in large cities and rural hamlets. To this day, people still come up to me, shake my hand and tell me about that moment in their lives when Paul Henderson scored the winning goal for Canada, the one that beat the Russians.

  What a thrill!

  Paul Henderson

  Mississauga, Ontario

  To Russia with Love

  Canadians are very proud of their country. I know I am. . . . One thing we have is the game of hockey. That’s ours. And I always try to remember that.

  Wayne Gretzky

  As Canadians entered the new millennium, many discussions pointed to the 1972 Canada–Russia series as being a defining moment in our recent history. For those who love the game of hockey and believe it to be a key component of our cultural identity, that historic series represents our nation’s finest hour. Over the past thirty years, there have been several reunions to celebrate the accomplishments of Team Canada ’72. On each of these occasions the team and everyone else involved have been reminded just how much that series means to all Canadians.

  In December 1999, at the precise time when Canadians were reflecting on the highlights of the passing century, members of Team Canada received an invitation from their Russian counterparts to compete in a reunion series hosted by Team Russia. And they agreed!

  Returning to Russia from the 1972 team would be Yvan Cournoyer, Brad Park, Marcel Dionne, Gilbert Perreault and my father, Frank Mahovlich. Joining this group were other Hall of Famers who played on later editions of Canada’s best, such as Bobby Hull, Guy Lafleur and Steve Shutt. The Canadian side was also instructed to bring three sons of players who could play for their team—and Team Russia would do the same.

  Over the course of my life, I have frequently been asked what it is like to be the son of a well-known Canadian hockey player. Ordinarily, aside from having to answer just that question, I believe my life has differed little from the lives of my peers. However, the day I received the invitation to play for Team Canada in a Summit Series Reunion was a definite exception. Like Guy Lafleur’s son Martin and Gilbert Perreault’s son Marc, I was absolutely thrilled and jumped at the chance! From this wonderful experience I offer a couple of reflections from a time when I was keenly aware of my surroundings and enormously proud to be Canadian.

  During the eight days we spent in Russia, we were scheduled to play four hockey games. But in addition to that, our Russian hosts made sure we had a full itinerary of functions that exposed us to a diverse sampling of Russian history and culture. Whether we were walking through the Pushkin Museum or one of Moscow’s cemeteries that honours their heroes, it was apparent how proud the Russians were to be sharing their history and their lives with us. Amazingly, they were doing so with a group of people who had once been their bitter rivals.

  What made this all so relevant from the Canadian perspective is that two vastly different cultures were celebrating a friendship that was born from a game—Canada’s game. Although many of the players from both sides had lost more than a stride or two, in each of the four matches the crowd showed their appreciation for both teams with applause for every play. And while Russia in December is a cold place to be, the people were warm and generous. We all found ourselves grateful to be on the receiving end of such kindness.

  The actual series became surprisingly competitive as it progressed. Game One in Elektrostal was an 11–6 blowout in our favour. This inspired the Russians to come out flying with a revised lineup for Game Two in a town called Voskresensk. At the end of the third period the score was tied 3–3. With the best players we could throw on the ice, Marcel Dionne and Guy Lafleur were all over the Russian goal. Then, in the dying seconds, the puck came to my dad. Every player on our bench was on his feet screaming, trying to will the puck into the net. The tension was unbearable. I must have jumped five feet in the air when Dad let go of a wrist shot and scored the winning goal!

  We had quite the celebration that night; both sides relished the fact that it was a hard fought, close game.

  For Game Three the two teams travelled overnight in a charming, old-fashioned train to St. Petersburg. At the conclusion of what we thought would remain a 3–3 tie, securing a series victory for Team Canada, one of the Russian veterans, Vladimir Petrov, skated to our bench. With a friendly smile he suggested, “Why don’t we have a shoot-out, but just for fun?” Put on the spot, yet happy to oblige the fans and our gracious hosts, our coaches Bobby Hull and Yvan Cournoyer complied with the request and selected our shooters. To the frenzied delight of the boisterous crowd, the home team scored twice to our nil. The cheering fans poured over the boards to hug and congratulate their team.

