Autumn.
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, come the changes. Long and lazy summer days draw to an end. The sun pales, the wind freshens. Days shorten, temperatures drop, fallen leaves crunch underfoot. Kids return to school.
On the sporting front, Euro 2024 soccer and the Paris Olympics dominate the June and July headlines. Then, in North America at least, pennant races and wild card scrambles replace baseball’s “dog days” of August. Shortly after, professional football and basketball training camps, then exhibition and league action, get underway.
And then there is ice hockey. Excitement builds as another NHL campaign looms on the horizon. Questions galore. Will “my” team, the Vancouver Canucks, be able to repeat or even improve upon last season’s unexpected success?
Still, as the weeks roll along and the equinox passes, certainly for me, and perhaps for others of my vintage, one specific fall date stands out. Never fails to send shivers down the spine and get pulses racing.
September 28.
1972. Moscow. A highly anticipated ice hockey competition nears conclusion. The eighth and final game of the inaugural Summit Series, between Team Canada and the Soviet Union, gets underway.
It was all supposed to be so easy.
Canada, given a long and storied history in the sport, is an overwhelming favourite vs an “amateur” opponent dominant only in international tournaments for which the best Canadians are ineligible. While a handful of pundits do warn of the overall Soviet talent level, especially an acrobatic goalkeeper, their assessments go unheeded. Indeed, I am among the vast majority calling an eight-game sweep, full of double-digit humiliations.
The series begins in Montreal.
Canada, overwhelming favourites, scores thirty seconds into game 1, then adds another six minutes later. Up 2-0, the pre-event hype and smug predictions of one-sided routs apparently accurate. Then, in a completely unexpected reversal of fortunes, the Soviets quickly draw level. Go on to stunning 7-3 triumph.
Shocked, Canada, though not without a struggle, recovers to win game 2. Game 3 ends in a tie. Game 4 sees another bitter home defeat, with the series set to resume in Moscow two weeks later.
Tensions mount. The visitors, despite their funny looking helmets, substandard equipment, battered skates and sticks, clearly know how to play. Kharlamov, Mikhailov, Yakushev, Tretiak, among others, quickly become household names. Soviet speed, skill, superior conditioning, intricate passing patterns, and unselfish play combine to outstrip the much-trumpeted Canadian virtues of grit, raw courage, and physicality.
On another level, with the Cold War at its iciest, the games come to symbolize a battle between rival political systems for global superiority. Capitalism vs Communism. Perhaps not surprisingly, with reputations at stake, there is other controversy as well, starting with countless officiating disputes. Plenty of provocation, gamesmanship, and intimidation. Emotions boil over. While ill will, and loads of chippy, dirty play, makes for spicy encounters.
Back home, comfortable on the wider international ice surface, the Soviets duly capture game 5. Lead 3-1, with one tie. Initially deemed no match for Canada, they sit on the cusp of achieving the remarkable, the once unthinkable. Namely, bragging rights and a coveted series win.
Team Canada refocuses. Backs to the wall, nothing to lose. Game 6 basically a war on ice. An early 3-1 lead proves just enough in a one goal Canadian victory. Then, in a heart stopping Game 7, after a third period Soviet marker levels the score at 3-3, winger Paul Henderson notches the winner with two minutes remaining.
The series is tied. One game remains.
Back home on Canada's west coast, 14 years old and starting grade 10, I am totally captivated. To my joy, our progressive minded principal allows students to skip morning lessons in order to follow the action. Many of us cram into a classroom, squish together like sardines in a can. Crowd around a tiny black and white television set for what will become the most watched sporting event in Canadian history.
Some 8300 kilometers away, a grey, grainy Luzhniki Ice Palace, packed to capacity, emerges on screen. The game begins, the pressure ratcheting up with every shift.
The first period, marred by several crude fouls and one match penalty, ends 2-2. The Soviets score in the first minute of the second frame. Canada answers. But then, showing absolutely dazzling form, the hosts register another two goals, before being denied yet another when star Canadian forward Phil Esposito somehow sweeps the puck off his goal line.
Soviets 5, Team Canada 3. Second intermission.
My friends and I huddle to discuss options. Flickers of hope joust with despondency. The Soviets, performing brilliantly, just seem too strong.
Clearly, the next goal figures to be pivotal.
Not surprisingly, it is Esposito, Canada’s spiritual leader and playing the game of his life, who pulls his team to within one. Further desperate pressure forces a number of Soviet errors, from which the visitors benefit. Eight minutes still to go in the third period. The tension well nigh unbearable as Canada appears to equalize. 5-5.
Yet, chaos reigns, as the goal light does not come on! A ruckus near the timer’s bench involves Canadian director Alan Eagleson, various players, and the Soviet police. Close by, Red Army soldiers hover, weapons at the ready. Order only just restored.
The final minute remains etched in my memory. Canada presses, two Soviet defencemen misplay the puck. A pass goes astray, pops free to Esposito. He shoots, but Tretiak saves.
Henderson, somehow uncovered in front of goal, stabs at the rebound. Tretiak conjures up yet another magnificent stop. But then, capping the most stunning, incredible, come from behind, game winner in hockey history, another whack results in euphoria. The legendary announcer Foster Hewitt, voice straining in excitement, sparks an explosion of joy with five magic words. Players and coaches, travelling supporters watching live, and millions of fans across the country, rejoice.
“Henderson has scored for Canada!”
A school classroom erupts. Seconds later, a series for the ages ends. No presentations or ceremony, but me and my fellow students don’t care. Instead, hi-fiving, screaming, hugging, dancing, we revel in the excitement of the last gasp victory. A close friend leaps wildly off a desk, traps his hand awkwardly against the wall. A fractured finger a small price to pay for the 6-5 comeback victory. Canada’s position on top of the hockey world confirmed, even if by the narrowest of margins.
The glow remains. Timeless and magical. Henderson celebrates his third straight game winning goal, captured forever in a famous photograph.
What a moment, what a comeback, what a day.
A September 28 I will remember forever.
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