THE GREAT McGEE

How I would have loved to have met the great Frank McGee, the Wayne Gretzky or Sidney Crosby of his era.

The only player to score 14 goals in a Stanley Cup game was Ottawa’s blond McGee, one of the greatest scorers to ever grip a hockey stick or lace on a pair of skates. He weighed all of 140 pounds—if that—but he was a whippet on the ice, a wonder.

More than a century has passed since he played for the Ottawa Silver Seven. They said he was the stuff of legends, and they were right. We still write of McGee’s exploits today. Aware that sportswriters of the day wrote reams of copy about McGee, I culled old newspaper accounts of his Gretzky-like performances and the following, written by some long forgotten sportswriter, is a testament to his greatness:

I followed McGee’s playing career and every match was the same. Away from home, for example, in a furious Stanley Cup series with the Montreal Wanderers, with about 6,000 people all howling “Get McGee!” I saw Frank knocked cold half a dozen times in the one match and honest, he survived to score the last two goals that won the game. No one could slow him up. My, but he was game! Taking the puck and beginning a series of slashing attacks, he finally sailed right into the mouth of the net with two defenders doing their best to eat him alive. He took a dozen nasty cracks and still scored one minute before time. Seconds later, he repeated the feat and was able to skate off smiling.

In the dressing room, when he doffed his clothes, he was simply cut all up but he was game. That’s why the Ottawa fans loved him, idolized him.

There was another write-up:

How McGee came to the rescue of the Ottawa Hockey Club in 1905, how he played despite the loss of sight in one eye caused by a lifted puck in Hawkesbury one night, how he paced the Stanley Cup in the never to be forgotten series against Kenora, how he brought defeat to the Winnipeg Rowing Club, how he scored 14 goals or more in a single game against Dawson City, how he became the sensation of hockey, his feats at fullback with the old Rough Rider football club—of these facts Frank’s friends and admirers could talk on forever. No player of the present day can approach his brilliance. He will never be surpassed.

Billy Grant, sporting editor of the Calgary News-Telegram, once graphically described his first impressions of McGee.

They escorted me into an ice-cold rink and I wondered how people could stand the chill. Then someone cleared an aisle near me and I heard a strange clatter of steel as the Ottawa players clambered down the steps from their dressing room. The voices began to hum. Then a wild roar of applause and thousands of excited voices wildly shouting “McGee! McGee! McGee!” I looked around for a big, rugged, broad-shouldered athlete, one who would gaze around theatrically and acknowledge the spontaneous roar of applause that greeted him. I asked a man, “Which one is McGee?” and drew in my breath when he pointed to a fair-haired, blue-eyed stripling who came down last. His hair was perfectly parted, as though he had just stepped out of a tonsorial parlour. His spotless white pants were creased to a knife-like edge, his boots had been polished. For a minute or so I stood spellbound. Then someone formally introduced us and McGee quickly pulled off his gauntlet and held out a soft but muscular hand. Then he jumped over the rail amidst another wild whoop of delight.

He seized the puck at center ice, skated in with the speed of a prairie cyclone and shot. I saw him backcheck furiously, dodge here and there, flash from side to side, stickhandle his way through a knot of struggling players, slap the puck into the open net and go down in a heap as he did so. Then I ceased to wonder why this boyish, doll-like hockey star was the idol of the crowd. I too joined in the hysterical shouting for Frank McGee, the world’s greatest hockey player.

During his brief career, McGee played in only 23 regular- season games, but he averaged three goals per game. In the same time frame, he played in 11 Stanley Cup series, in which he scored an incredible 63 goals in 22 games. Again, just shy of three goals per game.

Despite the handicap of being blind in one eye, McGee served overseas in the First World War. He was killed on September. 16, 1916 during the great offensive on the Somme.

From one Ottawa newspaper:

None of Ottawa’s losses in the war will be more deeply regretted than that entailed in the death of Frank McGee who endeared himself to the sporting public as a member of the famous old Ottawa hockey team, the Silver Seven. McGee played center for the Stanley Cup holders at the height of their fame and was conceded to be one of the most brilliant and effective players who ever filled that position.

And from another:

Canadians who knew the sterling stuff of which Frank McGee was made were not surprised when he donned another and new kind of uniform and jumped into the greater and grimmer game of war. Just as in his sporting career he was always to be found in the thickest of the fray. There is no doubt that on the field of battle, Lieut. McGee knew no fear nor shunned any danger. The sympathy of his thousands of admirers will be extended to his family, which has suffered the loss of two (his brother Charles was killed a year earlier) noble members in the great struggle in France.

McGee was 35.

