A Great Game

by Stephen J. Harper

  Everyone knew that if Toronto wanted a big-league champion, it had to get a big-league arena—and no one knew that better than Alex Miln. From his first day at the helm of Mutual, he had started remodelling the old building. There was a new entrance lobby, additional end seating, cosmetic and lighting improvements indoors, upgraded shower and locker areas, a large time clock and gongs for the goal judges. Teddy Marriott, the departing manager of the Marlboros, was put in charge of a new restaurant upstairs.

  The only thing not done, observers noted, was the installation of an artificial-ice plant. Yet this was also clearly part of Miln’s design. He was actively putting together plans to construct an advanced, 10,000-seat arena with amphitheatre seating. This was not the usual “new rink” story; Mutual’s owners were buying additional land around the old facility in preparation for a larger building.

  Reports from around North America indicated that similar schemes were being pursued in other major centres. Ever since the International Hockey League had been founded by Doc Gibson and his U.S. backers, proposals had circulated for a genuine “big league of hockey,” rumoured to include the leading cities of eastern Canada and the northeast United States. Now it looked as if something was genuinely afoot. Only two days after the pro team’s founding, Miln attended a meeting of the IHL in Chicago. There, he secured a franchise for Toronto for the 1907–08 season.

  For the time being, however, the Pros would be an independent, “barnstorming” team, seeking exhibition matches against clubs from the pro leagues surrounding Ontario, splitting their gate share between the players. The IHL teams were an obvious target, given the Torontos’ intention of joining the league next season. Those squads frequently came through Toronto on road trips between Pennsylvania, Michigan and family in Canada. Closer to home, it appeared the new Queen City club would have a sister organization and competitor in Barrie.

  The OHA had expelled its Barrie club over the Bobby Rowe affair. Now, with Miln’s younger brother Jack as secretary-treasurer, Barrie was establishing its own professional team. It would also include key forward Steve Vair, who had played with Rowe—as well as Marlboros Ridpath, Young and Burgoyne—at New Liskeard. The OHA tried a bit of public-relations face-saving by announcing that Barrie’s all-star cover point, Howard Gee, would be doing the right thing by remaining an amateur and becoming a Marlboro. It backfired: Gee subsequently declared that he, too, was going pro—along with the entire Barrie team.

  Having secured an organization, a manager, a rink, a league franchise, a local opponent and a plan for the season, the Torontos now needed only players to round out those locals who were already committed. It was apparent there would be no shortage of men looking for a place in the Torontos’ lineup. Between OHA expulsions and the lure of the pro option, a growing number of quality city players were keen to be given a tryout. There were soon about two dozen men seeking spots.

  But there was a rub: professional athletes were not club property like their amateur counterparts. Once a professional, an athlete could play anywhere there was a willing employer. In other words, the professional of the day was a perennial unrestricted free agent, free to sign with whatever team he wished to play for so long as he lacked a better offer. In the burgeoning world of pro hockey, competition from other potential employers was intense, especially for established performers.

  Some veteran players from the 1905–06 gang were already pursuing offers elsewhere. Jack Marshall and Charlie Liffiton were heading to the ECAHA, with Roy Brown and Bert Morrison going to the IHL. Most troubling was the loss of Pete Charlton to the States. His $50 per week salary was far more than a barnstorming outfit could promise. A top star in the IHL could aim for at least $75.

  These defections led the OHA-supporting papers to confidently predict that the professional team would not be viable. Billy Hewitt’s Star sarcastically observed that the club—after the rink got two-thirds of the gate, the visitors received a fee and each player a share—“should simply coin money.”12 At Robertson’s Telegram, the dismissal was complete. “Professional hockey in Toronto promises to flourish till the frost comes,” the paper predicted ominously. “Then like other flowers it will fade away and die.”13

  Before long, however, the Toronto Hockey Club had scheduled its first game. It was announced that, on December 28, 1906, the opponent would be Ontario’s original pro rebels, the Canadian Soo team of the International league. They were led by Roy Brown at point and included Marty Walsh, an amateur star who had recently defected from Queen’s University. The Mutual Street Rink also declared that out-of-town scores would be broadcast during the game.

