THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, June 16, 1994 TAG: 9406160627
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: FRED KIRSCH, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: 940616 LENGTH: Medium
``It's called hockey,'' I said. ``And, please, don't talk to me now.''
{REST} ``I've known you for 22 years and you've never watched hockey. Not once,'' she said. ``Why are you watching it now?''
How could she ask such a question? A person like that needed to be run over by a Zamboni.
It was my obligation as an American and as a sports fan to be tubeside for Game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals.
First of all, this was Game 7. Americans, true Americans, watch Game 7. Whatever sport it is.
And this was the Rangers. The Rangers who hadn't won a Stanley Cup in 54 years. Anyone who hadn't won something - whatever it was - in my lifetime had suffered long enough.
``Offsides,'' I yelled at the TV. ``That's got to be offsides.''
``What's offsides, Dad?'' asked Anna, the only Kirschtone who hadn't deserted me.
``I'm not sure.''
The rules weren't the only thing I didn't know about hockey. You would have never heard me say on ``Jeopardy,'' ``I'll take hockey for $100, Alex.'' I'd take World Geography before hockey. What I knew about the game could be summed up in two words: Wayne Gretzky.
But that was then and this was now - deep into the second period. And now I knew Brian Leetch had scored 11 goals in the playoffs and it wasn't Pat Richter - the old Redskin tight end - who was in the goal for the Rangers. It was Mike Richter.
I knew the Stanley Cup weighed 32 pounds. And I knew one other thing: The Rangers had better stop that Linden guy.
I suspected I wasn't the only guy in Hampton Roads hunched spellbound in front of the tube who hadn't logged much ice time over the last 20 years.
``Twenty more minutes,'' I said to Anna as we watched the Zamboni smooth the ice for the third period. ``And we're up two. Looks good.''
Five minutes later and Linden had slapped in a power-play goal to cut the Ranger lead to 3-2.
``Dad,'' said Anna, ``could you move back a little? I can't see.''
With each commercial, they'd cut away to some bar in the Big Apple to show the long-suffering Rangers fans who were ``cautiously optimistic.''
ESPN could have brought their cameras into our den.
``I don't believe it,'' I screamed as a bullet blew past Richter and hit the post. ``Did you see that?''
Anna didn't see it.
She was asleep.
I watched the final three minutes by myself, including those final agonizing 1.6 seconds and that last faceoff.
And then I sat there, with just the glow of the TV illuminating the room, and watched Mark Messier circle the ice, holding the Stanley Cup aloft.
The 32-pound Stanley Cup, as I could have told anyone.
by CNB