It was the greatest hockey series ever played. But from the start, the 1972 Summit Series was all about politics.
Mostly
we remember the eight bitter battles between Team Canada and the former
Soviet Union, fought with more grit, guts and glory than any Stanley
Cup final. And as we prepare to celebrate its 40th anniversary, we revel
in our last-minute triumph, our sense of vindication that Canadians
were still supreme at playing a game we invented.
Four decades later, we acknowledge more
gracefully the razor-thin margin of victory. We can also appreciate how
profoundly the series changed the sport itself and – since hockey is
central to our national identity – how political the changes were.
Before
1972, it galled us that Canada couldn’t send its best to the Olympics
or world championships. A phony amateurism barred National Hockey League
players from competing internationally, yet Russians playing full-time
for the state were perennial champions of the world.
Canadians
were sick of it. In 1971, prime minister Pierre Trudeau raised the
issue with Soviet premier Alexei Kosygin. Soon afterward, a Canadian
diplomat in Moscow picked up signals that the Russians were finally
ready to test themselves against the NHL. Official talks ensued: a “best
versus best” series of “friendly matches,” four in each country. No cup
was at stake – just global hockey supremacy.
In
the Canadian mind, the teams also represented their societies’
conflicting political systems. Our guys were rugged, free-enterprising
individualists. Their guys were robots, cogs in the communist machine.
Media experts picked Canada to win all eight games.
As
the Soviets stepped onto the ice in the Montreal Forum wearing their
red cosmonaut helmets, faces expressionless, names unpronounceable, they
seemed like robots indeed. The bareheaded Canadians scored two quick
goals. Moments later, we discovered how brilliantly, how creatively, the
Soviets could play. We learned to pronounce Valeri Kharlamov and
Vladislav Tretiak. When Game 1 ended, a heavy mist rising off the ice,
it was Soviet Union 7, Team Canada 3.
Canadians
experienced collective trauma. The dawning awareness that we could lose
posed humiliating consequences. A national myth would perish. The
communist system would triumph, however symbolically. Suddenly, a hockey
series prefigured the long-feared climax of the Cold War.
The
Canadian players took it all on themselves. Captain Phil Esposito said
afterwards he’d “have killed to win.” Bobby Clarke clearly agreed, to
judge by the two-handed slash he used to fracture Mr. Kharlamov’s ankle
in Moscow. The Canadians were convinced that the KGB had bugged their
hotel rooms, that Soviet apparatchiks had fixed the officiating.
Paul Henderson’s iconic series-winning goal with 34 seconds remaining averted disaster. Meanwhile, something else had happened.
The
crowds on both sides had become an integral part of the drama. In
Vancouver, fans booed Canada’s loss, triggering Mr. Esposito’s
passionate, sweat-drenched defence of his team. In Moscow, fans observed
the stoic decorum decreed by their rulers, yet were astonished by the
raucous contingent of Canadian visitors who blew trumpets and shouted
opinions.
Millions of Russians and
North Americans watched on television, getting a glimpse into each
other’s society. We beheld the enemy face to face, and what we saw
weren’t nuclear missiles but other human beings devoted to hockey.
Afterward,
the sport changed radically. Shaken by the Soviets’ excellence, we
revolutionized our game. Our reliance on grinding physical play and
sheer heart was no longer enough. We put new emphasis on skating,
passing and teamwork, moving to the faster, more skilled, more
sophisticated style now played everywhere.
The
cross-fertilization process advanced with the opening up of the NHL to
Europeans: Swedes, Finns and Czechs at first, eventually Russians. The
Canada Cup series pitted professionals of several countries against each
other: Canada won often, but not always. Finally, in 1998, NHL players
were allowed to play for their country in the Olympics. The Canadians’
debut was a disaster on the ice, but we survived it.
We’ve
learned to share our game with the world, just as we’ve learned to
share our country with people from many cultures. The globalization of
our national sport has become a key aspect of our multiculturalism.
That’s
the real legacy of 1972. At first a proxy for war, the Summit Series
evolved into a paradigm of coexistence. Today, Mr. Tretiak calls Canada
his “second home.” The surviving Russian and Canadian warriors get
together for reunions and ask after each other’s wives and
grandchildren.
