Against All Odds

by P. J. Naworynski

  After two periods of action the Flyers had leapt ahead by another six goals. Even young defenceman André Laperrière banged in a goal. Murray Dowey continued doing his side-shuffle in an attempt to keep his blood flowing and stave off the dropping temperature. Over the course of the entire game the Poles managed to fire a half dozen shots at Murray, but he had no trouble at all handling them. Reg Schroeter, George Mara, and Wally Halder were the big scorers, with Patsy Guzzo and Red Gravelle also harvesting a few goals in the win.

  By the end of the match the Flyers had plastered the Poles 15–0. It was their third consecutive win and Murray’s second shutout. Big gun Wally Halder later told reporters: “We hated doing it. It runs against all Canadian ideals of sportsmanship. But we had to do it to stay in this league against such competition as the Czechs and the Swiss.” Halder, team captain George Mara, and the rest of the boys would have preferred to build up a comfortable five-goal lead and then let the Polish team mess around with the puck for a while. But with all the other countries scrambling to register as many goals as possible, the Canadians had to resist being kind-hearted.

  BACK AT THE STAHLBAD, SANDY WATSON wanted his team to hit the sack early. They had a 10:00 a.m. match against Italy scheduled for the next morning, and Sandy and Frank wanted to ensure the boys were well rested. They also didn’t want their easy win against the Poles to lull the team into a false sense of security. It was still early days in the tournament, and the Americans were winning games, the Swiss were winning games, and the Czechs were winning games.

  Boucher’s boys played a few hands of cards, wrote some letters home to their loved ones, and tucked in for yet another early and rather boring evening. Because of the prevalence of the warm winds of the Swiss föhn and the warming sun, Olympic officials had decided to try to schedule all future hockey games early in the morning, when the ice was at its hardest. Regardless of any future weather postponements, the Olympics would be coming to an end at 4:00 p.m. on Sunday, February 8. By scheduling all the remaining hockey matches for the mornings, officials were optimistic they could beat the weather and complete the series of games.

  Although Frank and Sandy knew going in that playing outdoors would be a factor the boys would have to contend with, they underestimated how frustrating the ever-changing climatic conditions would be. Some days the boys had to trudge into town from their hotel on the outskirts in a blinding snowstorm. Other days they had to sit for hours gear under a blazing sun fully suited up in gear. So far, the ice they were playing on left much to be desired. But the Flyers weren’t alone in facing these challenges. It was all merely part and parcel of being there. George McFaul noticed that both the Swiss and the Italian goalkeepers sported flat caps. On one of his skate-sharpening trips to Davos, he picked up a baseball hat with a large bill for Murray Dowey, to help keep the low winter sun from his eyes.

  As Frank Boucher drifted off to sleep that night, he grappled with his decision to stick with his lineup. On the ice, his chosen ones were getting more and more acquainted with one another. Three games in and they were coalescing into a fine unit, as he had predicted. But he had five more talented, able-bodied players who had sacrificed three months of their lives to come and play for their country on the Olympic stage. Feelings of guilt for denying them the chance to play in St. Moritz washed over him and did battle with his resolve to stick to his game plan. The lineup was working. He had told them he would stick with it until it stopped working. Why shuffle the deck now? Why risk messing things up when winning gold was why they were all there? He knew the smart move was to stay the course, but he couldn’t help but feel bad for some of the guys.

  Roy Forbes and a few of the other boys who had ridden the bench over the first three games were harbouring similar thoughts as they lay in bed that night. Although they hadn’t gotten to dress yet, many of Frank’s Black Aces were hoping that perhaps their coach might shuffle them in against a team like Italy. Resentment started to bubble to the surface for some of them. Even some of the guys who had played in all three Olympic matches to date, like Patsy Guzzo, felt that too much confidence was being placed in the newcomers and not enough encouragement was being given to originals like Forbes, Brooks, Gilpin, and King. Most of the Black Aces had been with the team since day one back in Ottawa. Yet here, in the moment of glory, they were relegated to the sidelines. Roy Forbes kept his disappointment bottled up inside, but it felt like a slap in the face. He burned to get on the ice and play his heart out, but it just wasn’t happening.

