Bobby Orr, the Boy Wonder from Parry Sound, led the Bruins to two Stanley Cup championships in 1970 and '72.
(DAN GOSHTIGIAN/OPS PHOTO)
Suburban Diary
Despite the recent blip in Arizona, these are great days to be a Boston sports fan. Last October the Red Sox won the World Series for the second time in four years, the Patriots had another great season - even if it wasn't perfect - and the Celtics are back to their winning ways at the Garden.
But the team I remember most vividly from my early days as a sports fan in the Hub - even though our relationship has faltered in recent years - is the Boston Bruins.
It's hard to believe, I know, but in living memory the Bruins owned Boston. For a glorious half-decade or so beginning in the early 1970s - during my days as an elementary school student in Medford, if you're looking for a personal marker here - Boston belonged to Bobby Orr and his assorted cohorts. Along with the Boy Wonder from Parry Sound, there were Espo (Phil Esposito), Cheesie (Gerry Cheevers), Pie (Johnny McKenzie), and the Chief (John Bucyk). Together, they brought a swashbuckling spirit to the local sports scene.
(Not to mention two Stanley Cups in 1970 and '72, the first of which produced perhaps the most memorable image in Boston sports history: Bobby Orr flying through the air in front of Glenn Hall's goal after scoring in overtime to complete a four-game sweep of the St. Louis Blues.)
As kids, we stayed up late to catch the Bruins' West Coast games on Channel 38, and then we'd watch them again on WSBK-TV's twice-weekly Bruins highlights show.
But there was an even bigger spinoff from all this interest: We became avid street hockey players, like all the kids around Boston. (Playing on ice, in full equipment, was for serious enthusiasts.) Most of the time we played on hard-top streets, body-checking each other into people's front-yard bushes and using the curbs as our "boards" to jazz up our passing.
During the winter, though, we'd get lucky on occasion. After a storm, we'd let the snowplows do their work, and then we'd pray that a hard-packed layer of snow and ice remained to allow for a fast-moving game. (Of course, we'd pray for a cold snap as well. Any bit of sun or even the slightest rise in temperature above 32 degrees, and we'd find ourselves slogging through a soupy mix of gritty slush.)
Back in those heady days the kids with whom I hung out owned all the required street hockey gear, more than likely bought at Tony Lucci's in Medford Square - gloves, pads, folding metal nets, and any number of disposable Superblades (including the latest version for those who liked to tend goal, like myself).
Sure, there were arguments and flare-ups and disputed goals. But we settled it all ourselves: There wasn't an adult in sight.
And no one owned a second car back then, so the streets were clear all day. When the neighborhood dads came home from work in the early evening, they'd pull into the driveway, and we were able to keep playing - so long as the streetlights were strong enough and our patience with one another hadn't run out.
As I'm discovering when I sit down to watch the modern game, hockey has changed over the years. On the Barry Park basketball courts in Medford, for instance, I've seen kids charging "up-ice" on roller blades. As for the pros, they're faster and more skillful, and a good many of them now come from Russia, the Nordic countries, and Eastern Europe.
But no matter how much the sport may change, my hockey heroes will always be the motley crew of big names and journeymen chronicled in a 1969 book by Stan Fischler (which was on my Christmas list that year), "Bobby Orr and the Big, Bad Bruins."
For me, hockey will always be the story of Bobby Orr and the Big, Bad Bruins.
Steve Coronella, a Medford native, is a freelance writer who lives in Ireland. He can be reached at sbcoro@eircom.net.
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