The original Rangers celebrate Lester Patrick Night. From the Stan Fischler Collection
ROYAL FAMILY:
THE PATRICKS
There is no doubt that one family more than any other connected with the sport—or with any other, for that matter—helped to develop the game of ice hockey and improve it as a salable major-league product. That honor belongs to Lester and Frank Patrick.
Born on December 31, 1883, in Drummondville, Quebec, a short distance from Montreal, Lester was the first of nine children. By the time Frank was born five years later, Lester was already displaying unusual talents in rugby, lacrosse, and cricket as well as hockey. His father, a successful lumberman, moved the family to Montreal when Lester was nine, thereby exposing him to a more stimulating brand of neighborhood hockey. There, the hockey bug attached itself permanently to Lester as he sought games wherever he could find them. When he was 17, Lester enrolled at McGill University but only lasted a year. His all-consuming desire to play hockey persuaded him to work for his father’s lumber business in the off-season so he could afford to compete during the winters.
By late in 1902, Lester had earned enough to buy a train ticket to Brandon, Manitoba, where he signed with the local team and proceeded to rewrite the hockey stylebook. A defenseman with a forward’s instincts, Lester could never understand why forwards and only forwards were the puck carriers. In those days, just past the turn of the century, the defensemen had only one assignment: to halt the attack.
“Of course, at Brandon, Lester was expected to behave like a defensive player,” wrote Elmer Ferguson, the dean of Canadian hockey writers, “but instinct and temperament proved to be too strong.”
Rather than resort to the prosaic and boring technique of lifting the puck into the enemy’s end of the rink when he captured it, Lester stunned the Brandon spectators by digging his skates into the ice and rushing headlong toward the goal. Although he missed his shot, Lester left both the opposition and his teammates awed by the unorthodox performance, and at the end of the period, he was summoned to the board of directors’ room.
“What is the meaning of this?” they demanded of Lester.
He replied with the impeccable logic that was his hallmark in later years: “Why not let defensemen rush if it works—and if the fans like it?”
Unable to cope with Patrick’s reply, the directors acknowledged his point and decided to try it again in the next period.
Lester then proceeded to score a goal. In 1903 this was as unheard of as flying to the moon. The crowd loved it, and from that point on, defensemen have become as much a part of an attack as the two wings and center. Conceivably, had Lester not decided to make a rush in Brandon, Bobby Orr might never have been more than a defenseman who hurled the puck from one end of Boston Garden to the other.
But Patrick had just begun to innovate. When he arrived in Brandon, it was traditional for defensemen to stand in front of each other like point and cover-point players in lacrosse. “That doesn’t make sense,” Lester observed. “It would be a lot more logical to have the defensemen line up abreast.” This time, the directors listened without rebuke, and once again, Patrick proved his point. From then on, the tandem defense became the vogue.
After revolutionizing defensive hockey in Brandon, Lester returned to his father’s lumber business in Montreal, where he was signed by the strong Montreal Wanderers hockey club. From 1903 through 1905, Canadian hockey was dominated by the Ottawa Silver Seven, a club which won the Stanley Cup three consecutive years. But in March 1906, Ottawa went up against the Montreal Wanderers, led by Lester Patrick, and were defeated 12-10 in the two-game, total-goals series. It was Lester who scored the 11th and 12th goals for Montreal, thereby helping to win the Stanley Cup.
By now, the Patrick name was so renowned in hockey circles that when a wealthy group of businessmen in Renfrew decided to organize a major-league team, they went after Lester. He readily signed with the Renfrew Millionaires at a salary of $3,000 for 12 games. The fee was regarded as astronomical, but it inspired other promoters to grant equally large offers for other stars and set in motion the professional hockey movement.
Meanwhile, Lester’s father had decided that his lumbering fortune—and future—was in the Pacific Northwest rather than Montreal, so he moved his family and business to British Columbia. Lester once again helped the Patrick enterprise, this time by scaling, felling, hauling, and sluicing the giant trees of the Fraser Valley. Usually, brother Frank was at his side, and whenever they’d take a break from lumbering, talk would switch to hockey and what they could do about cashing in on the sport’s certain eventual boom.
With the aid of a $300,000 note from their father, Lester and Frank poured all their savings into what was to become the Pacific Coast Hockey League. They faced not only the uncertainty of public opinion, but also the dubiousness of hockey players and others who couldn’t envision a league embracing Seattle, Victoria, Edmonton, Calgary, Regina, Vancouver, and Saskatoon.
But in 1911, the Pacific Coast Hockey League was born, and for the first time, professional hockey thrived in the United States. A Patrick enclave was established in British Columbia: Lester took the Victoria sextet while Frank ran the Vancouver club.
Any doubts about the wisdom of creating a major hockey league in the West were erased as soon as the schedule began. Starved for evening entertainment, the citizens of Seattle, Vancouver, Victoria, and the other cities in the league welcomed the Patricks’ organization, and Lester and Frank responded with a determined effort to improve the brand of hockey being dispensed.
It was the Patricks who introduced the penalty shot to hockey, as well as numbers on the players’ jerseys and the new offside rule that enabled a player to pass the puck from behind the opponent’s net to a teammate skating in front of it.
The idea for the penalty shot was inspired while the Patricks were visiting England. They had gone to a soccer match and were enthralled by the excitement produced by a penalty shot in the game; consequently, it became part of their ice hockey rules as soon as they returned. Likewise, the scheme for numbering players was the result of a day at a baseball park when the brothers realized that they couldn’t identify many of the participants. “If we can’t tell who these guys are,” said Frank, “it must be the same for our fans watching hockey.”
The next season, all Pacific Coast Hockey League players wore numbered jerseys. Fans not only relished the innovation but bought so many souvenir programs that promoters up and down North America picked up on the idea. Soon, “You can’t tell the players without a program” became a byword in American sport.
Speeding the flow of a hockey game became an obsession with the Patricks. They were particularly appalled by the way a referee could slow the game down to a virtual halt by an endless series of penalties. At times, each side could be reduced to two men, including the goaltenders, and the games then became a bore. As a result, the Patricks invented the delayed-penalty system that ensures four skaters on the ice no matter how many infractions are called.
They then legalized kicking the puck in certain areas of the rink and also introduced the assist to scoring records. “Practically every forward step taken by professional hockey between 1911 and 1925 can be traced to the keen mind of Frank Patrick and the practical knowledge of Lester, who tried out every rule first to prove its soundness,” wrote Arthur Mann. “Between the two, they just about made the game what it was before it hit the big cities below the border.”
Thanks to Lester and Frank, the blue lines made their appearance in the Pacific Coast League during the 1914-15 season. To familiarize the fans, Lester informed the local newspapers, and detailed explanations of the purpose of the blue lines were printed in each league city. Needless to say, a bit of confusion resulted, especially in Lester’s “home” city of Victoria. He liked to joke about the bafflement and frequently told the story of the day his crack defenseman Ernie “Moose” Johnson was asked by a fan to explain the blueline rules.
Johnson laughed. “What’s the blueline all about?” he repeated.
“Don’t ask me, bud. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one rule in hockey—you take the puck on your stick and you shoot it in the net!”
Lester Patrick (left) with his sons, Murray (center) and Lynn (right).
From the Stan Fischler Collection
Although Lester was basically a defenseman and also played rover in the seven-man game, his affection for goaltending would occasion a handful of remarkable exploits between the pipes. The earliest of these occurred in Victoria when Patrick’s goalie, Hec Fowler, was ejected from a game. Lester decided to replace him but chose not to wear the traditional pads because he found them too cumbersome. He went into the nets wearing his defenseman’s attire and foiled all shots hurled by the Vancouver team. When it was over, Patrick dismissed his feat with typical logic: “I worked on a simple principle—only one puck could come at a time. I stopped each shot and we won!”
After gaining some practical experience in the nets, Lester decided it was ill-advised to retain a rule that forced goaltenders to remain on their feet when making saves. The Patricks promptly changed the regulation, and from that point on, goaltenders began flopping, splitting, and doing everything else possible to keep the puck out of the net.
While all this was occurring, the Patricks were simultaneously engaging in a blood war with the NHL for supremacy in professional hockey. With such cities in Toronto, Montreal, and Ottawa in its fold, the NHL presented an awesome challenge, but Lester and Frank were undaunted. “They fought the National League,” wrote Elmer Ferguson, who was covering the game at the time, “raided it, took a whole champion team away on one of their forays, and forced the National League to terms.”
