“We want the Cup,” the crowd of 14,546 chanted at Maple Leaf Gardens on a Saturday night of this date in 1947, as was their due: their hometown team had just beaten the Montreal Canadiens by a score of 2-1 to relieve the defending champions of Lord Stanley’s famous trophy in six games. Montreal’s Buddy O’Connor opened the scoring, but the Leafs sealed the deal with goals from Vic Lynn and Ted Kennedy, backed by Turk Broda’s superior goaltending.
Montreal’s Gazette eyed the immediate aftermath: “the big crowd went into a delirium of noisy jubilation and refused to leave the rink.” But their chanting was in vain. The Stanley Cup wasn’t in the city that night, 74 years ago, let alone the building: instead of whooping it up with the Leafs, the Cup spent a lonely Saturday night in Montreal. It was Monday before it arrived in Toronto, just in time to be included in the photograph above, which the Leafs posed for on Monday at noon.
“Canadiens did not, as many thought, leave the Cup behind intentionally,” Jim Vipond clarified in The Globe and Mail. “It was the Toronto club’s idea. Conn Smythe, revealing a superstitious nature, asked NHL prexy [Clarence] Campbell to leave the Cup where it was until it was won.”
There was no parade that year for the champions. After Nat Turofsky got his photos Monday midday, Maple Leaf players and staff gathered in the press room at the Gardens for speeches and celebrations.
Tuesday, the Leafs ate.
First up, the team was rewarded with a turkey lunch by restaurateur Sam Shopsowitz at his famous delicatessen at 295 Spadina Avenue, just north of Dundas Street West.
That same evening the champions were fêted at a supper hosted by Ontario Premier George Drew. Toronto Mayor Robert Saunders was on hand, along with 125 invited guests. The premier was particular in his praise of the Leafs’ sportsmanship. “What you have accomplished is a demonstration of what Canadians really stand for in a sport that is essentially Canadian,” he said. The venue as the old Toronto Normal School, downtown on Gould Street, which had been revamped as a “training and re-establishment centre” for war veterans. Some of them cooked the meal; afterwards (as the Globe reported), “three veterans stepped forward and presented Syl Apps with a cake they had baked. It represented a hockey rink with goal nets at each end and a puck and crossed hockey sticks in the centre.”
In between meals, Leafs left winger Harry Watson went on a mercy mission to Toronto General Hospital. He’d played the previous season for the Detroit Red Wings, and a couple of his former teammates were registered there, Hal Jackson and a 19-year-old rookie by the name of Gordon Howe. Both were having post-season work done on damaged cartilage, so Watson stopped by to deliver some turkey leftovers from Shopsy’s.
Born in 1926 in Owen Sound, Ontario, on a Thursday of this date, Harry Lumley was — and remains — the youngest goaltender ever to have started an NHL game: he was just 17 when he made his debut in net for the Detroit Red Wings in December of 1943. As he got older, the man they called Apple Cheeks won a Stanley Cup with the Wings (in 1950) along with a Vézina Trophy in ’54. He was a Leaf in Toronto by then; Lumley also skated, in the course his 14-year NHL career, for the New York Rangers, Chicago Black Hawks, and Boston Bruins. Inducted in the Hockey Hall of Fame in 1980, Harry Lumley died in 1998, aged 71.
(Image: Turofsky/Imperial Oil, from A Century of NHL Memories: Rare Photos from the Hockey Hall of Fame, used with permission)
Jimmy Orlando played six seasons on defence for the Detroit Red Wings, helping them win a Stanley Cup in 1943. Born in Montreal in 1915, Orlando died on a Saturday of this date in 1992 at the age of 77. His wife noted that week that he’d watched hockey right up the end of his life. “He thought they were all overpaid, I’ll tell you that,” Doris Orlando said. “His favourite was Mario Lemieux.”
