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Showcase, theater BC's Cunniff gave some of his biggest thrills in tourney By Jim McCabe, Globe Staff, 2/3/2003
It's a provincial embrace, you will tell them. A Boston thing. Part of it is an inexplicable allegiance to a college, but the greater sum of the Beanpot is a kinship toward a sport for which we have an unyielding passion. You see, it is about hockey. It is about dreams that took shape on bitter cold days, of friendships forged at 5 a.m., and the joy of late-day skates on a sheet of black ice. ''Well, tell me a Beanpot story,'' you may get asked. ''Help me understand.'' Should you tell them of Boston University's grip on the hardware? Or of Wayne Turner's overtime heroics for Northeastern? There was the great Tom Martin playing 58 minutes for Boston College, and to watch Harvard's Gene Kinasewich blaze up ice was to witness poetry in motion. Delicate memories, each and every one, but there are so many others, from the prowess of Billy Hogan to the grace of Joe Cavanagh to the maskless magic of Gary Thornton to the commanding presence of Vic Stanfield. Four schools, seemingly 4,000 heroes. But there is a story that perhaps must be told before all others. It is the story of a neighborhood kid who became a legend, an icon with an unflappable soul, a man who embodied the spirit of the game like no one who had come before or has come along since. It is the story of John Cunniff. Tale of the tape Dennis O'Connell, who played for Boston University in the 1966 Beanpot, never knew a tape of that tournament existed. Yet someone recently put it in his hands and he promptly put it in his VCR. ''And the first thing I see, there's John scoring the first goal of the game. He had this distinct way of celebrating a goal, but he had hurt his shoulder so he couldn't raise his arms, but I remember the seniors sitting on the bench thinking, `Not this again.''' A sophomore defenseman for BU had a similar thought. ''I said to myself, `Oh, my God, he's starting all over,''' said Jack Parker. Why shouldn't the Terriers have been shellshocked? Even injured, John Cunniff was in his element, playing in the greatest theater an American hockey player could hope for back then. Surely many will remember the number 13,909. It represented the sellout crowd at Boston Garden, which meant on those glorious Beanpot nights in the mid-1960s, 13,909 sets of eyes were fixated on No. 2 for Boston College. And as he did every time he stepped on the ice, Cunniff gave them a thrill. Oh, how he took over this Beanpot spectacle and made it his own little showcase. As a sophomore in 1964, Cunniff refused to let BC fold in the title game against BU, despite deficits of 2-0 early and 4-2 after two. He scored twice in the third period - once shorthanded - to help steal a 6-5 win, clinching BC's successful title defense and seventh Beanpot win in 12 tries. The next year, Cunniff helped nail down BC's only three-year sweep of the tournament. Again, BC bounced back from an early 2-0 deficit to beat BU, 5-4. Again, Cunniff stole the show, snapping a 2-2 tie with his first goal, then a 3-3 tie with his second. ''That was the thing about John,'' said O'Connell, who grew up a few blocks away from Cunniff, though they never let the different uniforms - O'Connell for BU, Cunniff for BC - put a dent in their friendship. ''His goals weren't the sixth and seventh goals of an easy win. He wanted the big goals. He wanted to beat an All-American goaltender.'' In BU's superb netminder, Jack Ferreira - now the Atlanta Thrashers' director of player personnel - Cunniff had such a challenge, though one he hurdled. With four goals and nine points in the Beanpot games of 1964 and '65, Cunniff won back-to-back MVPs, the only player to do so. Surely, there were slices of glory - he led the nation in scoring as a junior, the same season that ended with BC's loss in the NCAA championship to Tony Esposito and Michigan Tech, 8-2 - but Cunniff's emotions, like most of his contemporaries, were ignited by the Beanpot. Cunniff ''always seemed to save his best for BU,'' said O'Connell, that 1966 tape a certain reminder. Despite missing much of the early season with a shoulder injury, Cunniff scored to put BC in front in a first-round game in '66 and soon the Terriers were down, 3-0. Only this time, BU would sound the rally call. The Terriers scored five unanswered goals to win, 6-4, and with thunderous applause lifting the rafters of the Garden, a couple of kids from South Boston skated over to shake hands. A picture of the moment keeps it frozen forever, Cunniff extending his right hand to O'Connell, both of them wearing smiles, as is the great BU defenseman, Tommy Ross. ''It was just like when he won the MVP those years,'' said O'Connell. ''Me and my brother Mike were happy for John. And when we won [the game], he was happy for us.'' The memory is such a pleasant