MORE OF THE SAME BUT JUST AS GOOD
By Greg Gilmartin 3/5/19
A road trip to unite old and new friends is always a good idea. Six of us planned a trip to Boston recently to catch an unusual NHL hockey game where the Carolina Hurricanes, formerly the Hartford Whalers, were scheduled to play the Boston Bruins at TD North Garden. In a PR nod to the good old days, the Hurricanes became the Whaler’canes by donning the green and white uniforms of the Whalers, complete with the iconic “H in W” logo emblazoned across each player’s uniform. Twenty-two years after the Whale left Hartford, the visual provided a brief glimpse into a shadow of passion for these old and new friends who are members of the Whaler’s Drinking Club.
Bob M., the MeatCleaver, used to drive the Cadillac onto the ice during Hartford games carrying Miss Connecticut as part of between periods promotions. Bobbie Oh was a long time Whaler fan who started his love of hockey rooting for the Bruins until the Whale brought the game closer to his Connecticut home. He wore a Bruins hat to honor his first love. His second love, wife Sarah, used to do advertising for the Bruins. Hutch is thought to be a Boston Loyalist with a long family lineage in Beantown history. He cut his teeth on the New Haven Nighthawks and often found the Hartford Civic Center the venue for a night of hockey fun. He’s known Bob Oh and me through sailing for about 4 decades and is always ready for a road trip.
I was happy to be the lowest form of celebrity in the group as the Public Address Announcer for the Whale in another life. From the time they joined the NHL in 1979 through the year they left in 1997, I had the mic in the building.
“Wooooonnne minute to play in Hartford!”
Then there was Vanellison, who met my voice as a child in her father’s arms at the early games. She met me face to face 15 years ago and remembered. Cat was the fireman who patrolled the bowels of the stadium preventing forest fires, as well as a hostess in the local pubs in her former life. At the heart of this planned adventure is Brad, the press aide extraordinaire who dealt with the players, the stats and the media, juggling the world behind the game.
As much as we all loved hockey, we really loved the after game games that became a part of our routine during Hartford’s heyday in the 80’s and 90’s.
Okay, those are the players and plans began to go bad shortly after the idea was floated in January to wear the green in Bruintown. Cat, Vanellison, Sarah and Brad were out for different reasons. But, MeatCleaver had already purchased six tickets a month in advance.
The night of the game, it was clear we only needed four. We meet at the Union Oyster House, one of the oldest pubs in America. Bob Oh got there five minutes before Hutch and me then MeatCleaver appeared five minutes later. Tall, man about town in Boston, corporate overcoat on, bag over his shoulder and a big smile on his face, he swept in and we shared a nice round of bon homme greetings. I had not seen him since our last Whaler’s Drinking Club gathering two years prior and we instantly shifted back to the days when we prowled the Hartford taverns after games in the 80’s and 90’s.
His beer arrived on the counter and he says, “I’ve got the tickets!” and he reaches into his pocket to pull the precious ducats to distribute. The three of us watched him and it looked like a comedic pantomime as he patted each of his pockets, into his coat, his shirt, turned and looked into his bag. His big ass smile turned into a panicked face followed by abject embarrassment as it dawns on him the tickets were not on his person.
“I almost tripped outside coming in,” he gasped and without another word he was gone, in search of the illusive paper that was our entrance to history.
A few minutes pass. I see his bag still on the floor and we decide to play a joke and hide it. The joke falls flat because he doesn’t return. Texts are fired off. “Where are you?” “You need a bloodhound?” which spellchecks to “unwed hound dog?!” WTF?
Then a lone “Hi”, to which I respond, “And are you?”. More radio silence.
The three of us move upstairs to the dining room as game time approaches, and still no Cleaver. Then suddenly he’s there! “I’m running a marathon here! I went back to the office and thought I had left them on my desk, but no. So, I’ve got a picture of them on my phone, I’ll get to the box office and square this up.” He’s gone amidst our protests to sit down and eat and we’ll worry about it later. We are left with our wonderfully witchy waitress Richelle from Salem and bowls of clam chowda’.