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 3, STARTED OUT LIKE a carbon copy of Monday, February 2. Crisp azure skies and a blazing sun greeted the boys when they looked out of their windows at the Stahlbad Hotel. When they got to the rink for their early morning match, they joined the Italians for a cup of tea and some friendly conversation as they waited for the OK from Olympic officials to take to the ice. Remarkably, just a few years earlier many of these men would have been wartime enemies. But here on the sunny terraces of St. Moritz, sport and civility were bringing them together in the spirit of the Olympics.

  Patsy Guzzo thoroughly enjoyed his conversations with the Italian goalkeeper, and André Laperrière found a fellow French-speaking member of the Italian squad to have tea with as they sat on benches and waited.

  Like the Poles, the Italians reflected their country’s wartime suffering. The war and the Fascist government’s loss had left the economy in ruins. Here at the Games, the country’s devastated resources were evidenced in the hockey team’s ill-fitting equipment and sad-looking skates. Guzzo, Brooks, and Forbes all reckoned they were the worst-looking skates they had ever seen. When both teams finally hit the ice, there was little surprise that the Italians were no match for the Canadians.

  A mere seventy-five spectators hung around to cheer for the Italians whenever they gained possession of the puck. But the yelling was short-lived, and despite the once again slushy ice, the Canadians easily stole the rubber disc and controlled the action throughout the game. Shift after shift, the Flyers sent five men up and boxed in the Italians behind their own blue line. Then it was simply a case of which Flyer would score. Every Canadian in the lineup except for Murray Dowey fired in a goal or two. Even tough guy Frank Dunster got on the board when he hammered in the second goal. The Canadian Press reported: “It was a massacre and the Canadians were only half trying.” By the end of the first period the score was 11–0.

  Patsy Guzzo pocketed three goals and a couple of assists as well as carrying on chats with many members of the Italian squad during play on the ice. Somehow André Laperrière managed to pick up a couple of penalties, the only player who made the trek to the penalty box that day. Despite the fact that Wally Halder played a clean game, Italian reporters zeroed in on the big Canadian. When Italian players repeatedly tried to check Wally, they simply bounced off him, so Italian reporters nicknamed him “the Brute.”

  After two periods, the score was 17–0. Partway through the third period it had jumped to 19–0 as the Flyers continued to steamroll the Italians. For Murray Dowey, all alone in net, the game versus Italy marked one of the lowest moments of his career. Up until this point in the match he hadn’t faced a single shot. For almost two and a half periods he skated back and forth in his crease and attempted to maintain his concentration while at the far end of the ice his teammates toyed with the Italians like a cat batting around a mouse.

  At about eight minutes into the third period, Enrico Menardi of the Italian team scooped up a loose puck around the Flyers blue line and sent a feeble shot bouncing off the boards just behind Murray. Unfazed by the dribbling shot, Murray slid over to jam his skate against the goalpost as he had done a thousand times before. Only this time, for some unknown reason—perhaps it was a lapse in concentration; perhaps it was because of sheer boredom—Murray didn’t quite get his skate to the post. The weak Italian bank shot bounced off Murray’s skate and trickled into the Flyers net, shattering the young dynamo’s shutout streak.

  Murray was so disappointe
d in himself he felt like crying on the spot. Frank Boucher hit the other end of the spectrum and was steaming. How could Murray let in such a pathetic goal? At these Olympics, if it all came down to a tie, that one simple goal could mean the difference between gold and silver.

  The Flyers finished off the Italians with a final score of 21–1. That was the one and only shot Murray had faced in the entire blowout. If it weren’t for his lapse in concentration, he would have earned his third shutout in a row.

  Four games in and the no-hope misfits had crushed Sweden, Britain, Poland, and Italy. Despite their impressive wins, observers still considered the Czechs the team to beat. Poland and Italy were walkovers. The Flyers were still facing tough competition ahead with games against serious teams like the Swiss, the Czechs, and the highly touted AHA American team. Many in the press gallery assumed the Canadians’ run of wins was about to come to an end.