The high point of Lester’s managerial career at that time was reached in the spring of 1925, when his Victoria team took on the Montreal Canadiens in the Stanley Cup finals at Montreal. Victoria won the opener 5-2 and the second match 3-1 in a best-of-five playoff. Paced by Howie Morenz’s three-goal hat trick, the Canadiens topped Victoria 4-2 in the third game, but the visitors, guided by Frank Frederickson’s deft passes and his two goals, then routed Montreal 6-1 to take the series.
Flushed with success, Lester sought new worlds to conquer. He didn’t have to look far; Boston and the New York Americans had already entered the NHL, and franchises were being sought for Detroit and Chicago as well as for a second team in Manhattan. The demand for players was never greater, and while a paucity of talent still existed in the East, nobody questioned the endless stream of stars in Patrick’s Pacific Coast League.
Lester, always the shrewd businessman, fulfilled the demand by selling his Victoria team to a Detroit group while negotiating the sales of other Pacific Coast League players to NHL teams. When Conn Smythe walked out of his organizational job with the Rangers prior to the 1926-27 season, Colonel John Hammond, president of the infant New York team, promptly hired Lester as coach. Frank Patrick turned up as an NHL director and eventually found his way to Boston, where he coached the Bruins.
As Johnny-come-latelys in Manhattan, the Rangers were forced to play catch-up with the New York Americans, who had already captured the imaginations of the city’s spectators. It would require some superior hockey dealing in order to ice a representable team. Lester not only made the Rangers but developed them into a club that almost immediately outclassed the rival Amerks. Patrick’s background in the Pacific Coast League was his forte; he knew ace players the Easterners had never heard of and made the most of his knowledge.
He remembered a brother act from Saskatoon, Bill and Bun Cook, who had been overlooked by the other franchises, and signed them to Rangers contracts. Then Lester recalled a former member of the Canadian Royal Mounted Police named Frank Boucher, and he, too, was signed. Together with the Cooks, Boucher was to provide some of the most stimulating offensive hockey ever seen.
Bill Cook led the league in scoring with 33 goals in 44 games, and the Rangers—almost unbelievably—finished first place in the American Division, a whopping nine points ahead of the “established” Bruins. On March 20, 1927, Lester made what he thought would be his final appearance as a player, skating on defense for the Rangers. However, on April 12, 1928, he once again took the ice at age 44 when his regular goaltender, Lorne Chabot, was injured in the Stanley Cup series against the Montreal Maroons.
In what has gone down as one of the most spectacular efforts in sports, goalie Lester blunted the drives of such notorious marksmen as Nels Stewart, Hooley Smith, Babe Siebert, and Jimmy Ward. The following excerpt from the official NHL history as written by Charles L. Coleman concerns what took place on that memorable night in Montreal’s Forum:
“Odie Cleghorn, the Pittsburgh manager, was pressed into service to take over from Patrick on the bench when the New York manager took over the spot in goal. From then on, although it was not particularly good hockey, the crowd was entertained by Patrick’s antics in the nets and the exhortations of Odie Cleghorn from the bench. Whereas Cleghorn urged the Rangers to prevent the Maroons from shooting, Patrick kept hollering, ‘Make ’em shoot.’
“Somehow, these instructions were reconciled, and Patrick did not have too much work, although he spent a lot of time on his hands and knees. Thirty seconds after the start of the third period, Bill Cook put the Rangers one up, and they increased their efforts to protect Patrick. However, Nels Stewart was not to be denied, and he lifted one over the New York manager as he scrambled about on his knees.
“Although the crowd was sympathetic to the veteran’s efforts, they were still pulling for the Maroons. Overtime was necessary, and at seven minutes and five seconds, the hard-working Frank Boucher scored the winner on a scrambled pass from Ching Johnson to end Patrick’s anguish. His players mobbed him as he left the ice, and it appeared as if nothing could hold the Rangers down.”
Except for one game, nothing did. New York defeated Montreal 2-1 in the next game with Chabot protecting in the nets, but Patrick inserted Joe Miller as goalie in the third game, which the Maroons won 2-0. However, Miller then shut out Montreal 1-0 and stopped the Maroons 2-1 in the finale as the Rangers won their first Stanley Cup. It was only their second year in operation.
With the Cook brothers and Boucher leading the attack and such stalwart defensemen as Ching Johnson, Earl Seibert, and Ott Heller, the Rangers won their second Stanley Cup in 1933, routing Toronto in the finals three games to one.
Ever insightful, Lester perceived that some of his more formidable, older players were slowing up and it would soon be time for a change. Once again, his farsightedness paid off handsome dividends. This time, Lester devised the first full-scale farm system in hockey and began developing players in lesser leagues, hopeful that they would eventually feed the big club. In addition, he received help from an unexpected area—his own family.
Grace Patrick had given birth to a pair of extremely agile boys who developed into athletes whose skills rivaled their father. Joseph Lynn and Frederick Murray, or Muzz, could play any sport well—Muzz became heavyweight champion of Canada and was an accomplished six-day bike rider and track star—but ultimately, they loved hockey best.
Sensitive to potential charges of nepotism, Lester tried to avoid those who suggested that the eldest, Lynn, might soon be an NHL star once he became prominent with the Montreal Royals of 1934. But persuaded by friends that his son deserved a fair chance, Lester invited his boy to the Rangers’ training camp in the fall. Twenty-two other young hopefuls arrived at the Winnipeg base, and Lester kept insisting that Lynn was simply mediocre.
Yet Frank Boucher and Bill Cook were especially vocal in pointing out Lynn’s assets to Patrick. The verbal bombardment that Lester absorbed was sincere, and the Rangers boss knew it. In time, he relented and signed Lynn to play on the club’s third line.
Then Lester’s gravest fears were realized; a New York sportswriter condemned the signing as the worst form of favoritism. Lester was furious, and he launched into a tirade against the newspaperman.
“You haven’t hurt me,” Lester thundered. “You’re gnawing at the foundation of the game itself. To us, hockey means playing to win—brother against brother, father against son. It’s a sacred precept that a foul mind like yours can’t understand. My son made the team on skill alone, as any Ranger would tell you. In my opinion, you’re not fit to write about this sport.”
Lynn bolstered his father’s confidence by pulling his weight with the Blueshirts right away. After two seasons in the NHL, Lynn was hailed by no less a critic than Toronto’s manager, Conn Smythe, who offered $20,000 for Lynn’s contract. Naturally, Lester refused.
By the late ’30s, Lester had rebuilt the Rangers around Lynn, Bryan Hextall, Phil Watson, Babe Pratt, Neil and Mac Colville, and Alex Shibicky. A big defenseman, Pratt emerged as the clown prince of the team and one of Patrick’s favorites. Babe saw humor in everything, especially Lester’s idiosyncrasies. One of these was Patrick’s frugality. Lester would insist that his players buy their sticks only at Alex Taylor’s Sporting Goods Store.
“We used to call the stick ‘The Lester Patrick Special,”‘ said Pratt. “It’s true that he’d only let us buy it at Taylor’s because he had a deal with that store. Those sticks were so hard, you could barely break them. I tried once by jamming the blade into a radiator and jumping on the handle. Why, the damn stick catapulted me, and my head almost hit the ceiling.”
Pratt was always fascinated by Lester’s curious sense of values, particularly regarding such issues. “We beat Toronto once 5-0 right in Toronto, which was considered incredible because the Leafs never lost at home in those days. And when someone told Lester the boys were skating real good, he said, ‘Yeah, but they broke 14 sticks!’”
Patrick won his last Stanley Cup in April 1940, when his Rangers defeated the Toronto Maple Leafs four games to two. The final victory took place on April 11, 1940, in Maple Leaf Gardens after the teams had battled through regulation time and were tied 2-2. Taking a pass from Phil Watson, Bryan Hextall scored the winning goal at 2:07 of the first sudden-death period.
During the postgame ceremony, Lester put one arm around Lynn and the other around Muzz, who starred on defense, then led his victorious crew into the locker room. “After the game,” Pratt recalled, “Lester got us together in the dressing room and said, ‘Boys, every piece of equipment in this room belongs to the Rangers, and I don’t want to see any of it leaving!’”
The “Silver Fox,” as Lester had become known, guided the Rangers to first place in 1941-42, but the Maple Leafs obtained revenge by upsetting the New Yorkers four games to two in the opening round of the playoffs. After that, it was all downhill for Lester. More than any other club, the Rangers were devastated by World War II. Muzz Patrick, Art Coulter, Alex Shibicky, the Colville brothers, and Bill Juzda all joined the armed forces, leaving the Rangers with a skeleton team that finished an abysmal last, 19 points behind fifth-place Chicago. It was the same season after season until the war ended and the veterans returned.
