A lasting impression

The 1972 Summit Series made for a memorable month

It is hard for me to determine the significance to the nation as a whole of Canada’s victory over the U.S.S.R. 30 years ago. It has nothing to do with the fact that the three-year old government body known as Hockey Canada billed the whole affair -- in stereotypically Canadian understatement -- as just an eight-game "exhibition series." And it has little to do with significance of the relatively fledgling NHLPA under Alan Eagleson putting his stamp on international hockey, pitting his hand-picked roster of Canadian NHL players against an unknown opponent from the Soviet Union. No, my lack of historical perspective is due to me being 10 at the time, a sixth grade student at Mohawk Elementary School in Burlington, Ontario.

My memories take me only to the outer reaches of a typically sports crazy 10-year-old boy -- namely as far as my customized bike -- complete with balloon tires, high handle bars, banana seat and sissy bar -- would take me. Mostly that meant the extended neighborhood from my house east to Lord Elgin High School for football practice, south to my best friend Richard Bennett's house, around the corner from there to Skyway Plaza where the main attraction was buying whatever pack of cards was in season -- hockey, baseball or football -- and north to friends Scott Wilson and Steve Crocker.

The Series An exhibition which turned legendary 1972 Summit Series Game Recaps Defining event in Canadian history Russian hockey changed drastically Oppression bred creativity on ice From SI Eliot: A lasting impression Flashback: Still blushing Flashback: Off to Hockeyland Flashback: Narrow victory Features Q&As: Henderson | Tretiak Team Stats: Canada | Soviet Union More stories Canada bodychecked communism Slap in face to Canadians Hopes were dim heading to Moscow Too much garbage with series

Central to all that was Mohawk and the playground where we would meet to play baseball and football mostly, but from time to time we would also toss a lacrosse ball around or fling a Frisbee. The streets in between formed at once a bond and a barrier. They were the sight of road hockey games, bringing all the kids together to play. Somehow, though, like some long ago encrypted code, Saturdays meant challenges, street vs. street -- Erindale Drive vs. Cherryhill Boulevard or Broughton Court vs. Spruce Street.

It was simple. Just get your guys together, roam the streets looking for a game going on and pose the challenge. Not too different, really -- at least in my mind -- from what the NHL did with the 1972 Summit Series. Looked to me that they challenged a new neighborhood, never thinking they might lose. I never thought they would lose, either. I didn’t think much about it at all, actually, except that it was cool to have hockey to watch in September.

But when the U.S.S.R. came to Canada and took the lead through four games, the series became compelling. No one could believe what was happening. The Soviet Union played a style that was unfamiliar to most Canadians. It caught your eye -- the passing and the skating. I was mesmerized by goaltender Vladislav Tretiak -- at times under siege, yet seemingly always under control -- my eye drawn to the position as it had been from as early as I can remember. But my overwhelming impression was how bad at times the Soviets made my NHL heroes look. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, to the point that I didn't want to watch. I felt that kid's uneasiness -- when you sense a grown up is being embarrassed.

Then it went away. The series switched to the U.S.S.R. for the final four games. When the series finally resumed, the interest was more of intrigue. We now knew how the Soviets played hockey; after a 14-day gap between Games 4 and 5 -- inconceivable in today's television-driven sports industry -- we now had a chance to glimpse where they played. And here is where my recollections run together: Bobby Clarke's slash (it happened in Game 5, right?); Eagleson’s rinkside negotiations with Soviet officials (what a strange sight and what could they possibly be arguing about?); coach Harry Sinden constantly screaming at the officials (do they even speak English?); the grainy picture and echo-tinged audio of the telecasts (way different than Hockey Night in Canada's usual coverage); Phil Esposito unceremoniously falling during introductions (or was that some other time, like an All-Star Game?). Mostly, though, I remember Game 8.

By now, this saga had gripped the nation to the point that schools were suspending classes and watching the final game. Our teacher, Mr. Mackenzie, dutifully rolled out the tall AV cart (with today's technology, do they still have Audio-Visual departments?) and turned to the CBC's coverage. Mohawk was an open-concept school, so each of the four classes that shared our "pod" gathered around a TV on high in their designated workroom area -- all huddled in darkness throughout, except for the glare of the television sets.

I was completely engrossed -- was it the game, or the unique viewing setting? Never once did I consider how boring this must be for kids who didn’t like hockey. Maybe therein lies the answer. This exhibition series was now about more than just hockey because everyone was enthralled -- girls, boys, "eggheads," even teachers. As far as I could tell, we all cheered wildly for the goals, moaning and groaning equally at the near misses. We were in this together, as we looked away in unison when the Soviets scored again, silently agonizing long stretches of frenzied activity in Canada’s zone.

More than anything, though, I remember Paul Henderson swooping in and scoring (did he find the puck or did the puck miraculously find him?) on a broken play in which Esposito originally looked thwarted. The classroom erupted. Mr. Mackenzie was beaming from ear to ear. Finally, a chance to celebrate. I vividly recall the reaction of the members of Team Canada, delirious amongst themselves, oblivious to their foreign surroundings. It was part elation borne of coming through dramatically in a unique competitive environment. Equally, it was relief stemming from delivering under the crushing burden of enormous expectations.

To this day, I remember those grown men celebrating and carrying on, like, well, 10-year-olds. It still gives me chills.

Darren Eliot, a former NHL goaltender, is a hockey analyst for CNNSI.com.

 

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