  The message was clear: this was the big leagues.

  As the date approached, the Toronto Professionals—as the club was soon labelled—were coming together. The only players remaining from the 1905–06 experiment were Lambe at point, Jack Carmichael at centre and Frank McLaren at right wing. With Clarence Gorrie oddly deciding to return to amateur in the Toronto Aquatic Hockey League, Manager Miln secured former Marlboro prospect Mark Tooze to play goal. He rounded out the lineup by adding Young at cover, Ridpath at rover and Burgoyne at left wing.

  Was this a group ready to take on an established professional club? With five men from the Marlboro organization, it was a credible senior-level team. However, although Carmichael had at one time been a top OHA performer, only Ridpath was a league all-star. And Lambe, with just a few games in Pittsburgh, was the sole member with any real pro credentials.

  Observers also questioned whether the team had the conditioning for such an early contest. They had not looked ready in some early scrimmages. There was also an ominous sign in the 12–4 drubbing the Soo delivered to the Barrie Pros on Christmas Day. Worse, it was done with Ridpath and Tooze in the northern town’s lineup.

  Nevertheless, anticipation was high as the Torontos skated onto Mutual Street ice at 8:00 that Friday night. With paid athletes playing hockey for the first time ever in Toronto, everyone understood that new ground was being broken. Even the Globe predicted that “the contest should prove fast and exciting.”14

  A large crowd had turned out, excitedly waiting to see the new club. It would have been a bit surprised by the lineup. Among those dressed was Gee at cover, lent to Toronto by Barrie for the occasion. Burgoyne had become the spare man, left to sit out that first game. The fans, however, were likely even more startled by the team’s jerseys. Torontonians had been told the new club would be resplendent in white and purple. As their uniforms had not yet arrived, trainer William Slean—yet another Marlboro defector—gave them their old sweaters. Thus, the Professionals greeted the fans wearing the uniform of the Marlboros.

  For Bruce Ridpath and company, it was a defiant farewell to John Ross Robertson and the OHA.

  • CHAPTER SIX •

  THE UPRISING SPREADS

  Professional Hockey Appears Across Ontario

  The O.H.A. have thrown Guelph out of their (amateur?) organization and have professionalized three of the players … But they have not broken the spirit of our warriors, nor can they prevent them from putting one of the fastest teams in Ontario on the ice.1

  —Guelph Mercury

  What would it be like to travel back to the Mutual Street Rink of 1906 and witness the Toronto Professionals taking on the Sault Ste. Marie Algonquins?

  Anyone under the impression that the very first professional hockey game played in Toronto might bear much resemblance to a National Hockey League match played by Maple Leafs at the Air Canada Centre would be, at various times, disappointed, intrigued and amazed. The matches of the early pro era bear only a vague likeness to their modern offspring.

  The first conspicuous difference would be on the ice surface itself. The familiar red and blue markings would be entirely absent. The only lines would be in black, connecting each set of goalposts. These existed primarily for the benefit of the goal judges, called “umpires,” who stood on the ice directly behind the nets. With arena lighting very dim compared to toda
y’s requirements for television, fans in the rink could hardly be expected to see these inky smudges.

  It is difficult to convey the vast difference between the shadowy atmosphere in the typical arena of a century ago and the brightly lit modern amphitheatres of today. To illustrate the difference, the Berlin Auditorium was lauded for its new lighting during the 1909–10 season. Two new “sun-lights” of 3,000 candlepower each had been installed, in addition to the ten existing “arc lamps” of 700 candlepower. Today, a flashlight alone can project as much as 75,000 candlepower.2

  The next major discrepancy would be the seven men, lining up in a “T” formation for the opening faceoff. The centre, flanked by the left and right wings, would be familiar. They would be expected to stick to their positions. Behind the centre, however, would stand the rover, the position played by Bruce Ridpath on the new professional club. Usually the strongest skater on the team, the rover was the key transition man. He would often lead the attack as well as augment the defence.