The once nimble legs had stiffened with the passing of time, and neither Lynn nor Muzz nor many of the other pre-war aces could reclaim their glory days. Shortly thereafter, Lester himself retired after 20 years of running the Rangers. At the age of 70, he returned to Victoria and once again operated a team in British Columbia, where he had gotten his start as a promoter.
No individual has had a more profound influence on professional hockey’s growth than Lester Patrick. The “Silver Fox” died on June 1, 1960. Lynn eventually became vice president of the St. Louis Blues, and Muzz was coach and general manager of the Rangers. Lester’s grandson, Craig (Lynn’s son), became a regular forward on the California Golden Seals in 1971-72 before eventually becoming a successful general manager with the Rangers and, later, the Pittsburgh Penguins.
THE RETURN OF THE
BENTLEYS
THE GREATEST FORGOTTEN RANGERS GAME
Over the years, fans have talked with reverence about the time Mark Messier promised a playoff win over the Devils and delivered, not to mention the night the Rangers defeated Vancouver in 1994 to win the Stanley Cup.
Granted, those were memorable moments, but they overshadow one of the greatest games ever played by the Rangers and one that has been completely overlooked with the passing of time.
When it ended that night of January 21, 1954, the 13,463 spectators at Madison Square Garden cried inwardly, if not outwardly. An usher turned to schoolteacher Harvey Bien, who was watching his first professional hockey game, and told him that he needn’t bother coming back—there would never be another night like this one, when Doug and Max Bentley came together again and routed the Boston Bruins.
The episode reeked with schmaltz from the start. Thirty-three-year-old Max, the aging dipsy-doodler, hadn’t skated with 37-year-old brother Doug since the pair had been separated seven years earlier after long, star-filled careers as linemates on the Chicago Blackhawks. Doug, who hadn’t played in the NHL for more than two years, had spent most of the 1953-54 season as player/coach of the Saskatoon Quakers in the Western League.
What made the scenario even more dramatic was the Rangers’ frustration as they desperately tried to clamber ahead of the fourth-place Bruins, Max’s chronic depression over his injuries—whether imagined or real—and the prevailing doubt that elderly Doug could reactivate his jackrabbit legs and maintain a big-league pace after such a long layoff.
One man believed he could do it: New York Rangers manager Frank Boucher, the same man who had gambled and first talked Max out of retirement before the 1953-54 season began.
“When I quit hockey in 1955,” said Max, “I really was serious about it. . . . Then, Frank Boucher started asking if I’d play just one more season with New York. He kept hiking his offer until I accepted. The money was too good to turn down.”
Boucher believed in Max. He remembered how the two brothers had combined for so many beautiful years with the Blackhawks, teaming with Bill Mosienko to make the “Pony Line” perhaps the fastest and most artistic the NHL has ever known. And Boucher also recalled how, after being traded to Toronto for five regulars during the 1947-48 season, Max remained an ace with the Maple Leafs despite his notorious hypochondria. His Toronto boss, Conn Smythe, liked to say, “Maxie felt terrible tonight. Had the chills all day. And all he got was three goals!”
Max signed with Boucher, and a month after the 1953-54 season began, he proved that he hadn’t lost his amazing stickhandling touch. “Our town has its biggest hockey hero in years,” wrote columnist Jimmy Powers in the New York Daily News, “in the frail but ever exciting dipsy-doodler from Delisle, Saskatchewan, Max Bentley. Here is an old pro who brings the Garden crowd to its feet every time he takes the disk in his own zone and starts down the ice with it.”
Apart from his unmatched skating agility and sudden feints and swerves, Max’s trademark was a galvanic wrist shot that is unknown in contemporary hockey. “He developed that shot milking cows on the farm,” said Doug. “Milking made his wrists big and strong.”
Max couldn’t carry the Rangers alone, and there were many times that he sat, head hung low and a white towel draped over his neck, at the end of the bench, bothered by a bad back or some such ailment. Yet the vintage Max was so impressive that one night, a Garden official approached Boucher about the second Bentley.
“If Max is a sample of what one Bentley can do on that ice,” the official told Boucher, “I wish the Rangers had another to go with him. If Doug can stand up, he must be better than most of the kids we’ve got.”
Boucher agreed, in part. He knew that Doug Bentley, in his prime, would have been a superb catalyst for the Rangers—and Max—but the manager also realized that Doug had only been playing part-time, minor-league hockey while coaching and was too old and out of shape to be considered.
Or was he? The more Frank mulled it over, the more he grew convinced it was worth trying. He phoned the owner of the Saskatoon team, which had a working agreement with the Rangers, and said he wanted Doug in New York; the answer was a resounding “No!”
By now it was December, and the Rangers needed help. Normally mild-mannered, Boucher decided to get tough with the Saskatoon officials and threatened to pull the Rangers-owned players off the team, leaving the Quakers with a skeleton squad. He then tossed in a pacifier: he would replace Doug Bentley with Frankie Eddolls, a former NHL defenseman with positive coaching potential. By mid-January, the Saskatoon officials agreed, and Doug was told to grab the earliest possible flight for New York.
The thermometer read 40 degrees below zero when Doug climbed aboard the plane at Saskatoon Airport on Tuesday, January 20, 1954. From the start, he suffered doubts about the comeback. “I was only doing spot playing with the Quakers,” he said. “On top of that, I had been having a bad time with my nerves. I didn’t think the NHL would help that condition. That’s why I was against the move. But Boucher kept after me, and finally, he offered me the biggest money I ever got in my life, even in my best days with the Blackhawks. The money did it—that, and the fact that I knew I could help Max; I could assist him on the ice and settle him off the ice.”
On a Wednesday night, January 21, 1954, the Rangers were scheduled to face the fourth-place Bruins, whom New York trailed by two points. Even under the best of circumstances it would not have been easy for Doug, but plane connections caused additional problems.
“It was late Tuesday night when we left,” said Doug, “and just as we were about to take off, I discovered I had left my skates at the Saskatoon Arena. They had to hold the flight while I went back to get them.”
Boucher, a former member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, had personally flown to Saskatoon to “get his man” and sat alongside Doug as the four-engine propeller craft plied its way east. Neither man slept during the trip, which finally brought them to New York midday Wednesday. There was ice at the Garden that afternoon, so Doug took a practice skate.
By late afternoon, news media carried word that the Bentley brothers would, in fact, be reunited that night against the Bruins. “But,” said Doug, “neither Boucher nor Muzz Patrick, the Rangers’ coach, said a word about what they were going to do with me. I figured we’d play it all by ear.”
Shortly before game time, Patrick and Boucher huddled and eventually decided to place Doug on left wing—his normal position—with Max at center and Edgar Laprade on right wing. Laprade, who was normally a center, had been one of the smoothest, most adroit centers in Rangers history in his prime. But he, too, had aged. At one point, he had even retired, but Boucher persuaded him to skate once more at age 35. Many Rangers fans were skeptical about Laprade’s ability to adjust to the right-wing position while skating with the unpredictable Bentleys.
Nobody was as uncertain as Doug Bentley. As he sat nervously twitching his legs in the dressing room before the opening face-off, Doug wondered why he had ever permitted Boucher to talk him into this crazy stunt. “I was afraid I’d make a fool of myself,” the elder Bentley recalled. “I was as nervous as a kitten. . . . [I] must have walked up and down the dressing room at least a hundred times.”
At last, it was time. Organist Gladys Goodding played “The Star Spangled Banner,” and referee Frank Udvari dropped the puck for the opening face-off. Just as quickly, Doug’s doubts disappeared. “It seemed,” he reflected 15 years later, “that every time we touched the puck, we did the right thing.”
Doug scored the first goal at 12:29 of the first period on a pass from defenseman Jack Evans. At 15:44, Max set up Wally Hergesheimer for a power-play score against Bruins goalie Jim Henry. Then Doug fed Paul Ronty, who gave New York a 3-0 lead. The Bentleys were still in low gear, and before the period ended, the Bruins had scored twice to pull within a goal of New York. By this time, though, the crowd knew that they were seeing a re-creation of the Bentley brothers of yesteryear. Only the jerseys were different.
“Once the people started to holler for us,” said Doug, “I knew that was it. I knew we’d really go. I knew because right off the bat, I could tell that Max hadn’t forgotten any of his tricks—or mine, either.”
