Six Down, Ten to Go

In which Buffalo Sabres fans learn the fickle nature of the hockey gods.

“Why Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen’s Game 2 gaffe could flip Bruins-Sabres in a bad way.” -Internet headline.

When the Buffalo Sabres’ goalie, Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen, let in that embarrassing goal on a long, slow shot in game two (April 21) of the opening round of the NHL playoffs against the Bruins, a great cry rose into the rafters to have him cast into the abyss alongside Scott Norwood and Ronnie Harmon. “Off with his head!” the armchair experts in every sports bar across the 716 railed. “Doomsday,” read the headlines. “Oh, my god; it’s the Buffalo Sports Curse, come to haunt us again.”

I, on the other hand, sent the fellow a silent message, letting him know I felt a familiar, queazy dread in my gut when the goal light went on.

I was transported to February of 1968, my senior year, and a game we were playing against Ridley Academy of St. Catharines, Ontario. I was second string goalie, a distant second, but Coach Truscott thought I deserved to play now and again, and this would be my “now,” with no “again” guaranteed.

The game itself has faded, except for one moment, a terrible moment that will live in infamy. A Ridley player had sent a lazy shot from center ice goalward to give his teammates an opportunity to change players on the fly. Well, that puck was moving slowly, an easy stop for any goalie. Just stop it, turn it aside for a defenseman to take care of. Nothing to it, or so you might think. In my memory I had a day and a half to get ready for that simple save. Then, somehow, the puck hit an ice divot or something and bounced over my stick, between my pads and, my mad flailing about like a fish on a dock notwithstanding, into the net. The goal light glowed as bright red as a clown’s nose.

The calm before the storm, with the first string goalie, Steve Fernow, left; and team manager, Peter Gow,; and me, 1968.

My humiliation might not have been so total had there not been girls in the stands that day. Pretty girls. One girl in particular I hoped to impress with my goaltending prowess, maybe to the point where I could ask her out. But standing there, even wearing 50 pounds of equipment, my nakedness was complete. I wished Mr. Peabody’s WayBack Machine* would show up, so I could retreat to a faraway time.

Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen, I felt your pain that might. I have felt the pain of every goaltender across North America who has ever let in a goal that a two-year-old could have stopped. Even Montreal’s Jakub Dobes, who was surprised by a goofy bounce off the corner boards and let in a critical goal in the Sabres’ eventual 3-2 victory last night (May 12); I feel his pain. Well, okay, his pain I didn’t feel quite so much.

The hockey gods are fickle, though; what they take away, they occasionally restore. March of 1968, the last game of the season against an excellent team from Lake Placid. Since we had lost the night before in a four-team tournament, we had no shot at winning the trophy, so my “again” arrived. I was starting in goal.

Perhaps the hockey gods thought I had suffered enough for one season, one career, perhaps the other team had been bribed—whatever. But some magic inhabited my scrawny (at the time) body, giving me SuperGoalie powers. Not only did I stop whatever came my way, but hutzpah had been delivered to me. I went out to challenge a shooter on a breakaway, poking the puck away just in the nick. I leapt into scrums to smother pucks. I slid across the goal mouth, taking away sure goals from the opposition. Never before had those skills arisen. Never again would they return.

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Fifty-eight years later, I still hang onto the skates and mask I wore during my trial and triumph.

So, too, did the gods restore Ukko-Pekka last night (Tuesday, May 12). In goal after serving a seven-game banishment for his gaffe, he stood like Cereberus of Greek mythology, gatekeeper of the Underworld. Credit for the victory sits to a large extent on Ukko-Pekka’s Scandinavian shoulders.

As for the girl in the stands way back when—I think her name was Peggy or was it Sally?—I met her outside the rink as I headed to the gym for a shower and a change of clothes after my magical moment.

“Hey,” I said.

“Nice game, today,” she said.

“You want to go to the party at Jewett’s with me?” I ventured.

“Uh, maybe.”

That’s a whole other set of gods.

*Those of a certain vintage will remember Mr. Peabody and his protege, Sherman, from “The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show” animated series in the 1960s.