The entire column after the jump. This and more in Off The Post in the fall.
Stanley Cup Magic
I was 26 years old when I saw the Stanley Cup for the first time. When I saw it up close, that is. I wish I had been surrounded by 18,000 people, including my teammates and Gary Bettman, like in all the kids’ dreams, instead of in a hotel room in Helsinki.
But, on the other hand, I was 26, undrafted, without an agent, and, well, playing Division III hockey in Finland. So I figured I’d better take my chance when it presented itself.
The Cup was in the trunk when I arrived. The Cup keepers, Phil and Craig – the two fellows who always carry the Cup onto the ice for the Commissioner to present it to the champions – unlocked the blue case for me and slowly opened it.
Ten, maybe fifteen years earlier, I had been sitting by my desk, daydreaming about my hockey future, the walls of my room covered with pictures of Gretzky, clippings of Matti Forss’ record-breaking seven-assist night in the Finnish league, autographed sticks, and sweaters and banners of different hockey teams from around the world. If I wasn’t playing hockey, or sitting on the balcony, typing away my imagined game reports. I saw myself donning the Team Finland sweater, and scoring big goals in the Finnish league.
Always the national team. Never in my dreams was I a Stanley Cup winner. A world champion, yes, but never hoisting the Cup above my head.
Jari Kurri got his first ring in 1984 but I’m not sure if I ever saw any of the finals. I do remember having a conversation about a Kevin McClelland goal with a neighbor of mine. Sitting in the swings in the backyard, we talked about the goal that none of us had seen, about the team we’d never seen, and about the McClelland fellow we had never heard of before – or since.
But the Stanley Cup had entered my consciousness to stay.
On an intellectual level, in my brain, I understand that winning the Stanley Cup is a dream come true. I never really felt it, though. I never understood how a kid from a No-name city in Sweden or Finland or the Czech Republic (or back then, Czechoslovakia) could dream about that. Jari Kurri didn’t.
“I didn’t really know how big the Cup was until I saw the reaction of the city –the fans and the other players. It wasn’t until I saw the effect the Cup had on everyone in Edmonton that I realized how important it was. It really woke me up to what an achievement it was,” he says on the Oilers’ website.
In the end, the Cup is just an old trophy. About 115 years ago, Lord Stanley, Earl of Preston, Governor General of Canada, walked down Regent Street in London and purchased a trophy as “a challenge cup which should be held from year to year by the champion hockey team in the Dominion of Canada.”
He paid 10 guineas (approx. $50) for it, appointed two trustees to take care of it, and then returned to England without ever seeing a Stanley Cup game.
At that point, the Cup was just a cup, and a not very impressive one. Over the years, it has grown to be the three-feet long dumbbell we see players pump up and down over their heads. It would be even longer (and heavier than the 35 pounds it weighs now), but the Hall of Fame keeps two rings in a vault so that, for example, when the Rangers won the Cup in 1994, the previous Ranger team’s names from 1940 were not on it.
Then the trunk opened, and Phil and Craig – to me, they’re always “Phil and Craig” as in an act, even if I only speak of or meet one of them – lifted the Cup onto a table for me to see.
The Cup.
There it was. Right then and there, I understood. It may be a trophy, but it has an aura that makes Phil and Craig feel like they’re traveling with a celebrity. Stanley, or Stan, makes people happy, raises smiles, gives them hope.
I let my fingers run down the Cup, feeling its cold surface. I looked inside the bowl, I searched for the legendary names, and the even more legendary misspellings and crossed-over names. The first woman, Marguerite Norris. Jari Kurri. Peter Pocklington’s father. The Richards.
First I took some photos. Then some photos were taken of me and the Cup. Me looking at it from afar. Me kissing the Cup. And then, against the advice of Phil and Craig, me hoisting the Cup over my head.
That was 13 years ago, and I guess the curse is alive because I still haven’t won the Stanley Cup.
Twenty-four hours ago, I met my old friend again. I drove up to the hotel where Phil, of “Phil and Craig,” was staying for the night. The Cup was on its way to Helsinki, and to Teemu Selänne (who, obviously, didn’t touch the Cup in 1994).
This time, I had my four-year-old son with me. He was excited. He was very excited. Did he really get to go out even though it was way past his bedtime? I tried to explain him what the big deal was, about the old trophy that big winners get, about it coming from Canada, and about, well, this all being a huge deal.
In the end, I found myself arguing for the much too often used “Stanley Cup is the greatest thing a hockey player can win” statement. Something’s changed. Maybe it’s the fact that my son’s half-Finnish, half-Swedish. Maybe just the fact that all the best players are truly in the NHL. Or maybe it’s just me that’s changed.
The Cup was waiting for us on a table. I walked toward it, and let my fingers run down its cool surface. I looked inside the bowl, and I looked at the names on the Cup. Hannes fell in love with the blue container the Cup travels.
Still, there we were, Hannes and I, in the same room with the Richards, Ms. Norris, Kurri, Bossy, Lafleur, Dryden, Orr, Phil and Craig, and the rest, even if just for a second.
Posted by Risto