Just past the six-minute mark in the second period, Patrick sent the Bentleys out again. This time, they combined for the brand of razzle dazzle that later earned them both a niche in the Hockey Hall of Fame. “We crisscrossed a couple of times on our way to their blue line,” explained Doug. “Then I fed it to Max, and he put it right in.”
Normally nervous, Max was now beside himself with joy, and when he got to the bench after scoring, he draped his arm over his brother’s shoulder and said, “Same old Doug. You’re skating the same, handing off the same, and fooling ’em the same.” Less than two minutes later, they skated out and, with radar-like passes, set up Camille Henry for still another Rangers goal. The middle period ended with New York ahead 6-3.
In the third period, Wally Hergesheimer scored for the Rangers at 9:59, but the fans clamored for the Bentleys, and Patrick acknowledged their cries as the clock reached the 15-minute mark. This time, Edgar Laprade shared in their pattern-passing wizardry, sending veteran hockey writers into fits of gleeful cheering. “To say that the reunion was a success,” said Joe Nichols of the New York Times, “is a weak understatement. The Bentleys frolicked like a couple of kids out skylarking.”
Flanked by the brothers, Laprade swiftly crossed the center red line, then skimmed a pass to Doug on the left, who just as quickly sent it back to Laprade as he crossed the Boston blueline. By now, only one Bruins defenseman was left trying to intercept the anticipated center slot pass from Laprade to Max, who was speeding along the right side. Laprade tantalized the Boston player, almost handing him the puck. When he lunged for it, Edgar flipped it to Max, who was moving on a direct line for the right goalpost.
Meanwhile, Laprade had burst ahead on a direct line for the left goalpost, ready for a return pass. Both goalie Jim Henry and the defenseman—and possibly even Laprade—expected Max to relay the puck back to Edgar, so Henry began edging toward the other side of the net as Max faked and faked and faked the pass. Max continued to move toward the goal until, without even shooting the rubber, he calmly eased it into the right corner while Henry stood there, mesmerized by the Bentleys’ magic. The audience went wild. “It was like a dream,” Doug recalled. “Everything we did turned out right.”
The final score was 8-3 New York. Max and Doug had combined for a total of eight points—Doug had one goal and three assists, and Max two goals and two assists. “They put on a display of smooth, smart stickhandling that brought back memories of a supposedly extinct hockey era,” wrote James Burchard of the World Telegram and Sun. “It was a joy to behold.”
So was the dressing room scene, although at first glance, you couldn’t be sure you were witnessing jubilation. There sat the emotional Max, with tears streaking down his face. “He’s crying for happiness,” said Doug, who was unwinding a few feet away. “He’s tickled because we finally played together again . . . and so am I.”
Few realized that Doug hadn’t slept for nearly two days and had also suffered through a dramatic temperature change, traveling from frigid western Canada to balmy New York. “I’m w7ring-ing wet from sweating,” Doug commented, “and feel completely bushed. Here, it’s 80 degrees warmer than in Saskatoon. I’ve had no sleep. My nerves are shot, and I had one of the greatest evenings of my life. You explain it.”
Explanations flowed as easily as the Bentleys’ goals. “I wasn’t surprised at Doug’s play,” said Coach Patrick. “I’ve seen him play. I know what he can do. I’ve been sold on Doug Bentley a long, long time.”
Boucher, who had dreamed up the scheme, sat beaming on the trainer’s bench. “As good as Max is alone,” he noted, “he’s twice as good with Doug.”
It took a while for Max to regain his composure, but when he did, the man who had once been compared to “a scared jackrabbit” on the ice analyzed the extraordinary performance. “I don’t think any man ever taps the whole reservoir of his strength,” Max mused. “Some go through their entire lives and never get the mileage they should. You can work yourself to a frazzle and fall dead on the floor and swear you can’t move a muscle. But if someone sets fire to the house, you’ll find yourself setting a new speed record getting out. This game was like an intoxicating stimulant. As goal after goal whipped in, the whole team worked itself into a frenzy. It was one of those nights—one I won’t ever forget.”
Only once before had the Bentleys enjoyed such a productive evening. When they were in their prime at Chicago in 1942, Max scored four goals and three assists in one game, while Doug had two goals and four assists. But the Bentleys were 12 years younger then and at their peak. Few of the seasoned observers doubted that this Bentley reunion would I be a very special classic and many were in tears, just as Max.
“I’ve been covering hockey since 1928,” said Jimmy Powers of the Daily News, “and this game, to me, was one of the most thrilling of all time. I know because at the end, I was so hoarse from cheering I couldn’t talk.”
The performance convinced Doug that he should finish the season with New York in hopes of helping the Rangers surpass Boston for a playoff berth. He and Max and tiny Camille Henry gave the New Yorkers an extraordinarily clever power play, but the question troubling Boucher was whether Max and Doug could maintain their brisk pace to the end.
“The opposition started to pound us,” said Doug. “The Bruins sent big fellows like Eddie Sandford and Cal Gardner after us. They hit us, leaned on us, and fouled us whenever possible.”
When the Rangers played Detroit at Madison Square Garden, Glen Skov of the Red Wings actually speared the “R” off the front of Max’s jersey and provoked the younger Bentley into one of his rare fights. But the Bruins’ coach, Lynn Patrick, employed the subtlest—and ultimately, the most effective—strategy.
Aware that Max was a hypochondriac, Lynn instructed his players to casually tell Max how terrible he looked. It was to be done nonchalantly but regularly. “Cal Gardner did it best,” Lynn recalled. “After a while, Max seemed to get depressed and more depressed, and the quality of his play began slipping.”
It was touch and go between the Rangers and Boston until March, when Max’s play tapered off and the Bruins pulled ahead, finishing in fourth place by six points. Playoff team or not, the Rangers had nevertheless given their fans enough to cheer about on that unforgettable night in January of 1954, when the Bentleys played together again.
If the episode proved anything, it was that the Chicago Blackhawks should never have split them up during the 1947-48 season when Max was dealt to Toronto. “My father at the time said we shouldn’t let them break us up,” said Doug, “and he was right. All I could say after that reunion was that I wished we could have turned the clock back 10 years. But we couldn’t.”
Both Max and Doug retired from active NHL play after the 1953-54 season. Doug was voted into the Hall of Fame in June 1964; two years later, Max was also inducted. From time to time, Max would return to the rink, as he did in April 1968 in an old-timers benefit game at Toronto’s Maple Leaf Gardens.
During that game, critics marveled at Max’s grace on the ice. “He was as elusive as a jackrabbit,” reported Milt Dunnell, sports columnist of the Toronto Daily Star, “and the puck appeared magnetized by his stick.”
But by then, hockey had changed. The Bobby Hulls and “Boom Boom” Geoffrions had popularized the slap shot, and Max looked on in amazement as well as disgust when he studied the modern game. “Never slapped the puck in my life,” he said. “What would make a man do something like that?”
Doug, who coached at Los Angeles in the Western League before returning to Saskatoon to tutor young players, also lamented the change in hockey’s style. “Today,” Doug observed, “all they do is slap the puck and hope it hits a skate or a stick and goes in the net. They don’t know where the puck is going anymore.”
Then he paused: “Oh, what I’d give to just turn the clock back once more.”
ULTIMATE RIVALRY
The Rangers’ rivalries with the New York Islanders and the New Jersey Devils are alive and well. Not to mention white-heat intense.
But back in the dim, distant past, the Rangers faced an opponent that generated every bit as much hatred and fierce emotion as any Blueshirts opponent.
That club was the New York Americans, the city’s first National Hockey League team.
The Amerks, as they were known to their followers, opened Madison Square Garden III—prior to the current MSG—in 1925, a year before the Blueshirts were born.
But unlike the immediately successful Rangers, trouble followed the Americans from the moment its bootleg owner, “Big” Bill Dwyer, was imprisoned before his club’s opening night.
As a result, the Rangers became New York’s aristocratic hockey club, winning Stanley Cups in 1928 and 1933 while the Amerks were winning nothing.
Year after year, the underdog Americans’ fans longed for the day when their heroes would vanquish the hated Rangers once and for all.
Then it happened.
Exactly 11 years after the rivalry began, the Amerks and Blueshirts collided in the 1937-38 playoffs.
It was a best-of-three first-round series. Naturally, all games were played at Madison Square Garden.
The Americans had won the opening game by a score of 2-1 in triple overtime, but the Rangers knotted the series with a 4-3 victory in Game 2.
On the day of the finale, March 28, 1938, New York sports fans were aflutter over Game 3.
