Sipping From the Dixie Cup

Hockey’s Stanley Cup Finals are going on now; perhaps the most difficult championship to win in all of sports. After an 82 game season, 16 of the League’s 30 teams play through three grueling, best four of seven elimination rounds, until the last two left, in this case Vancouver and Boston, scrap for the Cup.

But those guys are the one of a million who become professional athletes. The rest of us mere mortals never get that far, playing for fun or love of the game, recreation or social activity. And while some a lot of these weekend warriors end up competing for the ultimate prize, a team or individual championship, most of us probably don’t. Like me.

My freshman baseball team was abysmal. And though I was on a few good softball squads they were never that good. And the junior varsity and soccer teams I played on had been just a little bit better, we might have been mediocre. But once, I was lucky enough to achieve the thrill of complete victory and play on a real winning team. It happened during the first year I played organized hockey and during my senior year in college.

But it might not have happened at all if I hadn’t mouthed off after attending a Spokane Flyers hockey game with some of my South Warren dorm pals- another inept Flyers loss- and suggesting a bunch of rag-tag college kids could’ve skated circles around them. Like, maybe, us. This was clearly an exaggeration and clearly not true because the Flyers players had been grown up playing the game and made any of us look silly for daring to step on the ice with them.

Nevertheless, this started a discussion of who’d actually played hockey, either on ice or roller skates. And when nearly everybody said they’d had at least some puck experience, the wheels were put in motion to see if we could make it happen. Not to play the Flyers- beer talk or not, nobody was really that naïve (or stupid)- but put together a South Warren hockey team and play in a league.

We started close to home, the college, however due to insurance and financial concerns, Whitworth wouldn’t let us form a Club team. But if we were serious, the assistant A.D. suggested we contact the Spokane City Recreation league. With several divisions of men’s and mixed hockey teams to choose from, there was probably at least one we could hook up with. And after a few calls, one did; a beginner’s league that they labeled the Rookie League.

But players in this league weren’t all exactly “rookies”; you could only play in the Rookie League for two years before you had to move up to an Intermediate League, or drop out. However if you did stop playing for at least one full year- for whatever reason- and then decided to play again, you could re-enter the player pool as a Rookie once more. Made it easier to catch on to a team, I guess. I don’t know. But there were a lot of guys in this league who’d played before.  So Rookie league or not, we better have a clue about what we were doing.

And though talk is cheap too, getting into the Spokane City Recreational Hockey League wasn’t. We had to find a sponsor, and the sponsors’ fee was 500 bucks. Whitworth College (now University) wouldn’t sponsor us but Whitworth Pizza would; which only seemed fair since so many of us had spent much of our summer savings on beer, pizza and Foosball there over the years. So they owed us. They even purchased matching jerseys for everybody, which was very cool. And after papers were signed and sponsor fee paid, the Whitworth Pizza team was welcomed into the league.

But the sponsor’s fee only got us into the league. Getting on the ice was another story. Each player had to furnish their own equipment if they didn’t already have it, including a helmet and come up with fifty dollars each game for ice time and insurance. Though there was plenty of good and affordable used-equipment on sale at the Arena, a lot of the initial enthusiasm waned and many of the guys decided to drop out before we even had our first practice. Lance Jones, Rob Houlton, Kelly McEachran, Bossingham and me, were the only ones left still willing to commit to going forward, and McEachran dropped out after the first couple of games. But we still had a pretty good South Warren contingent.

To round out the roster, the league assigned us some players from the sub-list who hadn't yet been picked up by a team, including a girl named, Brenda Murphy, then placed us into the mixed C league, mixed meaning girls could play, which was why we had Brenda. But- surprise-our first game was in one week. The season was already a couple weeks in and Whitworth Pizza would have to play twice a week for the first two weeks to catch up. There was hardly any time to get prepared, but with a full team of 14 we managed to scrape up enough cash for an hour of ice time to have a practice- from midnight to 1 a.m. two nights before our first game- and by our opening night, I suppose we were as ready as were going to be.

