Healed

The years between the ages of 8 and about 13 or 14 are a magical time for a boy. Those are the years that are sandwiched between giving up your toys but before you have discovered girls and beer. For most of us, professional sports filled the gap. We followed our local teams in the standings, memorized statistics, read books about legends and lore, and debated who should be MVP. Almost all of our waking hours outside school and outside actually playing sports revolved around our local teams.

In Chicago during the late 60’s and early 70’s, the Blackhawks were the top ticket in town. The Bears were terrible. The Bulls had not yet gotten off the ground. The White Sox were generally mediocre. And the Cubs broke our hearts with their spectacular and legendary collapse in 1969. But in 1969, the Blackhawks had acquired a future hall of fame goaltender, Tony Esposito, and a fiery redheaded defenseman, Keith Magnuson, along with his college teammate Cliff Koroll, to complement the power of Bobby Hull and finesse of Stan Mikita. Although they were swept by Bobby Orr and the Bruins in the 1970 playoffs, by the 1970-71 season, the Hawks had arrived, winning 49 games and swept the first round of the playoffs. In the second round, it took them a full 7 games to defeat the New York Rangers, and they faced the Montreal Canadiens in the finals, who finished in 3rd place and did not make the playoffs the previous season. The Habs were also starting an untested rookie goalie, Ken Dryden. The Hawks looked poised to win their first Stanley Cup since 1961.

The Hawks had home ice advantage and took a 2-0 lead in the series, only to squander it in Montreal to bring it back to Chicago tied 2-2. Chicago went up again with a 2-0 victory in Chicago, and had the opportunity to win the cup in Montreal, but they faltered, losing narrowly 4-3. This set the stage for game 7 in Chicago. The city was all abuzz with the possibility of a Stanley Cup win at the Stadium. The Wirtz family steadfastly refused to televise home games, believing that if the game was on TV, people would not buy tickets. Nonetheless, rumors swirled that the Wirtz’s would relent and let us watch our beloved Blackhawks on TV in the crucial game 7. He did not, and we were consigned to listening to the game on a.m. radio. But the voice and timbre of play-by-play announcer Lloyd Pettit made the game come alive.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. We were pretty confident that the Blackhawks would prevail in the end. They had a tough defense buttressed by Tony Esposito, who had set the record for shutouts the year before, Tony Esposito and a dominating offensive player in Bobby Hull. My best buddy and I had already plotted to defy the nuns at our school, play hooky and attend the planned parade and rally downtown. It was a very warm night and I remember running back to my room after getting a soft serve ice cream from the ice cream truck to listen to Lloyd Pettit on my old wooden cased radio.

The Hawks went up 1-0 on a goal by Danny O’Shea, followed a bit later with a goal by Dennis Hull. While the Canadiens had successfully contained Bobby Hull, we were ecstatic as it would be difficult to crawl out from under a 2-0 hole. The Hawks had a chance to seal it when Bobby Hull had an open shot with Dryden going down. A 3-0 lead would have been almost impossible to overcome but Hull’s powerful shot clinked off the crossbar. A few inches lower, and the result would have been a fait accompli.

Then a freakish thing happened. Jacques Lemaire took a shot from center ice. The usually reliable Esposito seemed to lose the puck and it went in, giving the Canadiens life. Later the Canadiens tied it 2-2 and the persistent Rejean Houle, whose sole job was to shadow Hull, was able to frustrate him.

Eventually, the Canadiens’ speed prevailed. The image Henri Richard speeding past a sprawling Keith Magnuson is forever burned in my memory and he tucked it behind Esposito taking the lead 3-2. The Hawks had several opportunities to tie it, but Dryden came up with save after save. As the clock ran out, I was in utter disbelief, and I remember lying face down on my bed for a long time, sobbing. It’s probably hard to understand the depth of the disappointment but the closest thing would probably have been a Christmas where Santa just didn’t show up. My opportunity to play hooky would take decades to come again. I would have to find another way to defy Sister Lawrence.

The Hawks had one more chance at the finals in 1973 but the Canadiens again snuffed them out in six games. Another trip to the finals in the early 1990’s was dispatched quickly in 4 games. The franchise continued to sputter and a few years ago was voted the worst sports franchise by ESPN. I remember feeling very sad when I attended the game after Keith Magnuson was killed and the Blackhawks had a pregame tribute to him. His wife and children were there and it was shameful to see an attempt to honor a player that exemplified the franchise with pride, spirit and hustle with a United Center that was only about 1/3 full.

So it was more than just another Chicago championship when the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup this week. Following the resurgence of the franchise over the past couple of years with these young stars has been a great deal of fun, and Rocky Wirtz has done a masterful job of reconnecting his fan base. Still, watching Philly tie the game Wednesday night to send it into overtime sent chills down my spine and nearly provoked flashbacks rivaling PTSD. But eventually, star Patrick Kane sealed it with his overtime goal (although it took us a few moments to figure out whether it was a good goal or not). For me, the victory was a reprise of real emotional significance, like the healing of a childhood trauma.

Despite a deskful of work and projects and deadlines, I decided to take the morning off and join my wife and my daughter at the parade. The weather was hot and sticky the Hawks were 30 minutes late. I almost gave up waiting. Finally, the buses rolled past and fittingly, atop one of the first buses were my old heroes that never got a chance to lift the Cup—Stan Mikita, Bobby Hull and Tony Esposito, and behind them the new generation of true champions. 39 years after that missed parade in 1971, I finally got to play a little hooky, and to see the Stanley Cup glinting in the sunlight in person. It was worth the wait.