The lights may be down at Edmonton’s Skyreach Centre on the night of October 10, 2003, but everyone is home. The Oilers are opening their season against the San Jose Sharks, but that’s only one part of the celebration for the fans turning out on this autumn evening. The city of Edmonton has come to honour the guy from Spruce Grove who, with his brilliant goaltending, helped turn their team into a five-time champion, perhaps the final NHL dynasty before salary caps ruined the concept.
At the entrance to the ice, an enormous cloud of dry ice vapour is whipped up, and lights catch what looks to be the shape of a goalie. The crowd goes wild. Suddenly a spotlight switches to the far end of the rink. There is a familiar shape standing in the blue paint of the Oilers goal. Longtime Edmonton fans recognize the goaltender’s equipment of a bygone era, the iconic white Edmonton Oilers jersey from the glory years of 1980–1990, the mask with its orange and blue stripes. The mysterious figure’s nervous shifting from one skate to the other is another flashback to the days when this team’s goalie was the NHL’s supreme closer. The crowd pours out its heart to the agile man between the pipes.
You’re there in the dark, and you can hear the noise of the crowd, and you know what’s going to happen because they’ve scripted it for weeks. You’re prepared for it. I’d seen Gretz’s ceremony, I’d seen Mess’s retirement ceremony … You get the gist as to what was going on. You’ve seen it in rehearsal. Looks very easy: go there, stand there, move here … Until you step out—and then you actually see it. They forgot to mention it’s a lot of people. It’s a lot easier to be a spectator.
Grant Fuhr was always unconventional. Consider his acrobatic style, throwing himself recklessly across the crease; his “unique” approach to conditioning; his role as a pioneer in a sport long considered hostile to visible minorities; his documented personal issues while winning the Stanley Cup and Canada Cup at the peak of his career in the 1980s; his undying devotion to golf, a sport that, for most hockey fans, is just code for elimination from the playoffs.
So when the time came for the Oilers to honour him on the eve of his inclusion in the Hockey Hall of Fame, there would be no uncomfortable suit and tie at centre ice, no walking out nervously on the red carpet. There would be Grant, in his Oiler jersey once more, wearing his NHL equipment for the first time since his retirement and skating on the Northlands ice one last time for the fans. Let them see him as he was.
The PA booms: “Ladies and gentlemen, hockey fans, wearing his familiar No. 31, Grant Fuhr!” And with that, a spotlight finds Grant in his “office.” The mask comes off to reveal the guest of honour, looking slightly taken aback by the fuss. Even today, seeing the black face behind the mask is a reminder of how far he has brought the sport in its acceptance of visible minorities. As the cheers wash down to ice level, Grant skates slowly through the dark, the wrap-around signage blaring “Grant Welcome Home.” There is a wall of noise for the man who left Edmonton at his peak, but not of his own volition. For a time there was a distance between the player and the team as Grant suited up in five other NHL uniforms. But now he is home and getting the love of the people once more. He is the point of light in the darkened arena.
As he glides beside the boards, the familiar faces from Spruce Grove, from Edmonton and from his hockey life appear in the stands. While his parents, Bob and Betty, cannot be here (except in Grant’s heart), his children and cousins and uncles and aunts dot the sellout crowd.
Even in the dark I could see them from where I was. The lights are out, but you can actually see them. You recognize so many people—and that’s overwhelming. Seeing people from all parts of my life there: friends from Spruce Grove, Edmonton, Calgary. That was fun. The speaking is not fun, but in a way, I do enjoy thanking those people who helped me. As you’re standing there, you’re in a mad panic thinking again about who you might have forgotten—you’re trying to remember them all. I think that’s the biggest fear. Forgetting somebody.
Having eschewed the tuxedo, there was the issue of how to represent Grant’s long NHL career in five cities. Though the focus was unquestionably on the Oilers, the uniform for the evening had been carefully assembled from the equipment Grant had worn during his 17-year tenure in the NHL.
It was the first time I’d put the equipment on since retiring. The Hall of Fame had sent my mask back to me for that night. We had the original. The under-body stuff was from St. Louis. The gloves were from St. Louis. The pants were a pair that I had worn in Edmonton. Even the Brown neck protector. It was a mismatch of equipment. We were a little afraid it might not fit anymore, because I wasn’t exactly slim at that point. But it worked out great.
I came to the arena that night and we were way over in one of the back dressing rooms, because the guys were getting ready to play—you don’t want to be a distraction to them. I walked into that room, and the equipment’s hanging there like it always did. Sparky’s around there, Joey’s around there. So you sit back there and have a couple of cold beverages beforehand to take the edge off.
Then you start to put the stuff on—it’s like you go by memory and by Braille—what goes where again? That’s the other hard part. I literally hadn’t touched equipment since I retired. I swore I was never going to put it back on again. And it led to doing the Heritage Classic in Edmonton, and once a year doing Gretz’s fantasy camp.
As the crowds cheer their hero, Grant struggles to sum up his feelings about the team he starred for, the people he played with and the times—both good and bad—that he’d seen in the Alberta capital. “I have been part of a lot of opening nights, but none better than this,” he tells the crowd. “Everybody here stuck with me and that’s a beautiful thing. The group of guys we had here were just one big family. I was happy to be a part of that.”
Then, in his understated style, he allows for his nerves. “I hate speaking. I made more speeches in the last two days than I will make in the rest of my life.” Then the jersey ascends to the rafters. As his eyes wells with tears, former teammate Kevin Lowe—then president and GM of the Oilers—brings him a bottle of water.
It’s a great honour to see your name go up there. But it’s also fun to see the company it’s up there with. You think: it was a pretty good hockey team. Some great friends and great players.
If there’s one thing I want all those people to know it’s that I enjoyed doing it every day more than anything. Loved the process of what it takes to play at this level. I might have done it a little differently than most people. I probably had more fun than I should have, but I enjoyed every minute of it.