Another 15 minutes and finally a call. “All set, I’ve got them renewed at the box office. Let me put my gear on and I’ll meet you there,” MeatCleaver explains breathlessly. We are just settling up the bill and tell him to wait for us. He insists on meeting us half way. By the time we get on the street, here comes Bob M. in his full-on Whaler jersey, double zero on the back and the name “Tiger Burns”. Did I mention Bob M. wrote a wonderfully quirky novel about the Whalers called Brass Bononza Plays Again!? Finally, we are ready for history and walk toward the TD North Garden, 10 minutes up Canal Street.
Oh, wait, we have two extra tickets now with our cancelled guests, so let’s scalp them on the street. A block from the arena, the scalpers are buying. But, Bob and Bob are now a half a block ahead, Greg is panting hard and Hutch is hanging with him. Bob, sell the tickets I tell him by phone.
Suddenly, here comes Bob with the tickets. “I got a guy, but he’ll pay only 60 for the two!” Immediately, another barker says he’s ready to buy. We want 80. Bob hands the tickets to Hutch, I move past toward the beckoning escalator into the arena thinking this is over, but here’s Hutch again a minute later. “Did you sell them?” I ask. “No!” he says. “We need to grab ours.” Four tickets are handed out, Bob takes the remaining two and hands them to me. The barker is ready to buy, but he’s got another guy who will gives us the $80 we’re asking and we follow him for a block along Causeway Street and his guy offers $30. No deal! We return to the original guy one block back, who is making a loud scene because he says he offered first and he’s wicked pissed.
Two cops are directing traffic in their yellow slickers nearby but, they seem not to care about the negotiations. Finally, we connect with the first guy, big and burly, loud and agitated. MeatCleaver, at 6 foot 5 inches, does not suffer kindly to arrogance and pushes back verbally. I, unaccustomed to bargaining, just want to get some money for the tickets. I find myself apologizing to the guy as he peels off $60 total for a pair of $84 balcony seats! Finally, the deal is done! At least we have beer money for the game. We head to the escalator and the anticipation returns. We notice more Whaler gear on fans and head for the next part of our adventure. I can almost hear Brass Bonanza playing!
But, not yet. At the top of the stairs, I reach for my ticket. What followed was a repeat of the scene with Bob M. earlier in the Oyster House. Coat pocket, pants pocket, back pocket, shirt pocket. No ticket! WTF?
My dear friends watch me go from concerned to panicked to embarrassed. They offer suggestions like, “Did you look in your coat pocket?” Well, yes, I only have 6 pockets and I’ve looking in every effing pocket and I can’t find my ticket! I feel my phone, feel my pen, feel my wallet. Nothing!
Cleaver hands me his ticket. “I’ll go back down and buy one we just sold!” What else to do? He’s gone, down the stairs to the corner where our tickets are now in the hands of Mr. Loudmouth. I’m embarrassed. I check again. And again. I pull out my phone one more time and there fitting perfectly between the ridges of the case protecting the face of the iPhone is my effing ticket! Oh, man!
Frantic calls to Bob M but, he’s lost in the crowd. Phone call gets no answer, again, goes to message, again, finally, he answers. “Stop, I found it!” “You got it, okay, coming back!”
He’s back in line three minutes later, we each hold up our tickets, confirm and walk in. Whew, there’s a hockey game here, isn’t there? Finally. And we are not alone. Maybe a thousand of the 20,000 fans were wearing something Whaler. Green, white, blue, hats, shirts, jackets, scarves. The passion survives, maybe not burning bright, but the embers emit, the memories persist.
On the ice, the scene is weird. Like a shadow of the girl you lost, in that nice dress she used to wear, but wait, you realize it’s not the same girl. Just the dress is the same. I thought they retired number 11! Who do you want to win? Someone asked. I don’t really care. Just give me a spectacle.
The game delivered. Whaler’canes take an early 2-0 lead, Bruins equalize in the second period and then go ahead in the third. The garden is loud, but the green scores with 9 minutes to go and force overtime. Alas, the Bruins have the final say with a goal a couple minutes in to the OT and the garden faithful are happy.
We stand alone in our balcony seats in our Whaler gear, near the rafters and somehow it feels familiar. There weren’t any fights in the stands, so that’s new! But….
We ended the night on the 32nd floor of Bob’s nearby apartment, overlooking the Lights on Causeway in a city where one of the six original NHL teams played. The Whalers also started here in the WHA, a step child to the Bruins, before they expanded the game to Connecticut and created a generation of fans who still love the game and long for its return. We talked into the night about the old names, the old games, the old girls.
And the same old results.
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