  That night Patsy Guzzo confided in his journal: “Tomorrow is one of our big tests against the USA at 8 a.m.” Someone else in St. Moritz spent the evening having a little fun in the dead of night. No one knew for sure who did it, but a brazen souvenir hunter decided to sneak out under the cover of darkness and steal the historic Olympic flag from its mast over the Olympic Stadium. Many suspected an American GI was behind the heist, but it was never proven.

  THE NEXT MORNING THE BOYS AWOKE at 6:30, fired up to take on the trash-talking Americans. They shovelled in their breakfast of eggs, bacon, and fresh pastries, suited up in full gear, and hopped on the bus to the Palace rink for their 8:00 a.m. match. They were pumped and ready for action.

  When they got there it was as if the gods were having a go at them. Once again, the warm winds of the Swiss föhn had ruined the ice. Giant pools of water had formed all over the rink and created a soft, squishy surface. The boys had to sit on the bus and wait while officials checked the weather reports and conferred about postponing the game. With sweat dripping off their brows, the boys had to sit on the bus and wait while officials checked the weather reports and conferred about postponing the game. A full hour ticked by. George McFaul took advantage of the warm sun and delayed start to darn players’ socks and repair gear while he sat outside in the fresh mountain air. Eventually Sandy Watson tore off the bus and laid into the Swiss organizing committee.

  With no signs of cooler temperatures coming, the game was cancelled until the next day. The Olympic press bureau issued a hopeful “weather getting colder” statement, and the boys went back to their rooms at the Stahlbad. They got changed, explored the town, wrote more letters home, received telegrams from their loved ones, lounged about on the comfy plush couches, played more games of rummy, and twiddled their thumbs in frustration.

  Day 7. Thursday, February 5, 1948. Game day dawned cold and crisp. Although the sun was shining, temperatures hovered around freezing and the ice at the Suvretta rink was smooth, perfect, and glassy. Finally, conditions were ideal for the highly anticipated matchup between the Canadians and the Americans. The U.S. press, which had earlier slammed the Flyers, now billed this as the feature match of the tournament.

  A month earlier, the two teams had butted heads on the same ocean liner on the voyage over to Europe. The Americans had travelled in first class; the Flyers were down below in steerage. None of the boys on the Flyers had forgotten the taunting, boasting, and cocky insults the American players had bombarded them with day after day at sea. They said they would beat the Canadians by at least ten goals. They said the Canadians didn’t belong at the Olympics. They mocked them and wanted to place bets on how deep they were going to bury the Canadians. Everyone in the Flyers camp was hopped up and itching to make the Yanks eat their words.

  As Murray Dowey skated out on the beautiful sheet of glass and took his place in between the posts, he remembered what Wally Halder and George Mara had said to him back on the Queen Elizabeth. When Murray had asked his pals, “Gee, I wonder what kind of a team they’ve got?” both guys gritted their teeth and shook their heads, and Wally replied, “If we don’t win anything I just want to beat those Americans.”

  A thousand fans jostled for position in the makeshift wooden bleachers behind the massive stone hotel. At 9:00 a.m. the Americans lined up on their blue line and belted out a boisterous team cheer. They chanted and smacked their sticks on the ice and raised them in the air above their heads in an attempt to intimidate the Flyers. Unimpressed, Reg Schroeter squared up at centre ice for the opening faceoff. Wally Halder and Ab Renaud calmly took their spots on the wings.

  Less than thirty seconds from the puck drop, Wally Halder let loose a cannon of a wrist shot from thirty-five feet out. U.S. goalie Goodwin Harding barely had a chance to register it, and the puck whizzed by his waist and slammed into the mesh behind him. Just like that, the Flyers were ahead 1–0, and the Americans instantly realized they were in for the fight of their lives.

  The Canuck boys were on fire. They played fast and hard but were mindful to stick to Frank’s game plan and play a strong defensive game. The American boys were husky and fast skaters. But the Canadians were out for blood. Defenceman Frank Dunster harboured no love for his neighbours to the south. He lined up attacker after attacker and was punishing on the blue line.

  “It was one of our better games and all the boys played well. Dunster threw his 150 pounds around with devastating results,” wrote Patsy Guzzo in his journal. Patsy was determined to stick to his opponent like glue and protect Murray from any American onslaught. Throughout the entire match, Patsy stifled every one of his opposing wingers from firing a shot at Murray.