  The defensive alignment was particularly distinctive. Behind the rover would stand the cover point (or just cover), the more offensive-minded defenceman. Behind him was the stay-at-home point. While the two defencemen generally played both up and back, it was not unheard-of for them to be on either side of the ice. Indeed, it was considered bad form for them to be in an exactly straight line to the goal.

  Of course, behind the point stood the perennial goalkeeper, guarding a target of six feet by four feet, filled out with the now-standard netting promoted just a few years earlier by Frank Nelson and Billy Hewitt. The goal dimensions are one of the very few constants of the game, virtually unaltered since its founding. Nor has the size of the puck—which by this time was made of rubber—changed. Likewise, the stick, while then wooden, has always had the familiar shape essential to the sport.

  It would be some time before the dimensions of Montreal’s Victoria Skating Rink—200 feet by 85—would become standard. In the 1890s, proportions as small as 112 feet by 58 were tolerated. By the 1900s, the minimums had been raised to 160 feet by 60. Few facilities had yet been built specifically for hockey; all but the newest buildings were converted curling clubs. The corners of their ice surfaces were, literally, ninety degrees.

  At the big-league level, early hockey was always played indoors—notwithstanding the modern myth of the “heritage game,” as the NHL has called its outdoor matches of recent years in Canada. Indeed, it was the decision of James Creighton to take shinny indoors, giving it a fixed number of players on a surface with fixed boundaries, that launched the modern sport.

  The players themselves—like the population generally—were much smaller than nowadays. The best pros would typically be in the 145-to-165-pound range. Undersized players would tip the scales at much less. Claude Borland of the 1904 Stanley Cup challenger Winnipeg Rowing Club was reported to weigh only 97 pounds. A man of 180 or more (like 200-pound Doc Gibson) would be a veritable giant. Still, the essential skills—skating, stickhandling, passing, shooting, checking—have not changed, although using one’s feet to control the puck was not permitted in hockey’s first decades.

  The early participants also wore very modest equipment, making them look much lighter than today’s gladiators. Goalies relied on mere cricket pads to cover their shins. The protective gear of the others would be little more than thick padding to cover the more vulnerable parts of the body. Yet neither the players’ heads nor the goalkeepers’ faces were apparently considered vulnerable.

  Nevertheless, such men were expected to play the whole game, even when hurt. Should an injury be serious enough, each side would generally drop a player (leading, occasionally, to “strategic” injuries). Substitution by agreement did sometimes occur, but it was comparatively rare. As a consequence, one would not see a bevy of alternate players staffing a large bench. There would be one, maybe two extras in uniform, plus a trainer and a small handful of club officials off to the side. The team’s captain was usually the de facto coach of the squad.

  It also follows that the pace of the game would not be nearly as fast as with the twenty-man NHL lineups of our era. As in a marathon street-hockey game, players would rotate positions to preserve their energy, forwards dropping back when exhausted. However, it should be noted that the top-level pros were much younger. It would be very rare indeed to find a man over thirty playing against twenty-somethings for a full sixty minutes. This hour was played in just two thirty-minute halves (stop-time at the elite level), with a brief ten-minute rest in between.

  The more variable tempo—much like soccer matches to this day—also gave penalties less importance. The lack of analysis of power-play or shorthanded situations in game reports of the period is quite striking. An individual penalty was not seen as a significant disadvantage, although an accumulation definitely was—and there was no limit to the number who could be sent off. Penalties, though defined similarly to today, were also variable in length. A player was assigned one to four minutes (but usually two or three) for a routine offence, while serious fouls would receive five or ten minutes, or more.

  Advertisements for hockey matches were often seen in the newspapers. Sometimes, like this one for the first pro game, they took the form of promotional articles.

  As the game unfolded, the biggest difference a modern spectator would immediately grasp was the lack of forward passing. Hockey in that era was an “onside” game, meaning a player had to be on his own side of the puck to join the play. If not, the resultant “offside” would lead to an immediate faceoff wherever the infraction occurred. Then again, the Ontario Hockey Association—which, despite its extreme conservatism when it came to amateurism, was otherwise a remarkably innovative organization—had developed two important exceptions to the offside rule.

