Even with the plan in hand and financing in place, Maple Leaf Gardens remained a project under pressure. Money issues remained: Thomson Brothers, who took part of their fee in shares, failed to make a profit. There was a fistfight at the construction site one day over the decision to give the builders a break on wages. An official with the electrical union, who favoured the deal, won the battle as other workers cheered the two on.1 As costs mounted, Eaton’s agreed to a second mortgage that would delay repayment on $100,000 of the money they were owed.2
Mostly, though, the challenge was one of time. Thomson’s crews had just over five months to erect the immense structure. The steam shovels started at midnight Sunday, May 31, and worked day and night through the summer. As Smythe had hoped, the project quickly became a matter of civic pride. “It will be a credit to the city and the province, an arena of unequaled facilities and an imposing building that will be an ornament to Toronto’s latest retail district,” wrote Hewitt. “The project is strictly a Toronto concern in every respect, designed, financed, built and controlled, and will be a matter of pride for all good citizens. To Connie Smythe’s determination and vision goes the lion’s share of the credit for putting the project over, although everybody interested has put his shoulder to the wheel – and soon their dreams will be realized.”
Smythe virtually lived at the site, as did Allan Thomson, one of the four brothers who, with their father, made up Thomson Brothers. Smythe marvelled at Thomson’s composure – not once did he lose his temper “regardless of the provocation.”3 People stopped to watch from the sidewalk as the skeleton took shape, then as the vast web of steel that would support the dome was put in place.
Impressive numbers were quoted and details shared: the Gardens consumed 13,500 cubic yards of concrete, 600 tons of reinforcing steel, 760 tons of structural steel, and 1.5 million bricks and tile. The dome, 207 by 225 feet, rose 150 feet above street level. The ice pad consisted of four inches of concrete, topped by four inches of cork, which was in turn covered with zinc. Ten miles of cooling pipes from Stelco were laid on top, covered with another inch and a quarter of concrete. A local engineering review devoted sixteen pages to describing the project, most of them filled with ads from suppliers boasting of the parts, equipment, walls, or wiring they had provided.4 Pits for column footings and retaining walls were dug by hand by some of the thirteen hundred men on site. Two concrete mixers were installed, one at the east end and one at the west, so the centre could be kept open for the steel contractors. To achieve the promised sightlines the rink was designed with no supporting pillars, which required girders so weighty they had to be made on the spot.* Although C. Smythe Ltd. provided some of the building material, Smythe limited the business he gave himself to avoid criticism.5
Foster Hewitt was impressed by the icemaking operation, which he described in some detail: 16,000 gallons of brine was pumped through 68,000 feet of pipe at a temperature as low as minus 28 degrees Fahrenheit. As the concrete cooled, a thin layer of water was sprayed on top. In all it took sixteen layers of water to produce half an inch of ice.6 Harold Ballard, decades later, would also be intrigued by the brine system, though for different reasons – he suggested filling it with pickles to sell to Gardens patrons.7
For most of June the site was an enormous hole in the ground with men scurrying about, building support walls, pouring cement, and creating the substructure. By mid-July the pit began to disappear and signs of walls appeared. By early August the first evidence of support for seating areas was evident, and an enormous tower had sprouted to enable the steelwork for the roofing. By September the exterior walls were recognizable along Carlton, with elongated windows and protruding brickwork to disguise its size and prevent the finished building from looking like a big yellow box. The laying of the cornerstone on September 22 was presided over by Lt.-Gov. W.D. Ross, with a dedicatory prayer by none other than the Rev. John G. Inkster of the Knox Presbyterian Church, who had evidently lost his aversion to professional sports once they moved far enough away from his pulpit on Spadina Avenue. “Grant, O Lord, that it may contribute to wholesome entertainment, healthful recreation and good fellowship. Keep everything connected with this arena clean, pure and honest,” he intoned.8
By mid-October – with just weeks to go – the Gardens was at last enclosed, with exposed beams, a cement floor, and seating areas. Ticket sales had started in an office across the street, and demand was healthy. Smythe and Selke stopped by one day to watch appreciatively, drinking in the scene as eager fans stood in line waiting their turn. One family wanted to ensure they’d get a good look at Horner, their favourite Leaf, finally deciding on seats by the penalty box where he spent so much of his time. Smythe objected to a complaint that prices had been increased. No such thing, he responded. Tickets could be had at all prices, he had simply added plusher padded seats for those willing to pay more.9
Icemaking began in early November, with the Leafs able to practise in their new home a week before opening night. Busher Jackson turned up with his arm in a sling after he “tried to make his car do a trapeze act on a hydro tower,” according to Marsh. “Where the Busher and his car landed there were no nets.”10 Charlie Conacher provided a second shock when he demanded a big raise. Rumour had it that Conacher, after just two seasons, wanted $10,000, the kind of money paid superstars like Morenz and Eddie Shore. Shortly afterwards the papers revealed that Conacher had been quietly wed over the summer and felt he needed more money as a result.11
Jackson’s arm healed in time and Conacher signed for a raise – though not as big a boost as he wanted. And on the evening of November 12, Maple Leaf Gardens opened exactly on time, with all the pomp and circumstance Smythe could muster. As the players skated out for the first time, the 48th Highlanders and the Royal Grenadiers, lined up at the north end, played “Happy Days Are Here Again,” a signal that it was okay, at least for one night, to ignore the gloomy tide of events that had become too commonplace in the world. That very day a Toronto court had sentenced seven “communist leaders” to seven-year prison terms for “being parties to a seditious conspiracy.” Sir Arthur Currie, in a speech at the Military Institute, warned that Japan was deliberately trying to provoke a war to soak up its two million unemployed men. Russia was reported to be on the brink of collapse, and eight officials in York Township were sent to jail for corruption.