  Wally Halder, George Mara, and the rest of the boys in blue pounced on their American opponents with a vengeance. They were not only outplaying the Americans but also hammering them physically. The Flyers got called on three penalties in the first period, whereas the Americans had none. Despite playing short-handed for six minutes, the Flyers scored two more goals and were up 3–1.

  Thirty seconds into the second period, Wally Halder repeated his first-period performance, smashing another quick goal past the American netminder. With the Yanks on the ropes, the unrelenting Canadian attack did not abate. Louis Lecompte, George Mara, and Wally Halder scored three more unanswered goals inside the next five minutes as the Flyers continued to lay the body against their neighbours to the south.

  Sandy Watson sutured up American and Canadian players on the bench as the fast, hard action persisted. The European press dubbed Sandy a butcher for his bloody “operations,” sewing up players with no anaesthetic. But Sandy knew the guys were essentially numb anyway, so he could stitch them up and send them back in. After forty minutes of dominating play, the Flyers had the game locked up 7–1.

  As they took to the bench for a quick intermission, there were no feelings of guilt or thoughts of easing up against these particular opponents. The Flyers hit the ice for the third period and poured on their attack. The Americans answered back and snuck a goal past Murray in a scramble that broke out in front of the Flyers net. Wally Halder promptly responded with two brilliant back-to-back single-handed goals.

  From the starting whistle through to the end of the game, the Flyers laid it all on the line. They flew across the slick, smooth ice with surprising speed and endurance and displayed superb stickhandling skills combined with a rabid, ruthless defence.

  Nine penalties were handed out during the physical match, seven of them to the Flyers. Despite the short-handed play, the no-hope Canadians silenced the American guns to just thirteen shots against Murray Dowey. On the ice at St. Moritz, Boucher’s boys handed the Americans their worst defeat in U.S. Olympic hockey history. The misfits from Canada had annihilated the Americans 12–3.

  In the aftermath, Hubert Brooks and the rest of the boys allowed themselves a smile. There was no point in rubbing their clear and decisive victory in the Americans’ faces. There was comfort in the quiet satisfaction that things had come full circle. Sure, the boys on the AHA squad had shot off their mouths and denigrated the Flyers. But they
had also been through plenty themselves with all the infighting with the AAU team before the Games.

  Murray Dowey had never imagined they would beat the Americans so handily. He thought it would be a closer game. But the boys in front of him played phenomenal hockey. They had made up their minds to take no prisoners, and it seemed there was no stopping the Flyers freight train from plowing through all comers.

  Frank Boucher and Sandy Watson were exceptionally pleased. Frank had considered the United States the team to beat. Finally, after all the effort, their dreams and hopes were coming to fruition. The Flyers were playing exactly as Frank and Sandy had wished and hoped for. That night back at the hotel, a feeling of euphoria began to percolate within the guys that they just might have a chance to take it all. All they had to do was keep on scoring and keep that puck out of their net.

  The boys in blue in action against the Austrians.

  Tom Schroeter

  THE MIGHTY CZECHS

  14

  The Games of Renewal were now well past the halfway point. With three games to go, the boys were starting to see light at the end of the tunnel. In five consecutive Olympic matches, they remained undefeated and were now regarded as gold-medal contenders. But their gear and their bodies were also taking a bashing. Their stack of Northland sticks was dwindling at an alarming rate. George McFaul was repairing pads and sewing socks night and day. With all the gear and guys splayed about, the massive suite that Patsy Guzzo and Andy Gilpin shared with McFaul at the Stahlbad was starting to look less like a fancy hotel room and more like a cross between a locker room and a flophouse.

  Doing laundry at the various posh digs in Switzerland cost a fortune. Sandy got hosed for $5.00 to have a few shirts, a pair of underwear, a set of pyjamas, and two pairs of socks cleaned. Irving Taylor got stiffed $1.75 to have a single suit pressed. The boys often resorted to draping their wet clothes and shirts over the lamps in their hotel rooms to dry them out. One evening, Ted Hibberd and André Laperrière rushed into Patsy’s room to find his hockey socks smoking away on top of a lamp.