With the death of McGee, there passed one whose athletic fame will always be talked of, and one whose memory will never fade.

During the 1993-94 hockey season, three women goalies were invited to display their talent in men’s hockey–at the professional level.

Erin Whitten

On October 30,  Erin Whitten, a 22-year old netminder from Glens Falls, New York, became the first woman to  be credited with a goaltending victory in one of the minor pro leagues–the East Coast Hockey League. Whitten led the Toledo Storm to a 6-5 victory over the Dayton Bombers. The former New Hampshire University star won her second game two days later. Even though she gave up 10 goals, her teammates scored 11. It is unlikely any goalie,  male or female, in any pro league, skated off with a win after allowing goals that reached double figures.

Manon Rheaume

Just one week later, 21-year-old Manon Rheaume, playing for Knoxville in the same league, became the second female goalie to win a game in pro hockey. Later she would move to Nashville in the ECHL and win five of six starts.

Kelly Dyer

Before the season was over, a third female goalie won a game, this time in Florida’s Sunshine  Hockey League, Kelly Dyer, 27, who was Tom Barrasso’s backup goalie in high school,  led her team, the West Palm Beach Blaze  to  a 6-2 victory over the Daytona Beach Sun Devils.

Let’s Try to Score at Least One Goal

Can you imagine playing with a team and no one on your team can score a goal for  eight games?  Can you imagine being their coach?  Or worse, their fans?

Well, the players, coach and fans of the pioneer edition of the Chicago Blackhawks didn’t have to imagine, they lived it.

One of the great original six teams went eight games straight without scoring a single goal.  Not even by accident. And I wish I could report that it was just a very bad streak but unfortunately for everyone (but their opposition, they were just that bad.

In fact, they no doubt have they honor of being the worst NHL team in history.  They showed us  it is truly possible to be a professional and still not know what you are doing

It was their third NHL season and the Blackhawks won a mere seven games in a 44-game schedule. And yes, during one eight game stretch they were shutout eight straight times.But that’s not all, there were plenty more shutouts to come.   Over the course of the season the Hawks were blanked 21 times or almost fifty per cent of the time. Opposing goalies couldn’t wait to face them.

During the 1928-29 season, the Blackhawks set records for futility that have lasted for over 70 years.  Their  “top scorers” certainly must have felt embarrassed becasue they managed only 33 goals for the entire season… combined.  Less than one per game.

Forward Vic Ripley was  the Hawks lead goal winner with a whopping 11 goals and 2 assists for 13 points for the entire season.   That would barely get him an invitation to a friendly game of shinny  after the bars are closed on a Tuesday night–even if he pitched in to pay for the rink fees!

The Leafs’ Darryl Sittler almost equalled Ripley’s entire yearly production in one game in 1976, when he scored a record ten points against Boston.

The Hawks second leading scorer was Johnny Gottselig who tallied five goals and three assists for eight points in a year.

Fortunately, in 1928-29, the Hawks had Charlie Gardiner in goal or their record would have been even more notorious. They might not have won a single game. Gardiner happened to be among the league’s best netminders, posting five shutouts and a 1.93 goals against average in 44 games.

Gardiner deserved a trophy for sportsmanlike conduct.  Apparently he never blamed his mates for their shortcomings and his restraint would have taken a super human dose of professionalism.

It’s easy to laugh but in the end, it’s those Blackhawk players with the last laugh.   At least they played professional NHL hockey while most of the rest of us only played it in our dreams.

I don’t know this book but a quick glance at Amazon popped up this short 52 page book about Goalie Captains and it includes Charlie Gardiner, Roberto Luongo, Roy Worters, Alec Connell, George Hainsworth, Bill Durnan: 
In Canada:NHL Goaltender Captains
In the States:Nhl Goaltender Captains

I wrote this after I had the luck of spending a little time with Mario Lemieux during the summer of 1988.

An hour’s drive northwest of New York in the Catskills, I get the chance of a lifetime, to play right wing for Mario Lemieux. There I am, in my mid-fifties, pot-bellied, weak-eyed, weak-wristed awkward, nervous and slow afoot, trying to keep pace with one of the greatest players who ever lived.

Thanks to Hockey Night in Canada producer Mark Askin, who made all the arrangements, we are there to film Mario, Steve Duchesne, Larry Robinson, Dan Quinn and others, all of whom are guests of the hotel management. In return for a free week long vacation, they agree to spend a couple of hours a day instructing the children of guests at the hotel in the fundamentals of hockey. Their arena is almost laughable—one of the smallest ice surfaces I’ve ever seen–about 100′ by 50′. The day we arrive the players—their instructional chores over– are about to engage in an old-fashioned game of shinny.