But for one evening none of that mattered, as Torontonians were allowed to forget, and marvel at the wondrous new sports palace their city had gained.
“With its row upon row of eager-eyed enthusiasts rising up and up from the red leather cushions of the box and rail seats, where society was well represented by patrons in evening dress, through section after section of bright blue seats to the green and grey of the top tier, the spectacle presented was magnificent,” wrote the Globe’s Bert Perry. “The immensity of this hippodrome of hockey, claimed to be the last word in buildings of its kind, was impressed upon the spectator, and those present fully agreed that Toronto had at last blossomed forth into major league ranks to the fullest extent.”
The Telegram pointed out that the top row of seats at one end was a full city block from the top row at the other and heaped praise on the ventilation system, which kept the air in “a pleasant state” for three hours despite a sold-out crowd of 13,542.
Smythe loved a ceremony, but had laid it on a bit thick. After the bands played, the Leafs lined up and were presented with floral horseshoes on behalf of the city. J.P. Bickell, fortified with a few advance libations, talked too long, determinedly finishing his speech despite cries of “Play hockey!”12 from the crowd. He was followed by Ontario premier George Stewart Henry, who gave way to Chicago Black Hawks’ Marvin Wentworth, who surrendered the microphone to the Leafs’ Hap Day, who said a few words and turned it over to Mayor W.J. Stewart. By this time, the Telegram reported, the crowd had had more than enough. “It must be reported, one fears, that the crowd was a little bit rude, and that they made it pretty clear that they had come to see a hockey game and didn’t care much about speeches.”13
Finally, Mayor Stewart dropped the first puck and the game got under way. It was, everyone agreed later, a disappointment. The Leafs, perhaps overwhelmed by the glitz and glamour, looked sluggish and disorganized. They outshot Chicago 51–35, but displayed little of the speed and teamwork they were purported to possess. Conacher lit up the crowd when he fired one of his patented rockets past the Hawks’ Charlie Gardiner, but it was the only goal the Leafs could manage. Conacher aided the cause again by crashing into Gardiner and sending him to the dressing room for a lengthy delay, the crowd forced to sit and wait again as Chicago had no spare. Unfortunately for the Leafs, on his return he was just as effective and Chicago put the night to bed with a 2–1 victory.
It barely mattered. There would be plenty of hockey games to come. “It was a night that will live long in the memories of the fans, even if the home team lost,” summed up W.A. Hewitt.
The accolades were not out of place. There was simply nothing else like Maple Leaf Gardens anywhere in Canada. As a hockey rink, and as a venue for concerts, circuses, or conventions, it was in a class of its own. It was more than just a step-up on the old, cramped, badly ventilated Arena Gardens; it was a generation or more ahead of any other building in the country. It was clean, comfortable, and welcoming. It had conveniences no one had imagined for a hockey arena. Smoking in the seating areas was strictly forbidden, a risky idea for a sport favoured by men with cigars. Everyone smoked in those days. Even the players smoked, though the Leafs had to sneak butts between periods while hiding in the toilets because Smythe had banned booze and tobacco in the dressing room. Hallways were wide and there were lounges for congregating between periods. A reporter marvelled that the building could be cleared in a matter of minutes without a sense of being crushed by the crowd. Smythe was a stickler for cleanliness and took particular pride in keeping the toilets clean. Years later, when he got into a battle with the Detroit Red Wings’ ownership, he repeatedly made disparaging remarks about the women’s washrooms at the Olympia until someone shut him up by asking why he was so interested in women’s washrooms. Paint was applied so frequently that, even decades later, the building had the feel of newness. To keep the place running smoothly, Smythe had hired away the Arena Gardens’ manager, Andy Taylor, and paid him well enough that Taylor was able to buy himself a new home in the ritzy Forest Hill neighbourhood.