  First, taking the puck off a save by one’s goalie within three feet of the goal line did not constitute offside in Ontario hockey. In other provinces, such a situation would lead to dangerous faceoffs in front of the goal, or worse, an inability to clear rebounds. This 1905 innovation—first proposed by W. A. Hewitt—was rapidly adopted by other leagues, including the new professional circuits. Soon, an actual three-foot line was put across the ice surface (again in black)—the earliest forerunner of today’s blue line.

  Second, in the OHA a puck carrier could move the disc to a receiving teammate, provided he had drawn even with the teammate before the exchange. This was deemed to bring the pass receiver onside. This deviation was not widely accepted, leading to considerable confusion when Ontario clubs played against those from outside the jurisdiction. Among the early Ontario pros, a hybrid version was frequently employed, although no one seems to be able to describe precisely how it was supposed to work.

  Although deliberately “loafing” offside in order to rest could earn a player a penalty, there is no doubt that offside rulings still led to more stoppages than we experience now. Conversely, there was also no such thing as icing a century ago. “Lifting” the puck down the ice to relieve the pressure was considered a legitimate, if somewhat archaic and boring, tactic. In the semi-darkness of many rinks, a high lift could disappear from sight, becoming stuck in the rafters or, quite plausibly, dropping unexpectedly into the net behind the opposing goalkeeper.

  The goalie had a particularly tough job. He could not hold the puck with his hands and had to remain standing at all times. Falling or kneeling to block a shot constituted a penalty—which had to be served by the goalie himself. Unsurprisingly, then, games were generally high-scoring by today’s standards. The goalkeepers’ inability to bounce up and down also explains why many of the time were large, even fat, men. As in lacrosse, where the goal nets were narrower, they were often sought more for their size than their athleticism.

  Many of these differences are interrelated. For example, the absence of substitution eliminated the need for the modern coach. Teams had managers, but nobody behind the bench. If anyone served a position akin to today’s coaches, it would be the playing captain of th
e team. Likewise, the nonexistence of icing, fixed faceoff locations and offside zones are consistent with the lack of markings on the ice surface.

  The approach to the game was quite unlike today’s version of the sport. Offensive styles were limited. Emphasis was put on tight teamwork among the forwards, who ideally would exchange the puck back or laterally in a method more akin to rugby than modern-day hockey. The player who could move up quickly and pass in this manner was considered the key man. Indeed, the playmaker (often the rover) was the star of the team. Much less importance was attributed to the goal scorer (often the centre).

  Given a hockey culture that valued playmakers over goal scorers, it is ironic that assists were seldom noted. In truth, individual statistical records—even goal-scoring records—were rather paltry in this era. For example, historians have made much note of the fact that Toronto’s Newsy Lalonde led the Ontario Professional Hockey League in scoring in 1907–08. However, these records were compiled decades later. There was never any “scoring race” mentioned in the newspapers that season.

  John P. “Jack” Carmichael had never actually been hired to play hockey. He was first expelled from the OHA in 1900 because his Guelph club was caught paying some other men. Reinstated after refusing to join the moneyed ranks, he was thrown out again for playing lacrosse.

  Nevertheless, those watching the games would have little trouble conversing with twenty-first-century fans. Hockey jargon was already moving into recognizable territory. Earlier lingo of “games” and “bulls” was giving way to “goals” and “faces” (faceoffs). Both would quickly understand that “combination play” meant “passing” and that a “hockeyist” was really just a hockey player.

  Even then, the principal official was the referee, but he usually carried a bell instead of a whistle. After all, in a frigid rink, a metal whistle might freeze to his lips. The referee would put offenders “on the fence” rather than in the penalty box. In some jurisdictions (but not the OHA or OPHL), the referee would be assisted by a “judge of play.” He would focus on penalties while the referee looked after offsides. (Obviously, there could be no linesmen, since there were no lines.) At the side would be two timekeepers—one from each club—carefully watching each other as well as their timepieces.