“Got your skates with you?” someone says.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” I reply

“Get em on. You can play wing for Mario.”

Moments later, I’m out there and these guys are flying. Click, Click, click. The puck dances from one stick to another. Players weave and bob and fake and deke. They laugh and whoop it up, as if they were kids again, sliding around some frozen pond. Goals pile up and I still haven’t touched the damn puck. These guys change direction so quickly by the time I pivot and turn they are at the other end of the rink. Mario slides a couple of hard passes my way and I lunge for them. They bounce off the blade of my stick and spin away. “Sorry, Mario” I grunt. There’s no reply. I figure he’s too polite to laugh.

I can almost hear his thoughts, though, Did this guy ever play the game? And I want to say, Geez, Mario, I’m 55 years old. Thirty years ago I was a pretty fair skater. I might have been able to almost keep pace with you guys. Now I’m out of gas, with two bricks for hands.

There are some great books written about the incredible contributions Mario Lemieux has made to the game, look for them at you local library or, in Canada, check out: Mario Lemieux: The final period

or in the U.S. Mario Lemieux: Over Time

Continue reading »

In Florida, we’ve been blessed to have a talented former NHLer join us for the past couple of weeks. Bob Murdoch played over 700 games in the NHL with Montreal and Los Angeles and Calgary. He coached the Chicago Blackhawks and the Winnipeg Jets. He’s still got great moves and it never seems to bother him when we fumble his pinpoint passes or fail to get the puck back to him at the point.

“It doesn’t matter what level you play at,” he tells me. “In the NHL or here, players are always chatting on the bench. If only I’d done this or you’d done that, we’d have had a goal. Things like that.”

With his brother Doug, one of our regulars, we retire to a nearby pub for grilled cheese sandwiches and beer.

I put my tape recorder in front of Bob and ask him to tell me about a long ago skirmish he had with John Ferguson.

First, let me tell you about my first training camp with the Montreal Canadiens. This would be in 1970, after I’d played with Canada’s National team and the Nova Scotia Voyageurs in the American League.

Continue reading »

I like to imagine that this hockey poem could have been written by Albert Forrest, the youngest goalie ever to play in a Stanley Cup series (in 1905, for Dawson City, versus Ottawa. Forrest lost the second game by a 23–2 score).

The Night I Faced One-eyed Frank McGee

Yes, I’m the boy who stood in goal,
Facing pucks he hurled at me.
Yes, I’m the lad whose job it was
To stop the Great McGee.

I tried my best but failed the test,
For the record shows that he
Scored 14 goals in a single game,
And all of them on me.

Oh dear, oh my, it was a catastrophe!

They cheered him loud, they cheered him long.
It was quite a sight to see.
Each time he scored, the more they roared,
“You’re our hero, Frank McGee.”

I stood there shaken, looking on,
The victim of his spree.
Oh yes, he scored those 14 goals,
It was easy as could be.

I wish he’d done it somewhere else,
And on someone else—not me!
When he tired, his mates took up the slack
Till the score reached 23.

Oh dear, oh my, it was a catastrophe!

Someday, when I’m old and grey
With my grandson on my knee,
I’ll tell him of the night I faced
The mighty Frank McGee.

I’ll tell him of his blazing shot
And his boundless energy
And how he played with one bad eye—
Why, the man could hardly see!

But his scoring touch was a gift from God,
At least, that’s my philosophy.
I’ll talk about Lord Stanley’s Cup
And how it slipped away from me

Because of hockey’s greatest star,
Old one-eyed Frank McGee.

Oh dear, oh my, it was such a catastrophe!

To read more about Albert Forrest look for my book, The Youngest Goalie at your local library or try finding it :

In Canada at this link:The Youngest Goalie

In the US at this link: Youngest Goalie

Jerry Toppazinni

On the golf course Jerry Toppazinni is a delightful companion. Over 18 holes in a charity tournament in Toronto he has lots of time to talk hockey–and his career with the Bruins (from 1952-53 through 1963-64).

“Did you know the Bruins’ Alumni honored me at their golf tournament in New Hampshire one summer?” he says. “All the old Bruins pick one guy who they feel represented what a Bruin should be. It felt good when Milt Schmidt, a man I’d played with, a man who’d coached me, came across the room and shook my hand. ‘Jerry, you really deserved it,’ he said. ‘You were one of the most honest players I ever worked with.”

“Did you have to make a speech?” I ask.

He laughs. “No way. They knew if they asked me to speak they’d never get me to sit down.”

“Jerry, you never won a Stanley Cup ring, did you?”