Seat prices were reasonable. The cheapest seats could be had for a dollar and sometimes less – on slow nights the Gardens would occasionally discount tickets to boost the crowd – within the range of anyone lucky enough to be employed. Despite its exalted status the Gardens was never out of reach of the average Canadian. The best seats went for three dollars.14 As with the theatre or other cultured forms of entertainment – which Smythe wanted to emulate – higher prices bought greater comfort. At the Arena Gardens, other than a few box seats, even the best locations were little more than plank benches. In Smythe’s new rink the seats in the greys, the least expensive section, were little better, but comfort increased as you descended toward ice level, culminating in the top-priced reds, which were wider and better padded and served by usherettes in cute little uniforms in Maple Leafs blue.
Patrons in the reds were expected to dress for the occasion. Men wore suits and ladies came in stoles and heals. The emphasis on proper attire had a self-perpetuating effect: well-dressed women weren’t about to arrive with poorly dressed men, and if every other man in the section had on a tie, any man who turned up without one would stick out. Everyone – absolutely everyone – wore hats, of course, and flung them on the ice when they got excited or angry. Even in the Depression, people typically dressed more formally than they do now in any case. Men wore ties to work or when dining out; even lowly paid sports reporters wore decent suits. Foster Hewitt was always immaculately dressed in suit and tie to sit in his little wooden gondola, dangling from the rafters fifty-six feet above the ice where no one could see him.
Hewitt was fearless when it came to heights. As a young broadcaster he would sometimes climb to the roof of football stadiums to get an unobstructed view. Once, covering a game in a hail storm, he became frozen to a tin roof and could only be dislodged – minus the seat of his pants – by repeated yanking on his safety rope.
The catwalk that led to his gondola was a full ninety feet above the ground, just eighteen inches wide, and in the early days lacked a railing to help maintain balance. Smythe, Selke, and Hewitt’s own father never went there, too intimated by the dangers involved.15
Hewitt’s broadcasts from the Gardens made him a national celebrity. The self-contained, moon-faced young man was already well known in Toronto, where he was the radio voice for everything from football games to marathon swims. His name appeared in the paper almost as much as his father’s, and when he covered an out-of-town college game it would sometimes be broadcast back to the Arena Gardens, where management piped it out over loudspeakers. But this was an entirely different business. As Smythe discovered when Hewitt agreed to plug his special Leafs program, people listened to Foster. He became a part of their family – not just a disembodied voice on the radio, but someone they felt they knew. The first broadcast from the Gardens was carried on just three stations, but within a year a rudimentary national network of twenty stations had been set up, carrying his voice across the country.16 Canada had a population of just over ten million in 1931; one survey calculated that one in ten were tuned in to Hewitt when a game was on.17 Within a year his audience had grown to an estimated three-quarters of everyone listening to the radio on Saturday night.18
While French Canada remained loyal to the Canadiens and English Quebec to the Maroons, thanks to Hewitt’s broadcasts the rest of the country went over wholesale to the Leafs. On post-season “barnstorming” tours with other NHL teams, fans would wait at distant railway stations, ignoring stars from Detroit or Montreal while crowding around Leafs players for autographs and demanding, “Where’s Foster?”19 Smythe realized that a growing percentage of ticket sales were going to out-of-towners, so the more famous Hewitt became, the better for the team. For the most part he left him alone, though he did suggest he find a phrase besides “He shoots, he scores!” every time there was a goal. Smythe thought it was unoriginal and repetitive. Hewitt, wisely, ignored him.20
They were an odd pair in many ways, but alike in others. Hewitt was cool, aloof, and self-contained; Smythe was bold, outspoken, and prone to explosions. Hewitt had made his first broadcast at age twenty, though he told people he’d been eighteen, an odd bit of vanity from a man who normally disliked attention.21 He fell into the job largely as a way to stay out of his father’s shadow: W.A. got him a position at the Star, but eager to establish his own identity, Foster stayed away from the sports department.
