Tonight, I am back at the new Little Caesars Arena, admittedly at the last second when tickets on the secondary market were cheap. The Red Wings continue to limp through the season at around the .500 mark, and much trade speculation is whirling about. This is going to be a very interesting off season.While watching the game tonight (an eventual 3-2 Flyers win in OT) I thought of another game between these two teams played in Detroit 20 years, 7 months and 17 days ago.
June 7, 1997.
On
June 7, 1997, the Detroit Red Wings won the Stanley Cup at Joe Louis Arena,
defeating the Philadelphia Flyers in a four game sweep. I was there with my
parents and cousin Kristina. Like a lot of 20-year-old memories, even
extraordinary ones, some things from that night are fuzzy, worn down by time.
Other things are as sharp as if they happened last week. It was the climax of a
saga that saw the Red Wings rise from the worst team in the NHL to Stanley Cup
champion in 11 years. For many of us Wings fans, seeing our team heavily
favored for several years only to be inevitably denied a Cup win, this evening
was as much relief as happiness. They (and us fans) had finally made it. Nobody
knew it then, but that night would be the first of four Cup wins over the next
11 years, making the Wings a modern day hockey dynasty.
Entering
Joe Louis Arena that warm June night, there was a surrealness and anxiousness
to it all. Having won the first three games of the Finals, it was pretty much a
foregone conclusion the Wings would win the Cup…. but in Detroit? Or would
Philly win Game 4 to take the party away from us? Against a very good Flyers
club, the Wings took advantage of poor goaltending and, using the Russian style
of puck possession, kept the puck away from Eric Lindros and his mighty Legion
of Doom line, shutting them down the entire series. Lindros, that generation’s
hockey prodigy, would never get that close to a Cup again.
 |
| McCarty scoring the Stanley Cup winning goal |
Entering
the third period, the Wings led 2-0 on goals by Nicklas Lidstrom and a freakish
Mario Lemiuexesque goal by Darren McCarty (to this day, I have no memory of
that goal, other than the replays). Despite the lead, I had a knot in my
stomach. The end of the game was coming, We had a comfortable lead. The
celebration was c
oming. The realization of the dreams of millions was coming. But
we weren’t there yet.
As
play continued on the ice, the crowd would break out in spontaneous cheering as
the clock wound down. Waves of noise rising, falling, then rising again. With
about 2 minutes left in the third period, the noise got louder, with many waving
the white pom poms that the team gave out. On the ice, the Wings showed no
emotion, and went about their business as if it was some random game in
January. Suddenly, spontaneously, everyone in the arena rose to their feet,
cheering. The waves of noise gave way to a constant roar. I saw grown men
starting to cry. Some people had serious looks on their faces, masking their
excitement, still worrying their hopes would be crushed. The floor shook. The
emotional part of my head caught up to my logical one, and I said to Kristina,
“my God, we are about to win the Stanley Cup!” The Flyers pulled their goalie.
It was coming. We all knew it. A two goal lead. After years of watching NHL
hockey, it wouldn’t be Edmonton, Montreal, or Pittsburgh. It would be the Red
Wings. Our Red Wings. My Red Wings. Budd Lynch announced the last minute of
play with a flourish. The crowd got louder. The Wings and Flyers kept battling,
and a few missed shots on the empty Flyer net elicited a loud collective groan
from the crowd, and the roar, momentarily subsided, came right back.
Play
was stopped. The crowd continued to roar. The DJ played the Phil Collins song
“In The Air Tonight”. I looked for Steve Yzerman. He was my favorite player,
almost a consistent presence in my life since I was in middle school. In the
way he conducted himself on and off the ice, he defined class as a player and
as a human being. At this moment, I was incredibly excited for him. I saw him
standing up from his seat on the team bench. As captain, he would be the man to
receive the Cup shortly. He had endured so much with this team – heartbreaking
overtime losses, upsets at the hands of inferior teams, and even whispers that
he was not the kind of player who would win anything. What was he thinking at a
moment like this? He leaned forward, stick in hand, both hands on the rink
dasher. Even from my seat in the upper bowl, I could see he was breathing
heavily. The long journey for him was coming to its final destination.
Someone
threw an octopus on the ice right before the faceoff. Everything stopped for Al
Sobotka to come out to get it. The crowd booed. No matter what the octopus
tradition was, it was an ill-timed toss. We all wanted to get this game over
with. Finally, the puck was dropped, The clock ticked away. I went back and
forth between watching the action and the clock. 30 seconds left, 20 seconds…the
crowd roared…18…17…16…
Then
Philly scored. Eric Lindros, no less. With
15 seconds left in the game. It was now 2-1.
As
loud as the Joe was previous to that moment, it was now instantly silent. The
ghosts of past playoff disappointments flickered briefly in our collective
minds. I immediately said to Kristina, ‘This will be a tense 15 seconds”. But,
I also knew it would be pretty much a miracle for the Flyers to tie it up. Possible,
but unlikely. The rest of the crowd knew it too, and the noise soon ramped
right back up. There was a faceoff at center ice. Another whistle for an
offside. Budd Lynch said something on the arena loudspeaker I couldn’t decipher.