“By dawn on the 28th, lines had started to form outside the balcony ticket windows on 49th and 50th streets,” wrote Sport Life Magazine editor Bruce Jacobs. “The gallery was packed long before the teams skated out.
“The sellout crowd cheered lustily when the Rangers and Amerks piled onto the arena surface led by their respective goalies—little Davey Kerr for Lester Patrick’s Rangers and massive Earl Robertson for Red Dutton’s Amerks.”
It should be noted that Americans manager Dutton had crafted the strongest club in franchise history.
Young scoring aces such as Art Chapman, Dave “Sweeney” Schriner, and Lorne Carr were complemented by renowned veterans Hap Day and Nels Stewart, who had previously starred for the Toronto Maple Leafs and Montreal Maroons, respectively.
After a scoreless first period, it appeared as if the Rangers would annihilate their frantic foes. Alex Shibicky and Bryan Hextall staked the Blueshirts to a 2-0 lead before the eight-minute mark.
But the Americans took their time getting on the scoreboard. Carr made it a 2-1 game with only 4:36 gone in the third, and for the next six minutes, Kerr stopped every shot fired his way.
Desperate for the tying goal, Dutton dramatically altered his strategy. The Amerks boss inserted five forwards on the ice, and the plan worked when Stewart, nicknamed “Old Poison,” beat Kerr at 10:38.
From that point forward, the teams battled through the third period without a score, setting the stage for the second overtime game in the series.
Jacobs wrote, “Up and down the ice the teams surged in the first overtime period—but no goal was scored. The pressure was terrific. This was sudden-death hockey and any goal was the winning goal—with a trip to Chicago for the Stanley Cup finals in the balance.”
The second extra session was no less thrilling as Robertson and Kerr hermetically sealed their respective nets. By the time midnight had arrived, the score was still 2-2.
Enthralled by the spectacle, fans stayed in their seats or rushed to the refreshment stands until the Garden ran out of food as the third overtime period began.
For a moment, it appeared as if the Amerks had won the game. Defenseman Joe Jerwa’s shot beat Kerr but hit the post!
Next, it was the Rangers’ turn to settle the contest—almost.
Cecil Dillon escaped the Americans’ defense for a clean breakaway, but his shot was blunted by Robertson’s pad save.
Soon after, Chapman sent Schriner in the clear, but his shot sailed over the net. The third overtime was over.
The Garden clock had passed 1 a.m., and at least one fan had returned from a corner bar.
The gentleman had left the arena when the Rangers were up 2-0. While downing a beer in a Broadway bistro, he asked a newcomer, “How da the game wind up?”
“Wind up?” the other replied. “Why, they’re still playin’—the score’s 2-2!”
The Amerks fan grabbed his hat and ran back to the Garden in time for the fourth overtime.
It was almost 1:30 a.m. when referee Ag Smith dropped the fourth overtime face-off puck; only this time, the end was in sight.
Dutton started his top line, Schriner, Carr, and Chapman, and they took command—tic, tac, toe.
The puck went from defenseman Jerwa to Chapman, who spotted his buddy, Carr, with an opening on the left side.
The man who had put the Amerks on the score sheet hours earlier lit the red light at 40 seconds of the fourth overtime.
“The contest couldn’t have been more adaptable to drama had a script been written in advance by Alfred Hitchcock,” Jacobs concluded.
And that didn’t even account for a curious bit of business.
Had one female spectator had her way, the game may have never reached the extra frames. The woman stormed goal judge Charles Porteous in the first period and pressed the red light buzzer when she thought the Blueshirts had scored a goal. Eventually, the police stepped in to restrain the impulsive female, and referees Bert McCaffery and Ag Smith restored order to the wrangling players on the ice.
Perhaps the most poignant reaction to the classic game that lasted more than 120 minutes came from a passionate young Americans fan named Ben Olan.
Olan, who would later become a Hall of Fame hockey writer with the Associated Press, recalled the longest Rangers game from a child’s eyes.
“I loved the Americans passionately,” he said, “and listened to that game until about midnight. But I couldn’t stay up.
“When I woke up the next morning, I was dying to know who won. I ran downstairs to the corner newsstand, and I timidly looked at the headline. The back sports page of the Daily News was partially covered. All I could see was ‘AMERKS.’ I leaned over and slowly lifted the covering paper to see the rest of the headline: ‘BEAT RANGERS.’
“To that point, it was the happiest day of my life.”
THE MOST REMARKABLE FANS
IN THE WORLD
RANGERS ROOTERS
They come in all shapes, sizes, and professions. White collar, blue collar—you name it. The breed of sports fan known as Rangers rooter is inimitable to say the least. A few samples just begin to tell the story.
There’s Ira Gitler, the world-renowned jazz critic for half a century, who was there in 1940 when the Rangers won the Stanley Cup. Gitler once was also a player and hockey author, and is currently manager of his own team, Gitler’s Gorillas.
By contrast, another gem would be Dr. Thomas Kolb, a nationally acclaimed radiologist who is just as much at home in the Garden as he is in the operating room. The good doctor has been a longtime season-ticket holder.
Included in the “off the wall” category is “Dancing Larry,” who unfailingly does a mambo-cha-cha-cha, whirling-dervish routine in the upper reaches of the Garden during a third period interlude. Larry’s routine has become so popular that his dance is regularly featured on the big screen overhanging center ice.
Perhaps the most amazing—and durable—aspect of Rangers fandom is the collective fervor demonstrated for the home team and against the enemy.
The assortment of Rangers rooters is vast. Photo by David Perlmutter
One enduring example is a chant directed at Hall of Famer Denis Potvin, who captained the Islanders to four straight Stanley Cups from 1980 to 1983.
“To this day, fans of the archrival Rangers utter his name more frequently and with greater fervor than those who cheered his checks and slap shots,” wrote Fred Bierman in the New York Times.
The chant “Potvin sucks” is unusual, considering that the defenseman retired in 1968. “It is quite amazing that they’re still doing it,” recalled Potvin, a television broadcaster for the Florida Panthers. “The whole thing has taken a life of its own.”
Sometimes, the chant is heard several times during a game. “As time has passed, the chant has increasingly less to do with Potvin the player or the person. Instead, it has turned into a way for Rangers fans—many of whom never saw Potvin play—to express their general frustrations or to simply have a laugh during a lull in the action,” added Bierman.
The late Tom Sarro was very familiar with the Potvin chant. A retired teacher and hockey historian who began going to Rangers games in the 1950s, Sarro and his wife, Angela, were as passionate as any Garden rooters.
Tom once related a wonderful story about “hockey games” he and friends would play en route to the Garden.
“The craziest of all took place in the late ’50s,” Sarro recalled. “I was with two friends coming back from a Saturday afternoon Rangers game at the old Garden.
“We were on the Fourth Avenue local and feeling a lot of hockey in us on the way back. This was a normal reaction because of the excitement of the game we had just seen. In those days at the Garden, we would crush a paper cup, drop it to the ground, and kick it around the corridor, pretending it was a hockey puck. This was commonplace at the Garden.
“On this day, we took the game a step further and smashed some cups on the floor of the subway car. The three of us were playing cup hockey in the empty car until two policemen got on board and hauled us into the precinct station house.
“Fortunately for us, my father happened to be a fireman, and my two other friends’ fathers were cops, so nothing more came of it. Apparently, to some transit policemen, cup hockey was a bad thing!”
Few Rangers fans were wilder than cowbell-ringing Hilda Chester. A notorious denizen of Ebbets Field during the Brooklyn Dodgers era, Hilda brought her cowbell and voice to the Garden when “Dem Bums” deserted her for Los Angeles.
No one who visited the Garden during the 1940s or 1950s will forget Sally Lark. A buxom blonde, Sally was a season-ticket holder in a unique location.
Lark’s pew sat shoulder to shoulder with the penalty bench, which in those days was shared by players of both teams. An interior decorator by trade, Sally could often be seen chatting with the skating sinners, particularly regulars such as “Wild” Bill Ezinicki of the Maple Leafs and Ken Reardon of Les Canadiens.
In the decade before protective glass was installed along the sideboards, it was not uncommon for some rooters to get a “piece” of the action, especially during rough games. One of Sally Lark’s female neighbors, sitting in the front row, took umbrage with Ezinicki’s behavior.
As the Leafs right wing bent over for a face-off directly in front of her, the lady removed a six-inch hatpin from her chapeau and bayoneted it through Ezzie’s hockey pants.
Balcony patrons who sat more than 100 feet above the ice were a breed unto themselves. What better proof is there than the fact that they had their own entrance and stairway at the old Garden?
