Dennis Kane’s Excellent Montreal Canadiens Blog

I tried to get in touch with someone from the Buzinski family. I tried Saskatoon and Swift Current. I tried Calgary, where Steve Buzinski’s son Peter was supposed to live. But I had no luck anywhere. It’s too bad. I would’ve liked to have learned more about the man.

Buzinski was a goalie for the New York Rangers on the night of November 8, 1942, when Maurice ‘Rocket’ Richard scored his first-ever goal in the NHL.

Of course, being scored on by the Rocket was nothing to be ashamed of. Richard scored on dozens of the poor, padded chaps. This Ranger rookie just happened to be the first, that’s all.

Rocket was 21 years old and wore number 15 at the time for the Habs. He had yet to change to number nine, and he was still a few broken bones away from becoming the icon he became.

Buzinski had been called up from the minors to replace the Rangers’ goalies Chuck Raynor and Sugar Jim Henry, who were both enlisted to fight in the war overseas. Buzinski’s career was only nine games, letting in 55 goals, and he had a not-too-good average of more than six goals a game.

The Rangers soon released Buzinski, and the youngster returned to Swift Current and worked for the federal government until his retirement.

I would have liked to have known what Buzinski thought about his Rocket connection. Was he proud of the fact? How was the goal scored? Did the Rocket scoop the puck up for a souvenir? And why did Buzinski not play in the minors after being released by the Rangers?

But I couldn’t find any of his family, so I have no idea.

When I was young and not too bright, I hitchhiked across much of Canada three times. There was never any money for motels or hot meals in restaurants, only a few bucks for potato chips and cigarettes. These smelly, mosquito-bitten trips usually took about eight days or more each way.

I was always a hitchhiker. At 14, while living with a family for a month in St. Hyacinthe, Quebec on a French-English exchange, my new buddy Normand Chaput and I stuck our thumbs out and toured a big part of the province, even camping out one night on the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City.

When Normand came to live with us for a month in Orillia that same summer, he and I hit the road again. And when we did, just a few hours later, only 30 miles up the road, we saw two different icons doing what they do best.

We were let off at a gas station near Gravenhurst, where a small crowd had gathered around a makeshift boxing ring, and we had a look. We watched as a young George Chuvalo, then Canadian heavyweight boxing champ, sparred with a partner.

There he was, the man who would twice take on Mohammed Ali, taking big-time shots to the face at a gas station parking lot.

After the fight, Normand and I carried on to Bracebridge, to the big exhibition charity game between the Orillia Pepsi’s senior club, and the newly assembled Muskoka All-Stars. And because the Muskoka All-Stars were a bit of a stacked team with several pros on it, a young, slight, blond-haired kid was loaned to Orillia to help make the teams more equal.

But it wasn’t equal at all. The blond-haired kid, Bobby Orr, having just completed his first season with the Oshawa Generals, was, at 16 years old, dominating the game so much, so thoroughly, he had both the fans and the other players on the ice laughing and shaking their heads in admiration. He owned the puck, skated through the older, more experienced opponents, skated back hard and broke up oncoming rushes, and controlled and dazzled. It was a major eye-opener for me, Normand, and a lot of people in the Bracebridge Arena.

Hitchhiking with Normand was just the beginning. It seemed like wherever I went, I hitchhiked. A few years later I thumbed my way to Los Angeles after taking the train to Vancouver, and after that, at 19, began my three trips across Canada.

I don’t pick up hitchhikers now, it’s too risky. And it was probably almost as dangerous then, but I didn’t realize it. Maybe I dodged a bullet. And it was hard work, dirty, and uncomfortable, and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.

But I got to see George Chuvalo and Bobby Orr in action, and that made the dirt and car fumes all worthwhile.

There’s a lot of great blogs out there, and what many of these bloggers do is post beautiful, half-dressed ladies, often posing in hockey sweaters and not much else. So I’ve decided to do this. You’ll notice that some of them aren’t even wearing clothes.

Are you ready? Ladies and gentlemen. Presenting …….Gaston and his beautiful models!

A fellow at work told me a very sad story the other day, and I was surprised yet not so surprised. It just reinforced my belief that the Rocket was better in many ways than Gordie Howe.

My friend’s father is a lifelong Detroit Red Wings fan. So much so that he went out and spent almost $500 on a Red Wings jacket with the felt and leather and all that.

A few years ago, the father, wearing his Red Wings jacket, was at the Vancouver airport for whatever reason, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. Because in the crowd, he spotted old number nine, Gordie Howe.

Wonderful occurrences like this don’t happen every day. Gordie Howe. His boyhood hero. Heck, even Wayne Gretzky’s hero.