He had been broadcasting for several years before Smythe bought the St. Patricks, delivering his first play-by-play into a telephone receiver from inside a glass box at rinkside, which fogged up for lack of air holes. He had been warned that Smythe had “a dominant personality” and dealt with him cautiously. “I made a practice through the years of discussing only matters of importance.”22 For his part, Smythe found Hewitt difficult to sort out. “He’s a hard man to get to know and, like me, he paddles his own canoe,” he said, adding, “He and I were friends without being married to one another.”23
Despite their differences Smythe and Hewitt were both ambitious, determined men. Smythe was impressed by his surprising toughness, which poked through the bland exterior any time he was challenged. Hewitt lacked his father’s engaging personality, but had inherited his knack for making money; while Smythe drew a paycheque at the Gardens, Hewitt worked for himself and built extensive interests in broadcasting, advertising, mining, and oil, which made him a millionaire many times over.*
Hewitt sometimes wondered what would have happened if the Leafs hadn’t been such an exciting team in the 1930s. The Gardens made a profit of $40,535 its first season and, despite some dips, made money all through the Depression, doubling net income to $87,000 by 1938.24 It might have been a different story if they hadn’t quickly become Stanley Cup champions and a fixture in the finals every spring, if they hadn’t had the Kid Line and Clancy and Horner, and, later, Syl Apps, and the unflappable goalie, Turk Broda. No matter how impressive the building, it would have been harder to excite listeners over a last-place club stuffed with also-rans; if “He shoots, He scores” had constantly referred to the visiting teams.
After that first game in the Gardens it looked like that might be the case. The Leafs immediately went on a losing streak: in their first five games they managed only two ties. Smythe thought they looked flabby and uninterested. He decided he’d made a mistake in hiring Art Duncan, who was so disinterested that he only attended games he had to coach.25
Two weeks into the season he sent a telegram to Dick Irvin, another former player he admired, who had retired after fracturing his skull in a game. He spent the 1930–31 season coaching the Black Hawks for the irascible – and frequently irrational – Major McLaughlin. Perennial underachievers, the Hawks nonetheless responded to Irvin and came within a game of winning the Stanley Cup, blowing their chance after a handful of Hawks went out and got drunk the night before the final game.26 McLaughlin waited through the summer before sending Irvin a brusque telegram informing him he was no longer employed. Two months later the offer from Smythe arrived. Duncan was out; Smythe gave the job to Irvin, who arrived in Toronto three days later in time for a game against the Boston Bruins.
With the Leafs in last place, Smythe decided he should give the new coach a chance to get to know the team before taking over; he declared he would coach that night while Irvin could sit nearby and observe. Smythe had the Leafs up by three goals when Boston rallied and tied it up. Smythe turned to Irvin and said, “You take over, Dick,” and walked away.27
Irvin won that game, then proceeded to turn the Leafs into champions. Smythe had many reasons to admire him: he was a veteran who had been wounded in the war and still occasionally felt the aftereffects. He’d been a fine player and tough competitor, and was a skilled and innovative coach. Like Smythe, Selke, and Day, he didn’t drink or smoke, giving the Leafs a uniquely temperance-minded leadership. That included Clancy, who maintained he’d never had a drop of alcohol in his life, though he joined other Leafs in sneaking smokes behind Smythe’s back. In addition to his skills as a coach, Irvin mastered the difficult art of getting along with Smythe while remaining his own man. Selke recalled that on the day Irvin arrived in Toronto, showing up hours early for his appointment at the Gardens, he inquired what Smythe was like. Selke replied that the Leafs manager was the boss with a capital B. Smythe called the shots and brooked no challengers. At the same time, he didn’t like yes men. The trick was knowing when to stand your ground.
Irvin passed that first test, getting into a heated debate during his interview with Smythe over the correct way to check opposing forwards. When they emerged, said Selke, Smythe was shaking his head and muttering about Irvin’s stubborn streak. In one of Irvin’s first games as coach, the Leafs were manhandled 8–2 by the Maroons, but by Christmas they were out of the basement and above .500. Irvin had quickly spotted the problem: Art Duncan’s coaching philosophy hadn’t included excessive concern over conditioning, and the Leafs had grown flabby. They started well enough, but ran out of gas partway through the game.