End arena, side arena, and mezzanine ticket holders would enter through the main entrance on Eighth Avenue. Balconyites were segregated to a portal on 49th Street that led to a tortuous climb up a seemingly endless string of staircases to the arena’s top.
Here, another form of segregation took place. Because the old Garden was originally built for boxing, the side balconies overhung the ice at an angle that made it impossible to see the entire playing surface unless you sat in either of the first two rows. From the third row back, a fan could see five-sevenths of the rink. The other two-sevenths—along the near boards—were hidden from view. No message boards existed; thus, the viewer had to “imagine” what was transpiring beneath him when bodies collided and the fans cheered.
In the eyes of many, the end balcony was the best place to watch the game. Seats sharply sloped to the top on a curve, enabling viewers to take in the entire panorama without missing a bodycheck.
A spate of mezzanine seats also had slightly obstructed views, as did a small number on the arena level.
From opening night at the old Garden in 1925 to the mid-1940s, the only protection the fans enjoyed from flying pucks and errant sticks was chicken-wire fencing behind the net and in the corners. The wire was thin enough for players to pop a disagreeable fan or jab sticks through and attack a goal judge. Likewise, fans could easily hit a zebra if they disagreed with a call.
Occasionally, fans wanted to get close and personal with a referee to enlighten the official as to how to call a game the Rangers’ way.
The most practical place to do that was a fan-accessible runway that led from the ice along a rubber matting to the officials’ dressing room.
One night, after a particularly disturbing Red Storey–handled first period, a fan named Richard Selby headed for that ramp. A passionate Rangers fan, Selby wanted to check on Storey’s lineage as directly as possible.
He arrived at the side of the rubber matting just as the tall, striped figure began clomping across the rubber carpet.
Within 10 feet of the referee, the angry Rangers fan opened his barrage: “STOREY, YOU [EXPLETIVE], WHAT THE [EXPLETIVE] DO YOU THINK YOU’RE [EXPLETIVE] DOING OUT THERE?”
As Selby prepared his next salvo, the referee—who had been staring straight ahead—suddenly wheeled in his tracks and took a giant step in the direction of his heckler.
Satisfied that he had delivered his message, Selby exited faster than you can say Roy “Red” Storey.
Such brazen assaults have been rare. Throughout the 18-year-old Rangers-Americans rivalry, a dichotomy of New York rooters was noticed. Those who favored underdogs rooted for the Amerks. The rest pulled for the Blueshirts. After six years, the Rangers had two Stanley Cups, the Americans none—and they would never win one.
Interestingly, the first New York hockey fan club did not belong to the Rangers or the Amerks. In the 1940s, a group of Rovers season ticket holders led by chain-smoking businessman Howard Frank organized the Blue Line Club. By fan club standards, it was a rather sophisticated group of mostly adults which held regular meetings. At season’s end, it would stage an organized musical comedy lampooning the Eastern League scene and the Rovers.
Long before the Rangers Fan Club was born, the Blue Line Club embraced some of the most fascinating rooters from all walks of life. One of them was Ella Clifton, an attractive young woman with a gleaming smile who became the Boswell of Rovers teams from the late 1930s through the early 1940s. Clifton amassed voluminous scrapbooks, but more importantly, she developed a photographic history of the Rovers. Because no glass existed along the sideboards in those days, she was able to photograph directly from her front-row seat. At times, she actually got onto the ice.
The Rangers Fan Club came about less spontaneously. After the Blueshirts hit the skids following their 1950 Stanley Cup run, the club’s publicist, Herb Goren, laid out a plan to woo fans back to the rink. Noticing the Blue Line Club’s success, Goren announced that a Rangers counterpart would be developed with the NHL franchise’s support.
Goren presided at a pregame meeting held at the Garden. A college professor named Marino Sabatino was named president, and within a very short time, the RFC boasted its own paper, The Rangers Review. Soon, players were appearing at monthly meetings, and a fan club banner, which would hang for years over an end arena barrier, was purchased.
The first major Rangers Fan Club event was an end-of-season dinner and dance held at the Hotel Martinique in March 1954. A fan club skit was followed by manager Frank Boucher and New York Times reporter Joe Nichols, who performed a song-and-dance duet to “Are You from Dixie?”
Hollywood comic Gabe Dell and other show business personalities also entertained, as did some Rangers, including Doug Bentley.
Even in its earlier days, the fan club dealt with serious issues. Soon after Bernie Geoffrion, then a Montreal Canadien, clubbed Rangers rookie Ron Murphy, seriously injuring the forward, the fan club dispatched a stern letter to the NHL president, Clarence Campbell, urging severe disciplinary action.
Campbell thanked the fan club for its interest and also told the RFC to mind its own business.
Through the years, unusual fans have managed to emerge distinctly from the crowd. One was Paul Gardella, a tall, handsome former FBI man who occupied a front row mezzanine seat at the old Garden with pal Seymour “Lefty” Adelson, who worked in the Garment Center.
Rangers fans enjoy a game at the Garden. Photo by David Perlmutter
Their mezzanine seats placed Gardella and Adelson directly behind the old Garden press box, enabling them to regularly schmooze with the beat reporters. Gardella’s razor-sharp wit and Adelson’s good nature turned them into media personalities.
Gardella set an unofficial record of sorts, having seen more than 1,000 consecutive games despite blizzards, hurricanes, and any other storms that hit the city.
On one occasion, the Garden entertained thoughts of canceling a Rangers-Red Wings contest because a snowstorm had brought the Big Apple to a halt. The game was played, and the turnout proved a testament to Rangers fans’ loyalty. A crowd of 13,040 showed up, including Gardella and Adelson.
A more visible character was a fan who showed up a few minutes before every game wearing a gold lamé jacket. The guy would carry a slide trombone in his hand and walk along the arena aisle until he reached the home bench. He would then triumphantly point his slide upward toward the balcony and blow an E-flat loud enough for the whole Garden to hear. That done, he would proceed to his seat to enjoy the game.
Some fans were more militant. Brooklynite George Feeney once organized pickets to protest Muzz Patrick’s work as a manager. He also imported “Muzz Must Go” balloons.
High school teacher Marvin Resnick was another colorful personality. During the dog years of Muzz Patrick’s managership in the early 1960s, Resnick also organized a “Muzz Must Go” campaign.
According to the story—apocryphal as it may be—Resnick carried his “Muzz Must Go” picket sign along the Eighth Avenue sidewalk near 49th Street. He was urging other fans to boycott the game to protest Patrick’s stewardship.
Suddenly, he checked his watch. It was 7:25 p.m. Resnick looked for the nearest trash can, dumped his picket sign, and galloped up to his balcony seat to catch the opening face-off. Following the puck was more important than pursuing the protest.
The Rovers inspired an altogether different breed of fan—youngsters who could not afford NHL tickets or were too young to stay up late for the big-league match.
During World War II, the Rovers donated the entire end balcony seats to the Police Athletic League. The PAL youngsters would arrive as early as 11 a.m. at the 49th Street balcony entrance, although the doors wouldn’t open until 1 p.m. They would read newspapers or magazines and discuss the upcoming games. Between noon and 12:30 p.m., Met League players would walk past, heading west to the dressing room entrance on 49th Street near Ninth Avenue. If one of the Met Leaguers such as a top player like Bob Johnson of the Brooklyn Torpedoes was recognized, some of the PAL kids would hit him up for an autograph.
Nothing proved the early-bird PAL youngsters’ devotion more than their durability on subfreezing days. No matter how frigid the weather, the arrival of a grey-uniformed security guard around 12:45 p.m. was a major event. His presence meant that the doors would soon open and “The Big Sprint” would take place.
Shooting for the best seats, a phalanx of kids would burst past the turnstiles as soon as the ushers opened the doors. They would then dash up the stairs, sometimes three steps at a time. Those lucky dozen or so who reached the top first would adroitly tap dance down the steep balcony steps, where they would find their choice seats and await the Met League match at 1:30 p.m.
No matter who the fan was, he paid his money and thus had the privilege to boo players he disliked. From time to time, these would be members of the home team.
Rangers fans were particularly hard on Lynn Patrick when he joined the club in the late 1930s. Blueshirts followers believed that his father, Lester, was showing favoritism. Brother Muzz, who would later become a Ranger, remembered it well.
“They called Lynn everything,” Muzz said. “The ‘Boss’ Son’ . . . ‘Go Home to Your Mother’ . . . ‘Sonja.’ . . . They called him Sonja because he was a fancy skater, and that’s when [figure skater] Sonja Henie was so popular.