Our first game was played on November 8, 1977 versus a team sponsored by Pepsi. The rules in the Recreation Leagues were the same as the NHL, except no overt contact. Bossinghgam was our goalie, but not because he knew how to play the position; because he was so wide we figured he'd probably stop most pucks, if only by accident. Wrong. He wasn’t a sieve, but let in a lot of softies, including the first two shots Pepsi took and we lost handily, 8-1. But we were all kind of nervous and, to his credit, Dennis got a lot better the more we played. Even our girl, Brenda, was good too.

We had another game two nights later, (which we also lost), and two the following week that we somehow managed to win. And after that, except for the two weeks at Christmas, we played at least one game a week- from Thanksgiving till the start of May. Games were on Monday or Wednesday nights, usually at Eagles Ice Arena on East Francis, and started at either 7, 9 or 11 p.m. I was named team captain, for no other reason than it’d been my hair-brained idea to field a team in the first place. I was honored, though, and wore the ‘C’ proudly.

And as captain, part of my pre-game responsibilities were providing the official scorer with a roster of all players “dressed” that night and get the ice fee paid. Meaning, before taking the ice, I had to collect everybody’s dues in the locker room and the fill out the score keeper’s log and pay up before I could join the rest of the team in the pre-game warm-up skate. And that was all fine and good. But if we came up short on the ice fee guess who made up the difference? The captain. Of course, nobody ever bothered to mention that to me till the first time we were two players light.

The game that night started at 9:00 and when I told the off-ice crew chief we’d be undermanned wouldn’t have the full team fee, he said we had till 9 sharp to get two more players or the rest of the money, or face a forfeit. Are you kidding? That may not have been exactly what I said, but it’s at least it’s the clean version. When I skated back to my teammates warming up in our end of the ice, though, to explain the problem all I got was a bunch of “I gave at the office” looks. So I ran back upstairs to the locker room, dug though my wallet and came up with the extra money. Not easy, when you’re in college. But now I know why they made me captain. Suck-er!

Okay, so I was a barely passable captain but, for a California boy, I turned out to be a passable hockey player. I’d played a lot of roller hockey and those skills kicked in and helped me adapt to the frozen game and playing on blades quickly. I was generally a forward, left wing or center (although I could play defense in a pinch because I skated backwards pretty good), and was real good on face-offs. Though a quick skater, I was more a grinder than a shooter. I liked going into the corners to dig out the puck and make a pass. And every now and then, I could even put the puck in the net- if I was lucky or the goalie was retarded.

But I was so small, when going into the corners or into scoring position around the net, I often ended up eating someone’s elbow. It didn’t discourage me though, that’s how the game is played and if that’s where the puck was, that’s where you had to go and get it. And more often than not, I was fortunate enough to come away it or make a good pass.  But I learned the intricacies of giving back, too. The face wash (rubbing a sweaty glove into an opponent’s face) and the slash (chopping at an arm or ankle with my stick), were my weapons of choice. I even learned how to get away with it, too, without the ref noticing.

 

Though our team started slowly, losing three of our first five games, we eventually started to win. Then in the last month Whitworth Pizza really went on a roll, reeling off 7 straight wins to close out the season. There were 8 teams in our league, but only the 4 with the best records at the end of the schedule made the playoffs. And except for the last place team, the other seven in the Rookie league were very close competitively so without that win streak at the end, we might not have made into the playoff tournament. But we did, finishing in third place overall and once in, set our sights on winning the whole thing.

We didn’t start off so well, though, losing the first game in the first series. Both the semi-final and final rounds were a best 2 of 3, and one more loss and we’d be done before really having a chance to get started. But we came back to win the next two games which advanced us into the Rookie League Finals playing against Pepsi- our very first opponent. In contrast to our opening round, we won the first game in the Championship series, but lost the second, setting up game 3 as a winner-take-all. And with less than three minutes left in the third period of the final game, we were ahead 4-3. Nobody was saying it out loud, but everybody on the bench was thinking it- three minutes and the championship was outs. All we had to do was keep playing the way we had all game. Steady and under control.