So the guy went up to Howe and politely asked him if he would sign his beautiful $500 Detroit Red Wings jacket. How great would that be?

Gordie Howe refused to sign it. He told the guy he would probably just turn around and sell it.

The lifelong Red Wings and Gordie Howe fan went away disappointed. And he now looks at Gordie Howe in a different way.

What do you think about this?

All I know is that when I met Rocket Richard about 16 years ago, (which I’ll write about in the fall), he was charming and accommodating and pleasant, and I got the feeling that he wouldn’t have minded signing anything I asked.

And when I told my wife this Howe story, her one question was: Even if the guy would’ve turned around and sold the jacket, so what? When people sell these things, maybe some of them actually need the money.

And aren’t the fans what it’s all about?

It would have been almost no effort whatsoever for Howe to sign the jacket. He would have made the guy’s day.

In my book, he blew it.

Another old game was on the tube the other night, this time from April, 1971, and it involved the Toronto Maple Leafs hosting the Boston Bruins at Maple Leaf Gardens. But forget about the usual cast of characters. There was only one player to watch, and it was Bobby Orr, in his prime.

The first thing you noticed about Orr is that even though he was a defenceman, he was the most beautiful skater on the ice, a notch above the rest. He would take the puck from behind the Bruins net, wind up, and in only a few strides, it seemed, he was entering Leaf territory, skating like the wind, skating like he was still on a frozen lake back home in Parry Sound, and outskating even the quickest of the quick like Dave Keon and Darryl Sittler.

When Orr bumped into someone, the other went down because Orr was as solid as a rock. His shot was low and accurate. He played the power play, killed penalties, took his regular shifts, and mesmorized at every turn. The Toronto crowd booed him every time he touched the puck, but that’s what happens when you’re a player of his calibre.

Time after time he would rush with the puck, and when the occasion was called for, he would turn sharply, retreat, and start over. The Russians in the 1960’s and ’70’s were known for this, but never did any of them do it at full speed the way Orr did. And for the Russians, it was a practised play. Orr did everything on instinct. He was Michelangelo, Pavarotti, Fred Astaire, and Northern Dancer. He was born to be better than everyone else.  

Don Cherry has always maintained that Orr was the greatest ever, and I have no qualms with this statement. He was such a beautiful player who made everyone else look ordinary. What a shame his career was cut short with knee problems. What a shame he didn’t play in the 1972 Canada-Russia series.

And what a shame he never played for Montreal. Imagine.

Business people in Vancouver have decided to sweeten the pot for Mats Sundin, as if twenty million just might not be enough for this aging star.

People who make in a year what Sundin tips at his favourite restaurant are offering, among other things, free luxury cars from two different dealers, and a lifetime of free dental work, including all the fancy stuff like bridgework and dental surgery. Another has offered a lifetime of cosmetic work for His Worship’s girlfriend, like facials, nails, and whatever else it is that women get done. Then there’s the usual free meals, free drinks, free clothes, free this, free that.

In fact, it looks like an absolute free ride for Sundin if he chooses the Canucks.

Montreal, on the other hand, has offered seven million dollars a year, but their extra enticements seem a little more tempting. There’s that chance for Sundin to finally win a Stanley Cup. There’s the opportunity to wear the fabled Montreal Canadiens sweater. He can hang around with Jean Beliveau and Dickie Moore. If he did excel, he’d join the list of great Habs like Richard, Beliveau, Harvey, Moore, Lafleur, and Mahovlich, instead of a list that includes Smyl, Linden, Rota, and Kurtenbach. He’d play in the most exciting rink in the best hockey city in the world. And he’s three thousand miles closer to Sweden than Vancouver is.

Surely that should be more than enough.

But if he decides to play, wherever he goes, he’d better be good. It’s getting a little silly.   

You’ve heard this since you were a kid. Whether it was during the playoffs, or after a big Habs’ Stanley Cup win, or even in the off-season, you heard it. You heard it then, and you still hear it now. 

The referrees favoured Montreal, they’d say. The league wanted Montreal to win. It was practically fixed. If a call was borderline, the decision went to the Habs. They won for so many years because they had first dibs on French-Canadian players.

Everyone else was the underdog, didn’t stand a chance against the disproportionately-stacked Montreal Canadiens, and so hockey fans growing up hated the Canadiens because this was a team that always seemed to win, and so they cheered for everyone else. Anybody but the Habs. Their fathers hated the Habs, which begat Hab-hating sons, which begat Hab-hating grandchildren.

So are you ready to hear more of this? This is the year of celebration for the Montreal Canadiens, their 100th anniversary of being a hockey team, and often, more than others, a glorious team. And in this 100th year, Montreal has a decent chance to win the Cup, their 25th time.