“Another reason [fans hassled him] was that he took Art Somers’ place at left wing. Somers was a favorite at the time. So the fans resented Lynn.”
In the end, Lynn got the last laugh when he became the first NHL player in 15 years to score 30 goals in a season. (He finished with 32.) Lynn was also named the 1941 All-Star left wing.
“Allan Stanley wasn’t as lucky,” Muzz recalled. “The Rangers fans rode him right out of town. I remember I was on the Coast when Frank Boucher sent him to Vancouver, and Stanley told me he was glad to get away from the booing. Then he came back, and it was just as bad. When we had a chance to trade him for Bill Gadsby, he went to Chicago.”
What drew the fans’ ire in Stanley’s case, Patrick believed, was his introduction to New York as “the $70,000 investment.” That’s what Rangers management paid Providence in cash and players to snag the defenseman. It was a huge amount at the time.
“That was another thing,” Muzz said. “He was getting his name in the columns and going out with some showgirls. Kay Starr was one, I remember. But I think the thing that annoyed the fans was his slow skating style. It was the same with Harry Howell. Fans seemed to resent the gliders, but they loved the little scrappers. They never booed them.”
Another big man who suffered from the fans’ indignities was defenseman Gus Kyle, a former Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman.
“But Gus wasn’t that tough,” Muzz recalled. “He couldn’t live up to it. And he wasn’t mobile enough to be a good defenseman.”
After the Americans exited the NHL in 1942, Rangers fans could not direct their cheering against any loyal opponent until the Islanders arrived in 1972. However, the void did not prevent Blueshirts rooters from exercising their vocal cords. Rival players such as Ted Lindsay, Milt Schmidt, and Ken Reardon made excellent targets because of their own rough styles. The chants that drifted down from the balcony were often priceless and reflected a frontier spirit that permeated the cheap seats.
This spirit was also reflected by the “cup hockey” played along the topmost reaches of the balcony. Fans would crush a paper soda cup and kick the makeshift puck around in games that sometimes included as many as 20 participants.
A major balcony operation involved saving seats for late arrivals. One venerable fan named Tim Murphy specialized in seat saving in the unreserved side balcony section. According to those who knew him, Murphy and his corps of sidekicks would control sections of the balcony for which they would receive 50 cents apiece per seat saved. This practice ended with the closing of the old Garden.
Once the Islanders entered the NHL and became a force, the rivalry between Rangers fans and their Nassau counterparts became more intense than the one involving the teams.
A major turnabout in their relationship occurred when the Isles upset the Blueshirts in the 1975 playoffs. As Al Arbour’s sextet became dominant and the Rangers slipped in the late 1970s, amore vehement tone developed between the two blocs of rooters. It was further intensified after the Rangers unexpectedly beat the Isles in the 1979 playoffs.
Angela Sarro and her late husband, Tom, first began to attend Rangers games in the 1950s. From the Stan Fischler Collection by Barry Alperstein
Two major developments in the 1980s further enflamed passions. When the Isles won four straight Stanley Cups, their fans took on an air of superiority. They would denigrate the Rangers and their fans with chants of “1940, 1940!”
The second episode involved the controversial bodycheck delivered on Rangers forward Ulf Nilsson. The Swede’s leg was severely damaged, and Rangers fans accused Denis Potvin of deliberately injuring their ace. The next time the Isles visited the Garden, Potvin was greeted with chorus after chorus of the now-famous “Potvin sucks.”
As long as the Isles had four Stanley Cups and the Rangers three—the last being in 1940—Isles fans had the ultimate squelch: “1940, 1940!” But that trump cheer ended in 1994 when Mark Messier and company finally brought the fourth Cup to Manhattan.
The balance of power was divided by thirds in 1982, when the Devils moved into the Meadowlands. Like their Island counterparts, Devils fans were mostly suburbanites, many of whom had previously rooted for the Rangers.
In both cases—in Island and Jersey—Rangers fans numbered up to half the crowd when the Blueshirts were in town. The result was cheering and counter-cheering until both sides were winded.
Historically, there have always been uprisings among the rival factions. Americans and Rangers fans battled as far back as the late 1920s, and Islanders and Rangers fans started getting physical in the mid-1970s.
The advent of high-salaried players followed by higher ticket prices somewhat altered the texture of local hockey spectators.
When the present Garden opened in 1968, its configuration changed the balcony as a rooting entity. But the balconyites of the Eighth Avenue Garden became the “Blue Seaters” of its successor.
Renowned for their humor and notorious for their vocal cords, the “Blue Seaters” created an image of their own with some of their original barbs. Their Nassau equivalent—if there could be such a comparison—would be a group of diehards from Staten Island who occupied the last few rows near the Coliseum rafters.
Clashes between fans and players have been infrequent, although some such episodes did gain media attention.
One of the most explosive erupted during the Islanders-Rangers playoff series in 1990. In the opening game at the Garden, Pat LaFontaine was simultaneously elbowed by James Patrick and checked by Chris Nilan of the Rangers. Knocked unconscious, LaFontaine was removed from the ice and was eventually taken to an ambulance in the bowels of the Garden. By this time, Rangers fans had been provoked by Islanders enforcers Mick Vukota and Ken Baumgartner, who had attacked two less belligerent Rangers players.
Enraged, a group of Rangers fans descended on LaFontaine’s ambulance and began rocking it as it headed toward 33rd Street en route to the hospital. Both LaFontaine and the ambulance finally escaped.
That type of fanaticism is certainly the exception, but such enthusiasm has always been present. Among the most enthusiastic fans from the 1970s to 1980s was a Brooklynite named Bob Comas, otherwise known as “The Chief.” According to Larry Sloman, author of Thin Ice: A Season In Hell with the New York Rangers, Comas was borderline unique.
Said Sloman, “‘The Chief’ was New York’s wholesale answer to Baltimore Orioles cheerleader ‘Wild’ Bill Hagy. They were both from a long line of official and unofficial team mascots, average workaday fans who somehow lived out their fantasies by dressing up—or down—and rallying the troops behind the home team. The Garden had been blessed with another quasi-official cheerleader years earlier, ‘Dancing Harry,’ who would tap dance around at courtside during the Knicks’ games, putting the hex on the opposing team.”
During games, “The Chief” would do an NHL version of Geronimo. He would wear an Indian headdress at the games and deliver a play-by-play of the action from his seat. When the Rangers scored, “The Chief” would leap from his seat and dash down the aisle, shrieking something akin to a Cherokee war chant.
Some Rangers fans actually became authors. Ira Gitler, a native of Manhattan, began going to Rangers games at the start of the 1940s and was a member of the Rangers Fan Club when it was organized a decade later. An accomplished jazz writer, Gitler also turned to hockey writing and has been a press-box regular for more than a dozen years.
Sloman became a Rangers fan when he was in junior high. After one visit to the Garden, he had become a fan for life. Like so many balconyites, he would play cup hockey with other fans in empty areas of the old Garden. He later graduated to roller hockey in Queens and, finally, the ice game.
Islanders fans developed an intensity all their own, first suffering through the early hapless years and then enjoying the rise of a dynasty. Similar uprisings to those at the Garden occurred at Nassau Coliseum.
The New York Times once described the following incident that took place in the late 1970s at a Blackhawks-Islanders game: “One incensed fan threw a container of beer at Dave Newell, the referee, and at the buzzer, spectators mobbed the visiting team’s exit ramp, threatening the players and throwing debris at them. Two men were arrested and charged with disorderly conduct.”
The Times went on to add, “At one time, Nassau Coliseum rooters were indulgent and parental. But this season, whenever the Islanders are losing a game, the fans turn with chameleon-like quickness into a raucous and dangerous crowd. The Islanders organization and its players point ironically to the young team’s success as the source of the problem.”
But for the most part, decorum has been maintained at the Garden and Nassau Coliseum, as it was at Continental Airlines Arena in New Jersey before the Devils moved to a new arena in Newark.
Both Islanders and Devils followers approximated the pattern of the Garden faithful. An Islanders booster club was organized soon after the franchise entered the NHL and highlighted every season with an annual dinner and dance. The Devils did likewise. Fans of all three clubs can be found at various NHL geographic points doing road trips, just as the Rovers’ Blue Line Club did in the 1940s and early 1950s.
The enthusiasm generated by fans, whether from a front-row seat or the highest pew in the arena, also continues today.
The fans don’t have Red Storey to dump on anymore, but it would not surprise anyone to hear the chant, “KOHARSKI, YOU’RE A BUM!”
That’s the privilege that comes with being a Met-area hockey fan.