But I inadvertently tripped a guy and got a two-minute penalty. I couldn’t believe they'd call something that incidental and trivial at that spot in such an important game and it kind of set me off. No it really set me off. I followed the ref and was giving him an ear full. I could’ve easily earned another two minutes for continuing to argue, or even a10-minute misconduct. But our best player, Galen Oates, grabbed me by the jersey and “guided” me to the penalty box; then, practically, shoved me in. "Sit down and shut the hell up. We’ll kill this off and then we'll all go celebrate. So clam up and don’t say another word, okay?" Okay. I got the point. I clammed up.

However, 2 minutes can seem like forever when it's your penalty time. It seemed to tick on slowly and endlessly. At last, though, it was almost over.  But with 10 seconds left in the penalty and less than a minute to go in the game, Dennis couldn’t control a rebound and Pepsi tied it, 4-4, on the power play goal. A power play caused by my penalty. I came out of the box glaring at the ref, but when I skated back to the bench it was with my head down knowing I may have just cost us the championship. Neither team scored in the last few seconds, but Pepsi was really carrying the play. When the horn sounded, we were merely hanging on and, quite literally, saved by the bell.

But after six months of games, two rounds of play-offs and 60 full minutes of hockey in the deciding game,  it was going to come down to an overtime to determine our league championship. My line started the overtime period, but Pepsi still had all the momentum. They were pressing hard and quickly had us scrambling around, unable to gain control of the puck and pinned in our end. In another few seconds it just seemed inevitable they were either going to score and win the game or one of us-probably me again- would  take another stupid penalty and put them back on the power play.

Fortunately, Dennis made a stop and froze the puck, drawing a whistle and sparing us further damage. It also allowed us to change lines, getting my tired one off and Galen’s fresh line on. And it didn’t take them very long to turn the tables on Pepsi and finish the job. In fact, they made it look easy- the great players always do.

Lanny Armstrong won the face-off and Galen took off down the wing. Probably the fastest player on our team, in a flash was behind the defense where he scooped up Lance Jones’ long lead pass and put a beautiful quick wrister past Pepsi’s goalie from about 15 feet out. Just like that, at 1:45 of the sudden-death overtime period, it was end of game, end of season and say “hello” to the champs. As the ref signaled the puck was in, everyone from our bench jumped over the boards, tossing away our gloves and sticks, and raced into the dog pile of happy Whitworth Pizza players at the end of the ice where Galen had scored the winning goal. It was crazy.

After the mobbing subsided, we went through the congratulatory hand shake line at center ice with all the Pepsi players. That part was really cool. Being at war with each other for three long and hard-fought games, to then come together, victors and vanquished, and hug like brothers, acknowledging each other on a great effort, great game and great season was pretty amazing.

 

Then somebody put on a tape of Queen’s “We are the Champions of the World” on the arena sound system. At first, nobody was quite sure what to do. I mean, we all knew what the pros do when the Stanley Cup is awarded; take a victory lap with the Cup. But we had no trophy or cup to skate around with. Thinking on her feet, however, Lanny’s wife found a Styrofoam Dixie cup in the stands that somebody had been drinking coffee from. Taking out a felt pen, she wrote CHAMPS on both sides and passed it down to Lanny. And as “We Are the Champions” blaring over the loudspeakers, everybody took a turn, triumphantly holding that ridiculous Styrofoam cup over their head- our Dixie Cup trophy- and passing it from one player to the next on a couple of slow victory laps around the rink. It was an awesome moment! But this is where it gets a little crazy.

