Note: I put this here rather than trip reportsbecause I’d expect it to be of interest primarily to the AC crowd, or at least that portion of the AC crowd who won’t see their 40th birthday again. –Wideman

It was late August in 1972, I was in Florence after spending 10 days on my first trip to Europe, and I had 2 options: explore Italy for another 4 or 5, or find a flight to Montreal for The Game. The decision was a snap: my pocket rail schedule showed a train to Zurich, one of AC’s gateways, and by next morning, Aug 31, I was at ZRH. (One of the delightful features of Youth Fare tickets at the time was that you could have an open return from Europe to North America, returning stand-by from any European gateway to any No American city, as long as it was on an IATA carrier. I’d started the trip from my home in Boston, flying Pan Am BOS-LHR-AMS.)

I didn’t make that day’s flight; a charter company had defaulted, and 80 or 100 customers were stuck in Zurich. But Air Canada sent out an empty DC-8 to rescue the strandees (imagine them doing that now!) and anyone else trying to get to Montreal and Toronto. The ZRH-YUL flight was uneventful, but those of us who had been waiting the longest did get to sit in the comfy seats up front, even though the food/drink service was economy, or whatever it was called then. “Up front” did mean first class (business class did not yet exist), but the seating was comparable to today’s domestic business/first (2+2 in a narrow-body).

I got to Montreal early afternoon on September 1, 1972. It was broiling hot, over 90F, and the Bishop Guest House (on Bishop St, naturally enough) suited my budget, but did not feature a/c. Which was not a big deal to me, because location was far more important: the place was barely a block from the Sir Winston Churchill Pub, and, most important, a 5-minute walk from the greatest of Meccas, the building on St Catherine St W.

It was a day before the game, I had no ticket of course, but I saw no rush in trying to get one. I’d gotten tickets, or at least into the Garden, for every Bruin home game save 2 for the past 3 years, so I had some street sense about tickets. And I’d been to a half-dozen games at the Forum, including the 1st two Mtl games in the disastrous ‘71 playoff series.

Now anyone who was even a casual hockey fan was looking forward to this game and the series. Everyone knew for a certainty that the Canadians were the best hockey players in the world, and the Russians, who had managed to win every year at the Olympics, did so only because they were “subsidized” by the government and weren’t really amateurs, while the others countries’ Olympic players were all pipefitters or something during the day so couldn’t possibly compete.

But now the NHL players, the best in the Universe, were finally going to play the Soviet Union. NHL rosters today feature players from all over the world, but in 1972 virtually all of the players were Canadian. There were a few token Americans like Tommy Williams, but they were invariably the marginal players. As for Europeans, none of the Scandinavians had found their way to the league, and the idea of Eastern Europeans being allowed to play for a Western league was unthinkable.

No one knew what was going to happen, except that the Canadians would win. Not just win, but would trounce the Russians. Most pundits were predicting an 8-0 sweep, though some suggested that the Soviets could possibly pull off a win, or maybe even 2, in Russia, probably because of the biased officiating or because the Canadians might let up a little after taking an insurmountable 5-0 lead in games. After all noted one writer, Canada led the world in only two things, wheat and hockey, and not necessarily in that order.

Newspapers were filled with every type of story imagineable, neither the readers nor the writers could get enough. I recall vividly onje story in The Gazette where the writer had sought out the maids in the Queen Elizabeth, trying to find out anything about the Russian players. They were much neater than other guests, said the maid, they even folded their towels.

No conversation in the city seemed to be about any other subject. Even the beer-and-smoked-goods crowd at the Sir Winston announced that the whole scene was like, too far out.

September 2, game day, I was at the rue Closse side of the Forum, just around the corner from Toe Blake’s, by midday, sucking in as much atmosphere as I could. And there was plenty. I decided to buy a ticket early, even though I knew that I’d pay way more than if I’d waited, because (1)this was no time to take chances on being shut out and (2)to get into the building early, to take in as much as possible. I wound up with a crummy seat (browns) and have no idea how much I paid for it.

The game was at 8, doors open at 7, and a great crowd had formed at the corner of St Catherine & Atwater by 6.30. It was still hot, but not nearly as bad as the previous day, and the electricity in the air was beyond belief. Excitement and anticipation, this would surely be a great night, a night to remember.