Uncompromising might be one word for Orlando’s approach to the game when he played, excessively violent two more. He led the NHL penalty minutes the last three seasons of his career. In Chicago in 1941, after he punched a fan and knocked him unconscious, he went unpunished by league or law. A year later, at Maple Leaf Gardens, he infamously swung his stick at Toronto rookie Gaye Stewart’s head, who swung his back at Orlando’s. Photographer Nat Turofsky was on hand to document the bloody aftermath. Both players were assessed match penalties, and each was summarily fined $50 by referee King Clancy.
Globe and Mail columnist Jim Coleman called for NHL president Frank Calder to ban Orlando outright. “If the president and directors of the league fail to act swiftly and firmly, they might as well close up shop.” Calder waited almost a week to come to his decision: Orlando and Stewart were each ordered to pay $100 to the Red Cross or any other war charity, and Orlando was barred from playing games in Toronto while Stewart was forbidden to represent the Leafs in Detroit — “until further notice.” Those sentences lasted not quite four months — Red Dutton rescinded them when he stepped in as interim NHL president after Calder’s death in February of ’43.
The Tripod that St. Louis Blues’ captain Al Arbour is affecting here, above, circa 1970, may be the original hockey-player pose. Check your collection of Beehive hockey photos from the 1930s, or the NHL portrait-work of the Turofsky brothers in the 1940s: the Tripod is the default. It’s as natural a stance as there is for a skater (as opposed to a goaltender) lining up for the puck to drop — in a game that’s all motion once it starts, this is how you look (at rest but at the ready) in the moment before the chaos ensues.
If you do happen to find yourself standing still while the puck’s in play, and it’s the Boston Garden in May of 1970, then it may be that you’re St. Louis Blues’ defenceman Noel Picard, and Bobby Orr of the Boston Bruins is airborne nearby, having scored his famous Stanley-Cup-winning goal. Not much Picard could have done, really — did I mention Bobby Orr? That’s Picard in repose below, around that time; he died in 2017 at the age of 78. According to Richard Labbé, writing this week in La Presse (here, in French), Picard was at peace with his famous failure to stop Orr, and would happily put his signature to copies of Ray Lussier’s iconic photograph when fans approached with Sharpies.
It was the final weekend of the NHL’s 1959-60 season, towards the end of March. On the eve of the playoffs, the Toronto Maple Leafs had a couple of games to go before they got down to the business of chasing the Stanley Cup. Sunday they played their final regular-season game in Detroit, forging a 3-2 win in which goaltender Johnny Bower was the acknowledged star. Bower hadn’t done badly the night before either, back home at Maple Leaf Gardens, outduelling Chicago’s Glenn Hall in a 1-0 win that saw Frank Mahovlich set up Red Kelly’s winning goal. Writing it up for the hometown Globe and Mail, Rex MacLeod recognized that “Pierre Pilote, most underrated defenceman in the league was a standout for the Hawks in a game that had occasional flurries of high-speed action, excellent goalkeeping, fine defensive work plus solid bodychecking.” A photographer from the Turofsky’s Alexandra Studio’s caught some of that here. Reproduced in 100: A Century of NHL Memories (2017), an anthology of photographs drawn from the vasty vaults of the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto, this image shows Pilote upending Leafs’ right winger Gerry James while Hall secures the puck in his crease. The other Hawks shown are (back left, wearing number 8) winger Murray Balfour alongside defenceman Moose Vasko. Obscured, mostly, by James and Pilote, that’s Bobby Hull in back. He didn’t make the cut at all when football star and artist Tex Coulter came to translate the scene to canvas. Then again, Glenn Hall didn’t fare a whole lot better in the painted version, here below, that would adorn the cover of the NHL’s 1961 Official Annual, snatching away Hall’s real-save save to pose him looking back, too late, at the goal he couldn’t foil.
(Top image: Imperial Oil/Turofsky Collection, from 100 : A Century of NHL Memories, Natural Treasure Series, 2017)
Bill Barilko still hadn’t disappeared on April 21, 1951, and there was no mourning for his memory, yet, just as there were no songs about him and (for a few more hours at least) no famous photographs of him falling to ice as he scored the goal that won the Toronto Maple Leafs their seventh Stanley Cup.