The party continued at Savage House Pizza on North Division. Beer was flowing like water and everybody was in a happy mood. And being a lightweight, I was soon beyond happy, quickly graduating to completely tanked and silly. It was about the third pitcher when I lost track of all sanity and inhibition. With the jukebox playing “Dancing Queen” by Abba, I jumped up on one of the tables and started dancing. Not very good, but at least in time with the music. That was goofy enough. But nobody had changed clothes after the game and with my sweaty jersey still on, like the guy at the end of “Slap Shot” (the movie), I began doing a mini strip tease.

Everybody in the room was laughing and hollering and shouting, “Take it off!” So, now jerseyless and still on the table swaying with the music, I kicked off my shoes and then removed the torn wool undershirt I'd wore underneath the jersey. Twirling it in the air with arms proudly raised, cheers and hoots serenaded me from all corners of the room. I was a hit- standing on a table in a public restaurant with half my clothes off, dancing to Abba, I was a hit. The girls especially kept whistling and egging me on. I was a young and in the best condition of my life, so it wasn’t necessarily a bad look Even so, I'm pretty sure I must've looked like a complete buffoon. But I was enjoying myself too much to care and wasn't minding the attention of the ladies, either. They thought I was cute.

When Abba ended, instead of bringing the burlesque show to a merciful end, another quarter was put in the jukebox. “Stayin' Alive” by the Bee Gees came on which, apparently, was Lanny Armstrong cue to jump on another table and keep the act going. Only he was less deliberate than me and was practically down to his skivvies before the first chorus. Then two other team members found tables to climb on and join in the merriment.  At least there was safety in numbers, but anyone walking in at that moment would have been treated to at least a PG-rated floor show of four toasted, half-naked hockey players, semi-dancing and semi-stumbling on tables, singing, laughing and acting like drunken kids who'd never tasted alcohol before.

 

But with the commotion rising, the Savage House night manager poked his head into the party room and, observing the debauchery taking place in his otherwise family friendly environment, in a loud voice brought the festivities were to an immediate cease. ”Okay, that’s enough! Party’s over! Now!”  It was almost one in the morning and nearing closing time anyway, but I suspect he would’ve called a halt to the party if it’d been one in the afternoon. He seemed pretty uptight, though, and less than pleased by the slap-happy shenanigans.

 

We'd had our fun, though, and were willing to comply. It was late, and though the music was still playing, we knew it was time to wind it up. So all four of us jumped down from the tables and began putting ourselves- and the room- back together. But as the rest of the team, wives, girl friends and others began filing out, the manager pulled the four dancing queens aside. “You four that were on the tables; don’t come back. You’re not welcome here anymore”. The guy was actually pissed.

I thought he was joking. But Lanny didn’t and his loud, beer-fueled protests attracted the attention of the rest of the team, who came swarming to our defense. When Lanny told them what was up it got close to getting ugly. A couple of our bigger guys got right in the managers grill, causing him to back away. But he didn’t back down. “All right then, you’re all done.” Pointing at Lanny he barked, “You and the rest of you Philistines, I don’t want to see any of you in here again. Now get the hell out before I call the cops. We’re closed!”

Gotta give him credit. The guy had balls. Ten angry hockey players were about ready to pummel him, but he stood his ground. Fortunately, Brenda, a couple of the girlfriends and the bartender stepped in, too, which helped defuse the situation and restore peace. And with a few parting curse words, Lanny, me and the rest of the “Philistines” exited Savage House, apparently banned forever. I’d never been called a “Philistine” before, too. I’d have to go look that one up. But once outside, instead of re-storming the place everybody relaxed and we all started laughing.

We won! And got kicked out of our own celebration. Does it get any better than that? A team thrown together late and mostly made up of players nobody else wanted had just won it all. Perhaps all the partying and suds had clouded my appreciation for the moment and the achievement. But when it finally sunk in that I was the captain of a championship hockey team, (and been banned from a local eating establishment, all in one evening), I think I laughed my head off all the way home. All silliness aside, though, May 4, 1978 was one of the most superb highlight nights of my life.

And I did eventually eat at Savage House Pizza again, too. I just never went there in my hockey gear.