One of the most lovable of all such rooters dated back to the earliest days of the Rangers Fan Club. Petite, ever smiling, and always generous, Cecile, or Ceil, Saidel was the type of person you always felt like hugging because she was so nice.
A resident of the Bronx, Ceil had endured years of Rangers hardship with her own special dignity. Always present to support the team, she rarely missed a home game. During the 1993-94 season, Saidel had closely followed the Rangers, her favorites, in their quest for the Stanley Cup in the spring of 1994.
While the Rangers were beating the Capitals in the second playoff round, Ceil’s friends noticed that she had not attended Game 5 of the series at the Garden. They became concerned and notified the police. Her body was found in her apartment. Ceil Saidel had been murdered a month before the Rangers won the Stanley Cup.
On June 14, 1994, the night that the Rangers annexed the championship, Adam Graves took time out to remember one of the club’s most ardent supporters. “Ceil,” said Graves, “took the Garden ghost and kicked it out of the rafters.”
Why Rangers Fandom is Genetic
When Dr. John McMullen bought the New Jersey Devils in 1982, he made a two-part promise: 1) The Meadowlands Arena would sell out every game and 2) Rangers fans that called Jersey home would soon immediately switch their allegiance to the Garden State sextet.
Even a decade later, Dr. McMullen realized that this promise was one he wouldn’t be able to keep. New Jersey residents, who had been Rangers fans before the Devils arrived in East Rutherford, maintained their support for the Blueshirts—and so did their children and their grandchildren.
And when Doc Mac was asked to explain this phenomenon, he tersely explained: “It’s genetic!”
No family exemplifies this devotion to Rangerville more than the Gelman Family.
It all began with Sam Gelman, who became a Rangers fan during the 1930s. In time, Sam would pass on his hockey devotion to his son Harold who, in turn, passed it on down the line to his own son Randall.
Like many Rangers’ fans, the Gelman gentlemen regard the Garden, where they still hold season tickets, much as a second home.
Reminiscing with his family, Hal remembers the olden days, throwing it all the way back to the 1940s, when it was actually possible to see three good hockey games in one day at the old Garden.
“In those days,” Hal remembers, “There was a doubleheader on Sunday afternoon. It started with a Met League game at 1:30 and when that was over the Rangers farm team, the Rovers, played an Eastern League game. . .Once that was over, we would go down to Eighth Avenue and get spaghetti at Buitoni’s and then hustle back for the Ranger game at 8:30.”
Like other aficionados, Gelman had to line up at the 49th Street balcony entrance for the cheapest seats. When the doors opened, he would race up the stairs hoping to get one of the best seats in the house—in the first two rows of a side balcony pew. Anything available after that offered an obstructed view of the near side boards.
“In those days, the fan-favorite was Alex Kaleta,” Hal chuckles. “His nickname was ‘Killer Kaleta’ and he was a little on the nutty side. The ironic part of it was he really didn’t like to get hit at all, and was the furthest thing from a killer on ice.”
In the old Garden days, the Rangers practiced in an enclosed rink called Iceland, which was on the top floor of the arena. Hal’s dedication to the team took him to as many practices as he could manage. Eventually his loyalty drew the admiration of both the boys on the ice and the men behind the bench. When former Rangers star Phil Watson became coach in 1955, Hal and the new mentor became close friends. From time to time, Watson would allow Hal to put on the goalie equipment and practice with the team.
As Hal explained, “These were the days before any goalie wore face protection, but there was a see-through plastic covering that could pass for a mask, and I wore one of them. What I remember is Hall of Famer Andy Bathgate taking some shots at me, and some other guys such as defenseman Larry Cahan and Gerry Foley who were close friends of mine. That was a lot of fun.”
Gelman was a charter member of the Rangers Fan Club, which was organized during the 1950-51 season. From time to time, the fan club took excursions to Boston to watch their favorites go up against the Bruins, at Beantown’s Gahden.
One of Hal’s favorite memories was a pair of home-and-home games against the Bruins -- Saturday afternoon in Boston and Sunday night in New York.
According to Gelman, Lorne “The Gump” Worsley had thrown a party the night before the afternoon tilt in Boston. Although Watson told Hal to be sure the players watched their curfews, Gelman made an exception for one of his favorite Rangers.
“So, now it’s Saturday afternoon, a couple of hours before game time,” Gelman remembers, “ and I am standing by the Rangers locker room, when Gump comes over to me and says ‘No way am I going to see the puck today—I have an unbelievable hangover.’ “So I told Gumper to get his ass out there and not let Phil know, because these two guys really hated each other, and Phil would go nuts. Well, Gump suited up, went out there and made a bunch of unbelievable saves and beat Boston 2-0. It was one helluva [sic] shutout.”
When the teams returned to New York on Sunday night, Boston lit up Worsley to the tune of 6 to 1.
“It seemed,” adds Gelman, “ that Gumper was still hungover.”
While still a member of the fan club, Gelman also was Watson’s unofficial aide de camp. When the Blueshirts started losing, Watson asked his general manager, Muzz Patrick, to send Worsley to the Springfield farm team and the GM obliged, only to recall the trouble-maker two weeks later.
Gelman: “Phil calls me and says, ‘Go down to Springfield and bring Gumper back.’ So I go to the Springfield arena and find Gump, and tell him Phil wants him back in New York. When Gump hears that he says, ‘YOU tell Phil to go F--- himself, I’m not coming back.’ When I hear that, I go over to Eddie Shore, who ran the Springfield farm club, and tell him the Rangers want Gump back. In those days, nobody messed with Shore, so I bring Worsley back to the Garden.”
While all of this was going on, Hal fell in love with his current wife Gina. At the time, Gelman managed to turn his girlfriend into an avid Rangers fan, which at this point had become a family requirement. She easily became a convert after watching a Bruins-Rangers game in which Terry Sawchuk shut out Boston 1-0.
“I told Gina she was watching the greatest goalie ever, and on that night Sawchuk was at his best,” Gelman remembers.
Hal cites that night as one of his most memorable games. But as far as sheer excitement goes, he vows he will never forget the Rangers-Canadiens playoff matchup in the spring of 1967, when Red Berenson started at center for the Blueshirts. On this night, the Gelmans were there with Hal’s old friend Morty and his wife. When the game went into overtime, the fans were at the edge of their seats, especially Morty and Hal.
“Montreal was a heavy favorite against us,” Hal recalls, “But when Berenson got a clean breakaway, it looked like we had it in the bag. Instead, Red hit the goal post and the puck didn’t go in. When that happens, Morty got so excited, he leaped up, turned around, and swung his arms in disgust but wound up punching his wife and knocking her out cold. Shortly thereafter, Montreal’s John Ferguson went around our defenseman Arnie Brown and scored to add to our misery.”
In 1968, Hal and Gina welcomed the newest member of their Ranger-fanatic household: a baby boy they named Randall. In no time at all, Randy joined the fandom.
“My favorite Ranger is Rod Gilbert,” notes Randy, “He was the first Ranger I met, and from that time on, I followed his career until he retired.”
When Hal suffered a heart attack in the 1970s, he was forced to miss every game till he recovered, but Randy maintained the family’s Rangers romance in his father’s absence.
Sick in bed again during the Rangers’ 1994 Cup run, Hal glowed when Vancouver was defeated.
“Gina came into my room and popped a bottle of champagne for us to drink,” he gleams.
Hal eventually recovered, and the bond that the sport had forged between him and his son took them as far as Toronto and even to Sweden for the Rangers’ preseason games at Stockholm in 2011.
“Wherever we went,” says Hal, “It was simply [about] enjoying a Rangers game with my son.”
When Randy’s wife, also aptly named Sam, gave birth to another Gelman boy, they decided to name the baby in honor of none other than the notorious Blueshirt, Sean Avery.
Randy explained, “We loved Sean Avery and I wanted to name him Sean, but Sam insisted on Shane. We settled this with a bet . . . Avery’s number was 16 and if the baby was born on the 16th, the baby’s name would be Sean, if not it would be Shane. When I told the original Sean Avery, he was all excited and wanted updates on the kid’s birth.
“Now, I am having lunch with Sam at an Italian restaurant, and suddenly she goes into labor. That night, on September 13th, Shane was born. A few months later, Avery hosted us at his restaurant, Tiny’s, and brought a bunch of gifts.”
“My wife Sam and I,” Randy concludes,” Continue raising our family in a Rangers house with my daughter Anna and sons Zach—and of course Shane.”
After all, as Dr. McMullen noted: It’s genetic!