They were close-fought, those Finals, that year: “five consecutive sudden-death overtime heart buster” is how The Globe and Mail’s Jim Vipond wrote it. This last one, the Leafs’ Tod Sloan tied the score at twos with 32 seconds remaining in the third period, goaltender Al Rollins on the bench.
Barilko’s goal came at 2.53 of overtime. You can hear Foster Hewitt’s frantic call at CBC’s Digital Archives, here. James Marsh, founding editor of The Canadian Encyclopedia, attended the game as a seven-year-old, deciding early on, before the goal, that Barilko was going to be his favourite player — I’d read about that, if I were you, here.
As for the songs, I’ll leave you to spin, repeatedly, The Tragically Hip’s “Fifty Mission Cap” at your leisure — but have a listen, too, to “The Bill Barilko Song” by (NDP MP) Charlie Angus and The Grievous Angels. You’ll find it here.
As for the photographs, the best-known is the Turofsky, snapped (most likely by Nat rather than Lou) from behind, with the puck already in the net though Barilko is still falling. “It’s a flawless image, of course,” Andrew Podnieks writes in Portraits of the Game (1997), his fond celebration of the Turofskys’ rich hockey archive, though I have to say I prefer the view from the front, as caught by Globe and Mail photographer Michael Burns from the opposite side. (At first glance, I thought that must be one or other of the Turofskys in the corner, but of course it can’t be, the sightline isn’t right.) I like the handsome hopeful look on Barilko’s face that I’m glad to see in the Burns. In the Turofsky, as Podnieks notes, none of the spectators has realized yet that it’s a goal. They’re still in a time before the Leafs have won.
Montreal goaltender Gerry McNeil knows, though, I think, even though he’s got his eyes closed.
This is another Burns, below, I’m assuming. It shows the moment of Barilko’s arising from the ice, just before he’s mobbed by teammates.
Danny Lewicki was a 19-year-old rookie for the Leafs that year. He recalls the aftermath in his 2006 autobiography, From The Coal Docks to the NHL: A Hockey Life:
The roar of the crowd was deafening. I have never heard, nor probably will ever hear such pandemonium. What an unbelievable series! …
The next hour was a blur. We skated around the ice in glee. We posed for pictures. I hugged so many people and shook so many hands that I was sore. But I felt no pain. We went into the dressing room to change into civies [sic] and the Stanley Cup was carried by Ted Kennedy into the Maple Leafs’ dressing room. They brought the Cup in and then they just whisked it out. I didn’t even get the chance to touch it.
Kevin Shea later collected Gerry McNeil’s unhappy view of things for Barilko: Without A Trace (2004). “It’s been my claim to fame,” the old goalie said before his death in 2004. “I still get a lot of mail from that goal — people asking me to autograph their picture of the Barilko goal.”
It wasn’t a hard shot, he said.
“I just simply missed it. You have a sense on most goals of the puck coming and you get ready, but on this one, I don’t know what happened. I had to look at pictures after. It surprised me — I don’t know how the puck got in. At the time, I didn’t even know who shot it — I never knew who scored most of the goals that were scored against me. But there was Barilko. He was right at the face-off circle.”
“It was just a shocker. It was an awful disappointment.”
Kids liked to draw him. I wish I could tell you the name of the artist whose work this is, above, but I can only guess at the signature. Colin Caslow? Corbo Cartat? Whoever he was, the kid, his scrapbook from the later 1940s came to me, which is how I know that the players he didn’t sketch for his cover include Teeder Kennedy and Max Bentley, Harry Watson, Turk Broda, Bill Ezinicki. I can’t tell you why. What was it about Ray Timgren, just 20 in 1948, rawly rookie-ing his way into a team on a run of winning three Stanley Cups in a row?