  In the following day’s newspaper the sports page headline read, “Russia Beats Canada in Summit Series Rematch.” At breakfast, several jokes flew around about how our coaching staff was duped into letting the Russians back into the series. With a Game Four victory, Russia could conceivably declare the series a draw! While it was nice to witness the joy of the Russian people in St. Petersburg, losing the fourth and final game in Moscow was unthinkable.

  That’s when I got to see what put these guys at the top of their profession so many years before. The get-down-to-business attitude of Team Canada heading into that final game was a real eye-opener. After spending what had been an emotional week in Russia with their old friends, the Canadians put all pleasantries aside. Neither age nor retirement had diminished the competitive fire of these men. Very little conversation went around the room, save for a few to-the-point words of encouragement.

  Indeed, each and every player brought his A game to the rink. When the third-period buzzer sounded in Moscow’s historic Luzhniki Ice Palace, this time there was no need for a shoot-out. Team Canada had skated to a decisive 5–2 victory over Team Russia. Throughout the series I played on a line with the other two Canadian sons, Martin Lafleur and Marc Perreault. Never wanting to let the team down, our line contributed two of the five goals in the final game. We were all proud to earn our keep—and the other players let us know that we had. That was an amazing feeling! And although it’s not exactly Paul Henderson’s story, it was a bright day in Moscow that I’ll never forget!

  Canada and hockey, we love them both—and we always will.

  Ted Mahovlich

  Toronto, Ontario

  Waiting in Line

  God bless you all. This is your victory! It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land.

  Winston S. Churchill

  As I approached the Peace Tower at the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa, I saw it: a line of orderly, polite, patient Canadians—waiting. Without a word, I joined the line and many more followed me. The young man in front of me carried a backpack large enough to carry four weeks’ worth of food and clothes. He looked like a student, and I imagined he had come a long way to stand in this line. An old soldier, wearing a uniform covered in medals, bypassed the long line. With the assistance of a family member, he went straight to the front without incident. As he passed I could only smile at him.

  The woman behind me, who had just arrived from work, approached the RCMP officer on duty. She returned to tell the rest of us, “It will be about twenty minutes. I suppose I can wait twenty minutes for him,” she said with a smile. “He did give his life for us.” Several of us murmured in agreement.

  The Ottawa papers had been full of the story. A Canadian soldier—who had left Canada on a World War I troop ship—had died in France in 1917, and his name had been lost forever. Four years ago the Royal Canadian Legion embarked on a mission to bring him home, and a few days ago, his remains had been exhumed and then carried to the Vimy War Memorial in France by a French honour guard. In the emotio
nal ceremony that followed he was turned over to a Canadian honour guard. Then this soldier with no name was flown home to Canada in a maple casket covered in a Canadian flag.

  The next day his remains were to be laid to rest at the Canadian War Memorial. But today he lay in state in his flag-draped casket on Parliament Hill, to be honoured by all Canadians as a hero. The 27,500 Canadian mothers who lost their sons to war during the twentieth century, and never knew where their bodies lay, would now have a place to come.

  As we waited in line, the flag on Parliament Hill flew at haft-mast and the Peace Tower bells tolled the quarter hour—a dirge for Canada’s war dead that sent chills up and down my spine.

  I was so proud to be a Canadian that day as I paid my respects. The number of people there astonished me. For me it was a very personal pilgrimage, but it was personal for thousands of others as well. As I stood in line I wondered, Could this passionate display of quiet respect happen anywhere else?

  When I reached the doors of the building, I climbed the steps. The last time I had climbed those steps I was a wide-eyed child taking my first tour of the Parliament Buildings. But all tours were cancelled on this special day. Instead, I was greeted by a very young cadet who gave me a pamphlet that told the story of the Unknown Soldier and his long journey back home. As we entered the Hall of Honour and drew close, suddenly all conversation in the line stopped. We stood in silent awe and reverence.

  Six soldiers in full-dress uniform from all the divisions of the Canadian military protected his remains. Keeping a twenty-four-hour-a-day vigil, these soldiers—men and women, young and old—stood surrounding the coffin with heads bowed in respect for their fallen comrade. Clergy members from all religions, including the First Nations communities, participated in the vigil. Flowers and wreaths from Prime Minister Chrétien and Governor General Adrienne Clarkson, along with many others, cascaded over the casket. Other visitors had left poppies behind. The image was overwhelming.