Smythe concluded a few weeks into Irvin’s tenure that he finally had a winner on his hands. There was a new intensity, a hunger not just to succeed but to conquer. Even when they’d defeated one opponent, the team would come off the ice snarling for more. Chabot was suspended for a game for trying to punch a goal judge over a disputed call. In another game, in Boston, Smythe became so incensed at the referee he reached out and grabbed him as he skated past the bench. When the referee ejected him, he refused to leave, sparking a standoff – with players, ushers, and police all involved – until the Bruins owner negotiated a truce.28 Toronto ended the season with the league’s third-best record and three players – Jackson, Primeau, and Conacher – among the top four scorers, with Jackson leading the league. They beat Chicago in the quarter-finals and eliminated the Maroons in a two-game total-goal contest in the semifinals.
The victory sent Toronto into the finals for the first time in ten years, facing the New York Rangers – still coached by Lester Patrick and led by the players Smythe had recruited six years earlier. As if Smythe needed any extra motivation, Patrick had declared that Montreal was the class of the league and the Leafs of no real concern. Colonel Hammond added to the bad blood when he suggested his Rangers had been sitting around too long between series and demanded the winner of the Maroons-Leafs contest hustle immediately to New York for the finals.
If they were trying to intimidate the young Leafs squad, it didn’t work. Toronto enjoyed a three-day rest before opening the series in New York. CFCA announced that Foster Hewitt would call all the games in full, travelling with the team so fans wouldn’t miss a minute of action. And action there was: Toronto roared into a 5–1 lead, with Jackson scoring three goals in three minutes in the middle period.29 But the Rangers stormed back, scoring three goals and hemming the Leafs in their own end, where they spent most of the third period desperately icing the puck. They were saved, wrote Lou Marsh, by a little quick thinking by Clancy and Chabot – “the solemn-faced habitant from Trois-Rivières.” After a sustained barrage by the Rangers, Chabot suddenly threw himself to the ice. While Clancy distracted the referee with an invented dispute over an offside call, Chabot managed to unbuckle one of his pads. Then he took his time fixing it, despite the spirited heckling of Rangers fans.
When Chabot was finally ready, the team was rested and reorganized. Horner potted another goal to widen the margin to two. Nonetheless, “an hour after the game was over, Conny Smythe was still fanning himself with his derby” at the narrowness of the escape.30
In the second game, wrote Marsh, the Leafs made New York “look like a $4 bankroll in a Broadway speakeasy,”31 spotting them a two-goal lead before scoring six times in succession. The victory set up a third, and possibly final, game in Toronto, igniting a hockey frenzy like none the city had seen before. W.A. Hewitt said the Gardens had received eighty thousand ticket requests. A rumour spread that Smythe intended to throw the third game to ensure at least one more gate at the Gardens. When Smythe heard it, Clancy related, he delivered one of his patented pre-game motivational addresses, demanding they “go out there and prove to the people of the world that hockey is played on a high plane, that it’s strictly on the up-and-up … If you lose, sure it’s more money in the till for me, but I’m telling you I won’t tolerate a loss tonight.”32
The team responded, opening up a three-goal lead and holding off a late comeback for a 6–4 victory, winning their first Stanley Cup. “What a lacing the Leafs gave Colonel Hammond’s Hussars in their emphatic answer to the murderous attack upon the integrity of professional hockey,” exulted Marsh. More than fourteen thousand fans were squeezed in to see the game, which dominated front pages the next day, even crowding out the search for the kidnapped Lindbergh baby. Mayor Stewart, invited to make an address after the game, only got as far as “Ladies and gentlemen” before he was chased away as fans demanded to hear from Clancy.33 Smythe acknowledged he couldn’t have written a better ending if he’d tried. He’d beaten Lester Patrick three games in a row, putting six goals in each game past former Leaf John Ross Roach. He’d shown up Colonel Hammond, who hadn’t believed he could run an NHL club. He’d built his arena against overwhelming odds and filled it with fans who couldn’t get enough of his team. And now he’d brought them a championship.*
* The figures for steel, bricks, etc., come from Contract Record and Engineering Review November 11, 1931. Other numbers have been quoted elsewhere, including in Foster Hewitt’s book Hockey Night in Canada: The Maple Leafs’ Story (p. 97).
* When Smythe died, his estate was valued at about $2 million, which grew to about $3 million after his stable of horses was sold. (Hugh Smythe interview, Feb 20, 2010) Hewitt’s holdings from his investment in CFTO-TV alone were worth about $25 million, according to John Bassett, and when he sold CKFH, the Toronto radio station that carried his initials, estimates put the price at about $4 million (Hello Canada! The Life and Times of Foster Hewitt, pp. 149, 186).
* Smythe celebrated his first Cup victory by naming three of his horses in its honour: Stanley Cup, Six to Four, and Three Straight.