Another faceoff. 6 seconds left. The puck was lifted gently towards the Wings
goal, where goalie Mike Vernon steered it away.
The
final horn blared. The game was over.
Everything
erupted. Everyone was cheering and the Joe got louder, if that was even
possible. My family and I all hugged each other. I watched the Wings players
all mob each other behind their goal. The Flyers solemnly gathered around their
goal. Television crews and photographers rushed onto
the ice. The arena DJ was playing “Oh What A Night” by the Four Seasons, a
perfect selection. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Then, in one
of hockey’s great traditions, the two teams got into a line to shake hands. In
this almost dreamlike environment, this tradition brought me back to reality.
This was really happening. The Flyers, one by one, quietly disappeared from the
ice. Confetti rained down. Fireworks went off.
NHL
commissioner Gary Bettman came out, and, in another great hockey tradition, was
heavily booed. He awarded the Conn
Smythe Trophy to Mike Vernon, who would never again play for the Red Wings.
Then, Phil Pritchard, still the keeper of the Cup to this day, in white gloves,
brought out the most beautiful trophy in sports.
Bettman
gave a little speech, but I couldn’t hear it. Steve Yzerman entered the
picture. The Cup was on a table. We all knew what was coming next. Bettman went
to give the trophy to Yzerman, but the transfer was an awkward one. Bettman
stopped to pose for a picture as he was handing it off, and Yzerman, having grabbed
the two ends of the trophy to raise it, wasn’t expecting him to pause. He
dutifully waited for Bettman to pose. Finally, after a couple of moments,
Bettman let go.
Yzerman,
in one motion, lifted the Cup over his head, and a roar of which had never been
heard in the history of Detroit hockey went up. I was almost dizzy. I was
relieved. I was happy. I still was in disbelief. The image of Yzerman lifting
the Cup over his head was something that I had imagined many times, but to see
it in real life, with my own eyes, was mind blowing. I had sensory overload,
and I had to tell myself to calm down and enjoy the moment. Which I did. Flashbulbs
were going off everywhere. Yzerman, in a move that I had never seen before,
took the Cup around the entire rink by himself in a victory lap. He would stop
at the Wings bench, giving it briefly to a beeming Mike Ilitch. 
Tradition calls
for the Cup to be handed off from the captain to a worthy NHL veteran, usually a
first time Cup winner. Yzerman handed it off to Slava Fetisov, the legendary
Russian defenseman who was the first high profile Russian player to play in the
NHL. He and longtime teammate Igor Larionov both took the Cup for a skate,
adding it to their impressive trophy cases. It went on and on until every
player took a spin. Vladimir Konstantinov, six days away from the tragic limo
accident that ended his playing career, got an especially loud ovation when he
lifted the Cup, as did Mike Vernon. Scotty Bowman had changed clothes and put
his skates on so he could skate around with the Cup. After every player and
coach had a turn lifting the Cup, they gathered for the traditional informal
team photo. This photo hangs in my house today, and I look at it every day.
Yzerman is in the middle, smiling, and missing a tooth. Vernon is sprawled out
in front, smoking a cigar. Everyone smiling. Even Scotty Bowman. 
The
Cup was then carried off to the Wing’s dressing room, and the Joe slowly
emptied out, with many people staying around taking pictures. Leaving the arena
with the other witnesses to this great evening, I had never seen such a
collective group of happy people. High fiving. Screams of victory. Outside,
police were on foot, horseback, and motorcycles to make sure the celebration
didn’t get out of hand, which it never did. Everyone was too happy. I bought a
locker room celebration hat, which I still have in mint condition. I wore it to
my last game at the Joe, this past March.
My
mom screamed so much she didn’t have a voice for two days after the game.
Kristina would have to be at her job at Dunkin Donuts at 5:30 am the next
morning, but, despite that, she was a trooper and enjoyed the moment as she
should have. My dad, someone never interested in sports, yet had paid for years
of expensive season tickets through his business so we could all see this
incredible event, was impressed by the experience. “Worth every penny,” he told
me that night.
Me? I
thanked both of my parents for the opportunity to see something like this. I
went home and sat in the dark for awhile. No matter what happened in the
future, I had seen my team, the one I lived and died with for many years, win
it all. The Red Wings had paid off their fans for the emotional investment we
had put into them. We would always have this moment. And it was a sweet moment.
There was a message on my answering machine (remember those?) from my then-girlfriend,
now wife. “Congratulations!” Michelle
said to me on the tape. “I am sooooo happy for you!”. She was visiting Toronto with her mom, and
would later tell me of the many people she saw watching the game. Apparently even
Toronto fans were happy that the Wings, a fellow Original Six team, had won. Little
did Michelle know what would be in store for her a year later, when we would
journey to Washington D.C. in pursuit of another Stanley Cup for the Red Wings.
But
that’s another story.
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