“No, but there’s an Englishman who may think I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Henri Richard and I were playing golf one day with a businessman from London, England. He didn’t know that Henri Richard had won 11 Stanley Cups with Montreal. In fact, he didn’t know much about hockey at all. On one hole he said to me, ‘Jerry, how many Stanley Cup teams did you play on?’ And I said to him, ‘Well, between Henri Richard and myself, it was eleven.’”

Then he tells me a story that’s a complete surprise.

“I’m at the NHL meetings in Montreal one summer–it was 1973–and I don’t have a job in hockey. But I’m hoping for something. The Bruins at the time were trying to hire Don Cherry as their new coach. But Cherry was reluctant to move to Boston. He owned 25% of the Rochester franchise and he’s really popular there.

“So I get a call from Lynn Patrick, who was then general manager in St. Louis. He says, ‘Listen, Jerry. It’s obvious Cherry is not going to Boston. You’d be ideal for that job. I spoke to Harry (Sinden) about you. Are you interested in coaching the Bruins?’ I said, ‘You kidding? Of course I’m interested.’ Continue reading »

One Zany, Mean, and Tough Bruin

Despite the antics of Derek Sanderson, Mike Walton and others, Wayne Cashman was the zaniest, if not the meanest and toughest member of the Big, Bad Boston Bruins of the seventies.

“I knew I’d never be a 50-goal scorer so I  spent my career doing what had to be done,” Cashman told Sports Illustrated while toiling in the twilight of his career.

He played left wing on one of Boston’s most prolific lines, with Phil Esposito at center and Ken Hodge on right wing. He was counted on to do the dirty work in the corners, and to get the puck by fair means or foul to Espo in the slot. Goaltender Gerry Cheevers says, “Cash was the greatest of all the guys from our era when it came to digging in the corners and along the boards. And if someone gave Orr or Espo a cheap shot Cashman would be there in an instant, throwing punches, exacting revenge.” When he retired in 1983, he had served 1,041 penalty minutes to rank third among Boston sinners (behind Terry O’Reilly and Keith Crowder). At 38, he had served the Bruins well in 1,027 games, second only to Johnny Bucyk’s club record of 1,436. When veterans Serge Savard of the Winnipeg Jets and Carol Vadnais of the New Jersey Devils bowed out of NHL hockey a few days before Cashman’s final game, it made the Bruin left winger the oldest survivor of the Original Six league.

Master Of Mishief

Off the ice, he was a master of mischief. Three examples come to mind. Once he broke his foot while swinging on a chandelier and in Los Angeles one night, when the anthem singer was about to perform before a critical playoff game, Cashman spoiled the soloist’s rendition  by impishly cutting the microphone cord with his skate. In 1970, after the Bruins won the Stanley Cup, he played traffic cop during the celebrations that followed. He stood on a Boston intersection waving cars in all directions until there was a mammoth snarl. Reluctantly, the cops arrested him and brought him to the station where he was told he could make one phone call. Did he phone his lawyer?  No, his call was to a restaurant—for an order of Chinese food.

One Heck of  a Party

Cashman, like millions of others, was stunned on the night of Nov. 7, 1975, to learn  the Bruins had traded his best pal Phil Esposito, along with  Carol Vadnais, to the hated New York Rangers in return for Brad Park,  Jean Ratelle and someone named Joe Zanussi. He organized a going away party for his former mates  in a Vancouver hotel room and before it was over there were damages to pay of $2,000.

Leadership Role Puts Creativy to Good Use

The following season, he assumed the Bruins’ captaincy and the hi-jinks became less frequent. Johnny Bucyk, who’d been wearing the “C”, returned from an injury, saw the leadership that Cashman was providing, and told him to keep the “C”. Manager Harry Sinden would say, “I don’t think I could have dreamed of Cashman becoming such a leader.”

He was durable enough to play in more than 1000 games, third highest in team history.

A  great player? Yes.  A different kind of guy? You bet.

Early Signs he’d be a Man who Loves the Game

Even as a child he was unpredictable. One day on the family farm near Kingston, Ontario, where he grew up, he acquired a new pair of skates. Told by his parents not to wear them outside until the weather warmed up, young Cash waited until his parents went off somewhere. Then he opened all the  windows, hooked up a hose, and flooded the kitchen floor with an inch of water. When it freezes, he reasoned, I’ll skate inside.

Dedicated to my granddaughters, Samantha and Aubrey, who are fine young women and talented hockey players. I am very proud of them both.