He looks troubled. It could be that he wasn’t at all, what happened might have been that when Corbo was drawing him, lying on his front on the rug by the fireplace, biting his tongue in concentration, doing his best with his pencils to render a Timgren that was as Timgrenesque as possible — well, expressions on faces are hard to draw, and sometimes no matter how carefully you work a guy with no worries skating around pushing a puck with nothing in particular on his mind ends up looking like someone who’s been told that children are disappointed in him for a whole bunch of different reasons, as a result of which their mothers have been writing to Conn Smythe to complain.
Turofskys liked to take his photo. That is, as a Leaf during the years that brothers Lou and Nat Turofsky were busy pointing their cameras at the team, he’s well represented in The Hockey Hall’s Digital Archives. There’s a good one of him and his teammates admiring radios at the Barilko Bros. Appliance Store, Bashin’ Bill’s there himself, and Turk Broda and Fleming Mackell, too.
Overall, in photos, Timgren looks smallish, sunny, not-troubled. If you had to guess, you’d say his intentions were good. On the ice he cruises in front of the Boston net, or fights for a place by Montreal’s Gerry McNeil. His number was 22. In the photo where he’s holding a telephone to Tim Horton’s ear, his hair does have the shine of treasure. There’s one where he’s laughing about Joe Klukay’s haircut; in another he’s pretending to tape a stick for a fascinated audience.
At Sid Smith’s wedding he poses happily with the groom and Howie Meeker and several miscellaneous buddies. There’s one where he’s drinking pop from a bottle in the dressing room and Broda and Bentley and Cal Gardner are there with him, you can see their street-clothes hanging on hooks in the background, possibly they’ve just won a Stanley Cup, could be, but I think it’s fair to say, without prejudice, that Timgren’s is the fourth-best smile in the bunch.
Posed in a classic tripod stance for his Beehive photo, he looks as serious as you’re going to see him, as though having his photo taken for the St. Lawrence Starch Company is the most serious business in Southern Ontario. A few more clicks, though, and he brightens right up.
I wonder if this is the photo that young Corbo was looking at when he did his drawing. I think probably it is. The expression is thoughtful with a hint of optimism — he looks like he knows where he’s going with that puck. Other than the ice, I prefer the folkloric style of Corbo’s drawing to the shadowy realism of the photo. The maple-sugar ice is hard is pretty great, though.
The potted Timgren biography that’s posted at the Hall of Fame’s catalogue of players wouldn’t on its own send you rushing out to draw him for the cover of your scrapbook. Reliable is one of the adjectives he inspires there, along with solid and defensive and (his offensive talent) decent.
Later, I guess, when he was a public school vice-principal in Toronto, he liked to say, “Do it now!” According to Wikipedia, anyway.
Flashy comes up, adjectivally, when you’re reading in old newspapers about Timgren in his day. Sometimes, too, you see the phrases top line performer all the way and left-wing shotmaker and known more for his back-checking than scoring.
He won two Stanley Cups with the Leafs. In 1949-50, his best scoring year, he had 25 points playing on a line with Joe Klukay and Max Bentley, The Three Feathers Line was its nickname, because they none of them weighed more than 155 pounds, except for Klukay, who did. The following season, when the fall came, Danny Lewicki filled in for Bentley, who was back home in Delisle, Saskatchewan, harvesting his wheat crop for most of training camp.
In 1949, the year Timgren got his start in the NHL, the sportswriters voted Pentti Lund from the New York Rangers as the league’s top rookie. Leafs supremo Conn Smythe couldn’t believe it; he said he wouldn’t trade Timgren for 17 Lunds. True to his word, he never did, though in 1954 he did send him to Chicago for a single Jack Price. Timgren went back to the Leafs, later, but not for long. He was out of the league at 26.
(Update, 11/25/21: Hockey’s Hall of Fame has refigured its web archives since his post was published, which is to say, player profiles and galleries have been removed from public view, rendering the links that were here useless. So they’ve been removed and/or edited.)
(Parkie courtesy of hockeymedia at flickr.com)