When I was twelve years old, I got a book for Xmas. Now, I understand that hockey players (and coaches) and reading don’t always seem to mix, but this was a special book. That book essentially made me who I am. I read it that night, and again the next day. I carried it around with me for a while.

It was Valery Kharlamov’s autobiography. In Finnish, the title (in Finnish) was “Maalintekijänä numero 17” which means “Goal scored by number 17”.

Kharlamov was my biggest idol. He was small, fast, imaginative, creative, tough (as in already having made one comeback after a serious car accident and never giving up) and just an amazing skater. He was a winner, he was a member of the world’s best line, he scored the big goals, he scored the flashy goals, and – he looked like my father.

When some raved about Finnish legends, and others regarded Phil Esposito as the best forward ever to play the game, I cheered for the tiny Russian. He had a Koho stick, I wanted one. He used his speed to survive in the rink, I did, too. He never retaliated, he never let the other team see if he got hurt, so I had to learn to be cool as well. Kharlamov was only 5-6, so dammit, who cared about size? I didn’t even want to get taller than that! (And didn’t).

I used to sit in my room, and write pages after pages after pages about a fictional World Championship final between the Soviet Union and Sweden in the style of the most famous Finnish play-by-play guy, Raimo Häyrinen. And they all ended in the same fashion: “And there’s the loose puck, Kharlamov picks it up, he accelerates and is now on the Swedish blueline, he looks up, Sweden’s Mats Waltin is trying to stop him, but Kharlamov flashes past him, he passes the puck to Mikhailov, Mikhailov gives it back to Kharlamov, who cuts in the middle … he shoots .. and he scores. 4-3 for the Soviets, and the third of the night for the tiny and gritty Kharlamov, the greatest player ever!”

And then I switched my number from 31 to 17. My Mom made the sweater smaller to fit me, and my coach-Dad put together a line where my linemates wore numbers 16 and 13, for Petrov and Mikhailov respectively.

I was just like Kharlamov.

I couldn’t wait for December when the traditional Izvestia Cup was played in Moscow so that I could see Kharlamov play again. I longed to see that small guy just skate around big defensemen and score.

And, boy, did Kharlamov ever do that. And boy, mostly around Finnish defensemen, it seemed. That, I learned later, wasn’t even simply my imagination, that was a fact. Kharlamov scored most of his goals against Finland; 48 goals in 65 games.

Also, he played his last game in the famous CCCP sweater in Helsinki, Finland in August 1981. Ten days later, he was killed in a car accident on the highway between Moscow and St. Petersburg (Leningrad) after coach Viktor Tikhonov had cut him from the Canada Cup team.

As for me, after that Canada Cup, I changed my number from 17 to 99 (for obvious reasons), for a season, and then went back to 17. I got real. I was no Gretzky, I was a Kharlamov.

Writing this, and thinking about Kharlamov, I realized that I never saw him smile. All those moves, all those goals, all those big wins, and I never saw him smile. Even in the book, with 35 photos of Valery Kharlamov, there is not one where he’d smile. Like a clown who’s sad behind the mask, straight-faced Kharlamov brought joy to hockey fans around the world.

If there ever was a player worthy of a Hockey Hall of Fame induction, it is Valery Kharlamov.

I think I’ll just have to read that book again on Monday. And smile.