People will say it was fixed to correspond with the anniversary. The league wants them to win this year, they’ll nod in agreement. The referees will give them the close calls. And new fathers will teach their children as they grow up to hate the Habs.

The circle will never be broken. And it makes Montreal Canadiens fans even stronger.

I work with a woman named Sandy who likes hockey. She’s a Canucks fan, but she’s still a nice person. Her and I have an annual bet on who will finish with the most points in the season, the Habs or the Canucks, and I collected a sweet five bucks from her last year.

But the thing that Sandy really is is outspoken. She says what she thinks. Her father taught her to say what’s on her mind as long as she doesn’t hurt anyone. She’s fun. Sometimes outrageous. She reminds me of an old friend, Frank, in Ottawa.

And things will bother her. 

Sandy said this to me yesterday, with more than a hint of anger in her voice. ”i want you to write in your blog about who does Mats Sundin think he is? He’s waiting like this, screwing up a bunch of teams (Toronto, Montreal, and Vancouver) who don’t know if he’ll choose one of them or not, and so they’re all in limbo. I mean, this isn’t Wayne Gretzky here. Sundin’s good but he’s not God.  How hard can it be to decide about something like that and not keep these teams hanging? It’s ridiculous. Who does he think he is?

“And another thing,” she went on. “You should also ask, who does Markus Naslund think he is, saying what he said after he left the Canucks. All that about he didn’t have anybody good to play with. He’s finished anyway. He was a lousy captain. And he’s not Wayne Gretzky either. In fact, in my opinion, he was never very good.”

(I didn’t have the balls to tell her Naslund didn’t have anybody good to play with last year.)

Bob Gainey’s recent decision to sign great big defenceman Ryan O’Byrne to a multi-year contract means Gainey and coach Guy Carbonneau feel O’Byrne could turn out to be a force to be reckoned with, which he hasn’t shown yet in his handful of games with the Montreal Canadiens except very briefly here and there.

Patience is being shown here. That’s why Gainey and Carbonneau are hockey bosses, and not working in a supermarket.

O’Byrne has shown that he knows how to party, which landed him in hot water in Tampa last year, but he hasn’t yet shown signs that he going to be the next Larry Robinson. But this kid could be a huge asset to the Habs. All he has to do is play with more of a chip on his shoulder.

O’Byrne is 6′6″ and 228 pounds, a size that other General Managers would trade their wives and kids for. And now, with a brand new three year contract under his belt, O’Byrne can relax, get mean and nasty, and throw smaller players trying to score on his goalie up and over the glass.

I’m also sure that with this new contract, O’Byrne and his parents are going “WHEW” after the fiasco in Tampa that could have possibly blown his career. (For those unaware, O’Byrne and his teammates had their annual party where rookies pay the shot, in Tampa Bay two days before a game, and around three or four AM, police were called when O’Byrne was somehow left standing there holding a few bucks and a purse belonging to a young woman in the restaurant. It was all very odd, but the team backed him, and now, with this contract, he can put it all behind him and step it up a notch.)

Montreal also signed a young player out of the University of Michigan with the great name of Max Pacioretty. And what a great name it is! Sounds like he’s out of the 1930′ or ’40’s. Sounds like he could be a pulp fiction private eye.

But what Max brings to the table is a big, young power forward who, as Gainey explains, isn’t far off from making the big club. And we all know that Montreal needs a big power forward.

Max says he models himself after the Canucks’ Ryan Kessler, which could be a great thing indeed. Kessler plays a big mean game with the Canucks, and is one of their most important players. Other GM’s drool about this guy. Pacioretty is 6′2″, 203 pounds, while Kessler is 6′2″, 205 pounds, which means, after I did the math, that they’re pretty well the same size. 

So Bob Gainey probably decided against signing someone like Todd Bertuzzi, a power forward on the big downside of his career, because he had planned all along to ink Max P., a babes-in-arms power forward.

In my book, you have to really like these two recent signings. And add Georges Laraque to the mix, and the Montreal Canadiens have gone from one of the smallest teams in the league to one of the biggest. meanest machines around.

October can’t come soon enough.

Don Cherry was almost a Montreal Canadien. He belonged to the club in the early 1960’s, but Sam Pollock took him aside one day and asked him to lay off the beer. Cherry said he wouldn’t and was promptly shipped to Spokane.

This is Cherry, number 6, with the Hull-Ottawa Canadiens of the EPHL (Eastern Professional Hockey League) in an exhibition game against the Boston Bruins before the start of the 1962-63 season. Hull-Ottawa, a farm team of the Habs, supplied many, many players to the big club in those days.