“Time for the boys to go to bed,” Mom announces from the living room door. It’s May 2nd, 1967 — a school night, albeit not an ordinary one: Toronto versus Montreal, Game 6, Stanley Cup Finals, end of the second period. If the Maple Leafs hang on to their 2-0 lead, the Cup is ours. My older brother Walter and I look anxiously at each other, and then at our dad …
On that night, as on many nights since then, the Maple Leafs have played an important role in our family events and get-togethers. During the winter months, we invited the team, along with CBC’s Hockey Night in Canada, into our home every Saturday at 8pm. Mom’s freshly baked marble cake, appropriately covered in white icing, typically followed the arrival of the players. The Maple Leafs became a part of the family, and we part of a larger family connected by an allegiance to the team.
As with any family member, we took the good with the bad. A loss by our Leafs might hurt as much as a bad haircut and mean enduring the taunts from fans of the cross-border Detroit Red Wings but the victories — or the anticipation of victories — more than compensated for the disappointments. Over time our shared memories, celebrations, and heartbreaks became part of the family story.
Our elders told us of old glories: the days of Hap Day, Turk Broda, and Teeder Kennedy; and of the tragedies: the disappearance of Bill Barilko in a plane crash in northern Ontario soon after his overtime goal gave us the Cup in 1951. (His body wasn’t found until 1962, when the Leafs next brought home the Cup.)
My grandfather and dad were equals among Leafs fans despite their German accents and origin in a small Yugoslavian town, which they fled as refugees. My grandfather and I earnestly discussed the Leafs at a time when other conversation topics (his bad back, my grade school woes) had limited potential. Over the years my parents produced additional Leafs fans — the older siblings passing their knowledge about the team on to the younger ones.
Leafs fans make up Ontario’s largest family — with links to members in the most remote regions of Canada, and the globe. We honour the maple leaf on the blue and white jersey; we proudly display the team flag (or keep it in the basement until the time is right).
The Leafs family has a shared set of memories and a common dream. In our modern history we celebrated victory over the favoured Islanders in 1978, Borschevsky’s game seven, overtime goal against the powerful Red Wings in 1993, and our playoff dominance, under Captain Mats Sundin, of the high flying Senators after the turn of the century.
Together we endured the sorrows: the death of Leafs great Tim Horton in a highway crash in 1974; and the injustices: the dark reign of owner Harold Ballard and the trades of our beloved captain Darryl Sittler and his linemate Lanny McDonald in the 1980s, and Gretzky’s unpenalized high stick on Doug Gilmour in the 1993 semi-finals against L.A. In the last decade, we have suffered many non-playoff years, or traumatic defeat when we finally reached the post-season a few years ago.
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The rocky patches in the family relationship (including the need for a few time-outs) offered opportunities for personal growth.
In the 1968-69 playoffs I learned humility. In that year our aging Leafs faced Bobby Orr and the mighty Boston Bruins. We lost in four consecutive games while being outscored 24-5. But in those playoffs I also learned optimism. We lost the first game 10-0 and the second 7-0 but in games 3 and 4 we narrowed the margin of victory, only losing 4-3 and 3-2. I was convinced that our team was gaining momentum.
I also learned about loyalty and commitment. I long ago gave up my own dream of playing for the Leafs but continue to practice my skills on outdoor rinks and ponds out of a sense of duty. Should the team suffer some calamity, like the Jumbotron falling on the starting lineup (or worse: the epic losing streak of this past year), I am prepared to serve: “I play defence — can I help?”
The players remain my role models. I suffered a cut chin during a recent game, then debated whether to go for stitches or continue to play. At the clinic I told the doctor not to bother with the anesthetic. The nurse shrieked in horror. I grinned proudly — my gap-toothed, scar-faced hockey heroes would surely give me an approving nod.
Most importantly, the team has taught me faith and hope. I have predicted a Leafs championship each year since 1967. True, there has been no Stanley Cup but as long as there is another face-off, another game, another season, then there is another chance for success.
On that night on May 2nd, 48 years ago my dad reflected for a moment, then responded decisively: “Let them stay up. Who knows when the Leafs will win the Cup again.”
Albert Koehl was born in Windsor, Ontario. He now lives in Toronto.