one, but there is no shame in conceding that sometimes O'Connell and many men just like him must fight back tears when talk turns to Cunniff. After all, while it seems like just yesterday they were neighborhood kids searching anywhere and everywhere for a patch of ice, the truth is, nine months have passed since they bid farewell to John Cunniff - the pride of South Boston, a prince of a man, and maybe the greatest Beanpotter of 'em all. Success story Cunniff was 57 when he lost a battle to cancer, but it's how he achieved success with everything else in the years before that his friends will remember. Twice a collegiate All-American, he was a member of the 1967 US National team and 1968 US Olympic team, three times an assistant coach for the US Olympic team, a longtime staple as player and coach in the AHL, head coach of the New Jersey Devils, and for three joyous years Terry O'Reilly's assistant with the Bruins. Along the way, in a competitive athletic world fraught with egos, Cunniff did it all with grace and dignity. Everyone, it seems, loved him. ''Not only was he one of the all-time great college hockey players, he was one of the all-time humble guys,'' said Parker, the legendary BU coach. ''There was an aura about John,'' said his former teammate and current BC coach, Jerry York. ''[Globe columnist] George Frazier used to write about `duende.' He'd say some people had it, some people didn't. Well, John Cunniff had duende.'' If you were fortunate enough to see him play, you know what York means. If not, trust those who did. ''He was such a finesse player. Fun to play with, such a delight to watch,'' said Jimmy Mullen, for three years a linemate of Cunniff's. Phil Dyer of Melrose skated center on that line - they led the nation with 168 points as juniors - and if he desires a moment of comfort, Mullen needs only close his eyes and draw on the image of No. 2 heading up ice. ''He could change speeds like no one else, and if he saw an opening, nobody could catch him.'' All of this, of course, unfolded in an era when the luxuries of life were nonexistent, when everyone lived in a triple-decker and the rules of life were simple: You didn't have much and you didn't complain about not having much. You pledged an allegiance to your neighborhood, to the people who lived there, and you learned at a young age that being mentally and physically tough were prerequisites. It was against such a backdrop that Cunniff willed himself into one of the best hockey players the American collegiate world has ever seen. ''He was his own man. He did everything on his own,'' said Ted Cunniff, John's brother. ''Me and my brother [Bob] used to put posters up to motivate John, only you never had to motivate John.'' ''He was,'' said O'Connell, ''a self-made hockey player'' and the stories have been passed down from one generation to another. That should always ensure that the kids who are blazing through doors Cunniff helped open will be reminded that opportunities have not always been handed out like mints at a restaurant checkout counter. ''Black ice? To us that meant the soot from the Edison plant,'' said O'Connell. ''We didn't have ponds. There were no rinks. You opened the hydrants and flooded a park, if you were lucky.'' O'Connell and his brothers, Michael and Bob, grew up on N Street, which meant they played their hockey ''down the park,'' pretty much where the MDC rink at City Point is. Growing up at 669 East Second St., Cunniff and his brother Ted would do their skating ''up the park,'' meaning the field at M Street. There were times when games were arranged between the groups, but more times than not the O'Connell brothers and the Cunniff brothers joined forces on the same side. There was never any doubt, however, as to who had the greatest passion for the game. ''When everyone was skating, John would be skating with weights on his ankles. When we'd shoot pucks, he'd shoot weighted pucks,'' said O'Connell. Parker remembers Cunniff showing up one night to skate wearing a weighted vest. ''He was the first guy I knew who was trying to make himself better in the weight room,'' said Parker. Leaving South Boston was never high on a neighborhood kid's list of priorities back then; certainly, no one ever had used his hockey skills to move on, at least not as far as Cunniff wanted to go. ''But he believed in goals, he believed in motivation,'' said Mullen, who grew up in Warwick, R.I., and met Cunniff when they were freshmen at BC. It would be the start of a lifelong friendship, and even now, Mullen keeps Cunniff in his thoughts. ''I just used his name the other day, as the focal point in a meeting with national sales managers,'' said Mullen. ''I mean, he set goals for himself and met them. Here was a kid who couldn't afford skates turning himself into a two-time All-American.'' Mind you, he did so without virtue of youth hockey programs and warm minivan rides to