Threw on my pads, slipped on my skates
Grabbed my stick and rushed through the gates
Buzzed around the ice, so cold and slick
Nothin’ like a grip on a hockey stick cause…

I’m a hockey girl
I’m a hockey girl
Love the game that’s fast and rough
Love the game, never get enough

Took a pass, knocked a girl down
Grabbed that puck and went to town
Split the defense, I was on a roll
Took my best shot and scored a goal

I’m a hockey girl
A hockey girl
Love the game that’s fast and rough
Love the game, never get enough

A man said, Hockey girl, come play against me
He gave me the elbow, gave me the knee
“This is a man’s game sweetie,” is what he said
“Give it up, darlin”—and I saw red! Cause…

I’m a hockey girl
A hockey girl
Love the game that’s fast and rough
Love the game, never get enough

That man sneered as he rushed my way
But I stopped him cold, stole the puck away
Dropped him like a stone with a solid hip check
Didn’t look back when he hit the deck! Cause…

I’m a hockey girl
A hockey girl
Love the game that’s fast and rough
Love the game, never get enough

Mastered the slap shot, learned how to deke
Scored my first hat trick just last week
Heard the crowd roar when we won the game
I found my passion and my life is not the same… cause

I’m a hockey girl
A hockey girl
Love the game that’s fast and rough
Love the game, never get enough

Bonded with the other girls on my team
Making the Olympics is my dream
Playing for my country would be so nice
I’d be the happiest player on the ice… cause

I’m a hockey girl
A hockey girl
Love the game that’s fast and rough
Love the game, never get enough!

If you can believe it, there’s a whole collection of poems and lyrics all about Hockey called Going Top Shelf: An Anthology of Canadian Hockey Poetry. Would you consider this bookshelf or bathroom reading material?

Winnipeg Vics and the Toronto Wellingtons

In the Winnipeg library where I’m doing research for a book,  a front page story in a century old Winnipeg paper catches my eye. It’s a fascinating tale of a Stanley Cup series between the Winnipeg Vics and the Toronto Wellingtons played in the spring of 1902. I’m amazed to discover that hundreds of fans came from miles around to jam into the 3,000 seat. They were there  to witness the first Stanley Cup matches played in Manitoba.

To their surprise, the Winnipeg players skate onto the ice for the warmup wearing long gold dressing gowns over their uniforms. The referee, Mr. McFarlane (no relation), has a little chat with both teams prior to dropping the puck. He says he will tolerate no nonsense from the rivals

Midway through the first game, one of the “lifters”‑‑a player noted for his ability to hoist the puck down the ice‑‑cleverly lofts the puck high above the ice. But it does not come down. It is lodged in the rafters. The fans roar with laughter while the players mill about below. They begin to hurl their sticks upwards and the one who finally dislodges the puck receives a standing ovation.

There’s another long delay when a Newfoundland dog jumps on the ice and a merry chase results.

A recurring phrase in the newspaper account of the event causes me to ponder its meaning. “Gingras of the Vics was sent to the fence by Mr. McFarlane” and later “Once again Gingras was told to sit on the fence.” Finally it dawns on me. There was no penalty box for poor Gingras to sit in. They hadn’t been invented yet.  Penalized players like Gingras  simply sat on the low boards surrounding the rink until the referee told him he could play again.

Then I encountered another oddity. When the puck sailed over the boards into the crowd, the spectator catching it was expected to return it promptly to the ice. There was no whistle and play continued right along. One fan in this series broke with tradition. He pocketed the puck .Despite pleas from players, officials and fans to toss it back, he refused to give it up.

“I’m keeping it,” he stated. “For a souvenir.”

Finally, another puck was sent for and the game continued.

There was more excitement in game two. A Toronto player named Chummy Hill scored a goal with half a puck. When the puck split in two during a scramble, Hill snared one piece with his stick and shot it into the Winnipeg net. Referee McFarlane allowed the goal to stand. Winnipeg won the series and entertained the visitors at a reception following the final game. The Winnipeg paper was filled with game descriptions and quotes from the men involved. There were neat illustrations of the game highlights, including one of Gingras of the Vics sitting on the fence.

Back in Toronto, fans were anxious to hear the results of the games. And this information came from the offices of the Toronto Globe. The Globe received the  final score of each match from a  Winnipeg telegrapher. A Globe employee quickly notified someone at the Street Railway Company and he, in turn, pulled a chain on a high-pitched whistle that could be heard throughout the city. One blast was for a win, two blasts signalled a loss.

When two blasts were heard following the final match, one of the most disappointed youngsters in Toronto was a member of the Wellingtons who had not accompanied the team.  Had he been injured? Was he ill? No, his parents decided he was far too young to be travelling across the country for no other purpose than to play in a series of hockey games.