Team Canada came out on the ice first, skating easily and confidently. They didn’t know much about their opponents, but they knew the building, the crowd was roaring, and, after all, they were the best hockey players in the world.

The Russians came out for their warm-up and things did not go well. They weren’t sure where they were supposed to skate, they seemed a bit confused by the building and ice set-up (they had practiced at another Montreal rink, but apparently not the Forum). Their uniforms looked funny. The goaltender looked hopeless. He flailed at one practice shot after another, stopping almost none of them. He wore #20 – what a stupid number for a netminder to wear. I called my pal Henry in Boston, the one I went to Bruins’ games with, and told him that it looked like a mismatch.

8 o’clock finally came. The obligatory introductions got made, the teams did their little intros at center ice, and Olympia Medina, I think it was her at least, sang the Soviet and Canadian anthems. It always looked like she was sucking a lemon while singing.

And the game was on.

It didn’t take long. After no more than 3 or 4 minutes, the Soviet goalie, the guy wearing #20, gave up a bad rebound on a Frank Mahovlich shot, and an unchecked Esposito potted an easy goal, Two minutes later, another Canada goal made it 2-0, and the rout was on.

The script got rewritten in a hurry. The Russians started skating in ways that the Canadians didn’t understand, and soon one after another shot was finding its way to, and then behind, the great Ken Dryden. By the end of the game, with the Forum scoreboard reading 7-3 for the visiting team, the Forum, and maybe the whole country, had not a clue what sort of freight train had just passed through. Now I’ve been to plenty of Big Games where the home team was favored and then fell on its face (I’ve been a loyal Red Sox and Bruins fan since the late 50s – enough said?), and the mood of the crowd on the way out of the stadium is always predictable: loud gripes about the guy who fanned with half the net open or the netminder who stayed too far back in his crease and left the far corner open all night, not-quite-lucid analyses of how the coach should be drawn and quartered, and certainly dismissed, for playing (or not playing) this guy or the other. But not on this night; I heard not one word. The crowd stayed until the very end, no one leaving a moment early, and the crowd was silent, eerily silent, making its way outside. Lots of people, much more than usual it seemed, staying out on the streets rather than diving into the metro or heading to their cars. I passed by Toe Blake’s on my way to the clubs on Crescent Street, and Toe’s seemed lifeless. The crowds were not the belligerent or angry crowds whose team had lost, they were more like people who had just been in some sort of bus wreck and were wandering around, dazed, trying uselessly to make sense of what had just transpired.

By the time I got to Crescent, the idea of being in a club seemed like the last thing on earth to do. Walked the streets for a while -- they all had the strangest atmosphere I have seen before or since -- and eventually made it back to the Bishop Guest House.

Next morning, I took the airport bus to Dorval and flew back to Boston.


Notes:

Harry Sinden was Canada’s coach, John Ferguson was his assistant, and they had the pick of the NHL’s best players. Bobby Orr, the one player who could dominate any NHL game in which he played (and was healthy), was out with a knee injury. It would have been the treat of treats to see Orr vs the Soviets.

The WHA had been formed and some marquee players (Bobby Hull, Gordie Howe, Gerry Cheevers, Derek Sanderson) had signed with WHA teams, and those players did not play in the series, which was largely organized by Alan Eagleson, with the support of NHL President Clarence Campbell.

According to the program (which I will not sell on e-Bay or anywhere else, thanks), Canada’s roster included goalies Ken Dryden, Tony Esposito, and Eddie Johnston(!); defensemen Gary Bergman, Pat Stapleton, Orr, Brad Park, Rod Seiling, Bill White, Serge Savard, Guy Lapointe, Don Awrey, Jocelyn Gučvremont, and Brian Glennie; and forwards Ron Ellis, Phil Esposito, Rod Gilbert, Bill Goldsworthy, Dennie Hull, Vic Hadfield, Yvan Cournoyer, Wayne Cashman, Red Berenson, Jean Ratelle, Paul Henderson, Peter Mahovlich, Stan Mikita, Jean-Paul Parisé, Mickey Redmond, Frank Mahovlich, Bobby Clarke, Dale Tallon, Gilbert Perreault, Marcel Dionne, and Richard Martin.