The Morning Line
Sports Illustrated staff writer Kostya Kennedy checks in
after each game of the Stanley Cup
finals.
Posted: Fri June 12,
1998
GAME 2: RED WINGS 5, CAPITALS
4 (OT)
Last night, a little after the stroke of midnight, Detroit
captain Steve Yzerman was standing outside a carpeted
interview room preparing to meet the media at a postgame
press conference. Andy McGowan, one of the ubiquitous NHL
public relations
officials scurrying around at this final, was back in the Red Wings
locker room at Yzerman's stall. McGowan was rummaging for
something for The Captain to wear. McGowan grabbed a dark
slicker, then pulled a baseball cap off a hook. It was a
wine-colored lid,
with a navy bill. McGowan regarded it. On the cap's forehead,
in large block letters, was written
"NHLPA."
McGowan put the cap back on the hook. He grabbed another.
Moments later, Yzerman sat before the cameras in his
slicker, a gray cap expressing "No Fear" in dark
letters upon his
head.
Utopia has not arrived in the NHL. A league official was
not about to bring a cap bearing the acronym of the hated
players' association to a press conference. There are still
reminders that this is a business, one that's straining the
limits of its own
viability, one in which players and owners often view each
other warily at best. Yet for much of last night, it seemed
like everything was as it should be in the hockey
world—like everything was just about playing this
marvelous
game.
Washington fans weren't happy at the end, of course. But
for any neutral observer, Game 2 of this series was what
you want hockey games to be: the NHL in all its playoff
bearded splendor. A 5-4 Red Wings win that, thank goodness,
went into overtime—it
gave us all a chance to catch our breath after the furious
third
period.
Throughout the third it was nearly impossible to take your
eyes off Detroit's splendid forwards. They'd been good all
night, even when down 3-1 after two, and now they were
steaming, desperate to get back into the game. The Capitals
had wrought a little
good fortune, some opportunism and a whole lot better
goaltending into their two-goal lead. Even after Yzerman
scored his second goal of the game to cut the deficit to
3-2 (and how the faithful shook Joe Louis Arena for their
beloved Captain!),
Washington got things back under control seconds later when Joe
Juneau made it
4-2.
Thirteen minutes to go and now Detroit was back to pressing
desperately—even steady, stay-at-home defenseman Bob
Rouse was pinching deep to rev the offense. Martin Lapointe
scored for the Wings. Now it was 4-3. The Capitals' Esa
Tikkanen deked Detroit
goalie Chris Osgood to the ice, then missed an open net. The
Cup-hungry fans at The Joe started to smell silver polish.
They were up and roaring. Scotty Bowman sent rough Joey
Kocur out on the ice and Kocur slammed some bodies into the
fiberglass. Detroit
was swarming on every
shift.
Still, the Caps had played well and were battling
courageously against shot after Red Wings shot. Detroit
would outshoot Washington 20-7 in the third. Dangerous
Sergei Fedorov would have 12 of Detroit's 60 shots in the
game.
Then, with 4:14 on the third-period clock, Doug Brown, who
moments later would have a gash sewn up on the bridge of
his nose, seized a loose puck and the day. He scored
unassisted. Tie game. Overtime. Fans could breathe again.
And then came all those
tense minutes of the overtime, five of them played at 4-on-4,
a wide open, up-and-down game. The Wings rushing in on Olaf
Kolzig, the Caps blasting long shots at Osgood, and then
Detroit's Kris Draper knocking in what he would call the
goal of his career,
so monumental it took some 20 years off his life. "I
felt like a little kid playing ball hockey when you pretend
you're scoring the winning
goal," he said after the game. "That's what happened
tonight."
Afterward, as adrenaline continued to course through the
Detroit night—"Best damn playoff games in five
years, maybe ever. Ever!" whooped my late-night cab
driver—the Capitals were stoic in defeat. Kolzig was
standing barefoot and patient as the once
large and frenzied media pack around him dwindled to just two
reporters, then one. Kolzig stayed put, and for the
hundredth time calmly recounted every Detroit goal—his
five worst moments of the night. He did it with the grace
and strength of a
professional.
Yes, it was a night when all seemed right in the hockey
world, when only the game mattered. Never mind that league
official putting the NHLPA back on the hook. We'll think
about the business of it all on another day. This night,
you could just let great
hockey work its magic. You could look over at the young
fellow carrying towels in the Detroit locker room and
realize with satisfaction that even the clubhouse boy was
sporting a playoff
beard.
|
NHL Finals