heated arenas. He did so without mom and dad plopping down hundreds of dollars and without summer camps and power-skating gurus. All Cunniff had was a neighborhood savvy, a cool demeanor, a Greyhound bus terminal wall against which to practice shooting pucks, and a mind that worked in a way no one else's did. ''We all played hockey,'' said O'Connell. ''John studied it.'' If he did have to give thanks to anyone, it most certainly was Frank Murphy, a generous soul of a Boston firefighter who befriended the Cunniffs and the O'Connells and made possible those rare opportunities to skate at indoor arenas. He'd drive the kids to the Boston Arena (ice time: 2-3 a.m.) and up to Lynn for summer leagues. They felt fortunate to have Murphy's support, but O'Connell concedes there was always that ''Southie thing, an us-vs.-them attitude, because the kids from Needham, Melrose, and Arlington were our idols. We didn't have the opportunities that they had.'' Only Cunniff, said O'Connell, never had that attitude. ''To John, he didn't wait for it to happen. He made it happen.'' Heart and soul Ted Cunniff assumes his mother wanted John to learn a trade, so the high school of choice was Don Bosco, but when it came time for college, no one was knocking down the door on East Second Street. Murphy lent financial assistance and arranged for a football scholarship to get Cunniff into Boston College - though it was hockey he played. The incomparable BC coach, Snooks Kelley, hardly knew what sort of diamond in the rough he had, but by the 1965-66 season he most certainly understood. ''The loss of John Cunniff to the BC hockey team is beyond the scope of human imagination'' is the legendary quote attributed to Kelley after his star was hurt by Dennis Macks, Brown's bruising skater, early in the '65-66 season. It is the way the injury occurred that speaks volumes about Cunniff's character. ''That was the greatness about John,'' said York. ''He wasn't boisterous. He was real quiet, a real leader. We were all a little intimidated by Macks and John knew it. So before the game in the locker room, John didn't make a big deal of it. He just quietly said, `Don't worry about Macks.''' Cunniff wasn't about to back down, not ever, and even if it led to the shoulder injury that marred his senior year (''We had a great team but were never the same after that Brown game,'' said Mullen), it was something he knew he had to do. ''We were from Southie and we all thought we were tough,'' said O'Connell. ''But John? John was tough.'' This is why hockey people and neighborhood friends for all those years lined up behind him, because Cunniff was loyal and would stand tall for them all. Except for when it came time for accolades, that is. Then, he was content to blend into the landscape, never lobbying for head coaching jobs that he should have gotten only didn't because he was so unassuming. ''He just wanted to be in line,'' said Parker. ''Not first in line, just part of the line. That was the great thing about him. Only thing is, to us he always was first in line.'' Cunniff understood more about hockey than a roomful of coaches and always his friends studied him. ''Just the way he shaved the blade of his stick and rounded the heel,'' said York. ''He had a reason for doing it, but we didn't ask. We just mimicked him.'' He was a leader, but he carried that neighborhood loyalty with him forever, so he was never too big to just pitch in. ''He was as comfortable coaching the pros as he was the 5-year-olds in Southie,'' said Ted Cunniff. ''And from start to finish, he did it his way.'' The finish arrived May 9, just three months after Cunniff had served as an assistant to Herb Brooks with the US Olympic team and just four months after his jersey had been retired at BC, a moment he insisted he share with the O'Connells and Mullen, among others. He had battled the cancer with a vigor that defined his life, but in the end, he lost. They will tell you that there's no crying in hockey, but early last May, there was a river of tears from hockey guys who loved John Cunniff. ''At the wake, Mike Bavis [whose twin brother, Mark, was killed in the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks] came through the line and I asked him, `How did you get through it?''' said Ted Cunniff. ''And he told me, `It's all about remembering the good times.' So that's what we do.'' How fortunate then that John Cunniff left so many lasting memories. Perhaps none more grand than those February nights in 1964 and 1965 when he became a Beanpot legend second to none.
This story ran on page D7 of the Boston Globe on 2/3/2003.
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o long as pages of the calendar turn, these first two Mondays in February will provide warmth to long, cold winters. And as sure as the frosty wind whips down Causeway Street, you know there will be newcomers who will ask about this Beanpot thing.