The screaming and shouting began at the end of the Canadian national anthem and of course didn’t let up until the end of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” If it wasn’t quite as loud as we remembered it, it was just as delighted with itself, just as determined to intimidate the opposing team–on this night the Edmonton Oilers. It had been years since we’d been out to see the Blackhawks, and we regretted the lost time almost immediately, as in the first moments of a joyous meeting with a long-lost friend. There was a feeling of obligation to the noise at first, a hint of people doing what was expected of them, but about halfway through the national anthem that pro forma aspect was dropped and the crowd began to roar. There were guys in the front row of the second balcony waving a U.S. flag and gesturing angrily at the Edmonton players. There were people whistling through their teeth all around, and in the row in front of us two young boys with somber looks on their faces clapping dutifully through the entire proceeding. We managed to stifle a shout, but not a broad smile; it felt too good to be back.
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Not only had we not been to a hockey game in years, we were attending with a friend from Australia, which helped open our eyes anew to the whole experience. We are now in the final calendar year of the Chicago Stadium, and there’s something almost unutterably sad in that; the place deserves to be preserved in our memories even if it can’t be saved from profit-minded sports owners. The arena rose white and defiant and sudden out of the west side: we were driving and talking and forgetting to point out the sights, and suddenly, oh yes, we were upon it. As we clambered up to the second balcony and then came out, way above the ice, and climbed down to our seats, we remembered the first hockey game we had ever seen, and the way the Stadium had seemed like an ancient religious structure erected around a holy site–ice, left from the Ice Age, that had never melted.
That’s why the Stadium is so noisy, because the noise has an almost tangible quality. A leather-lunged guy to our left called down during the second period, “You’re a loser, Ranford!” to the Oilers’ goaltender, Bill Ranford, and we could see Ranford shrug his left shoulder and then his right, and sway his head from side to side, in the unmistakable manner of an athlete ignoring someone who can’t be ignored.
Roenick, who–no coincidence–was suffering through a goal drought just as the Hawks were suffering through a losing streak, was the picture of a player trying to do too much. He was all over the ice, trying to do everything himself. Roenick has the jaw line of a hockey star–and also the shot and the skating ability. But on this night he seemed out-of-the-flow good, as if there were no one on the team capable of playing at his level. This gave us the impression–justified or not–that hockey is overexpanded, that unlike in pro basketball–where an overabundant talent pool buoys the stars–there is a dearth of true ability in the National Hockey League today.
Even in the fast-paced, ever-changing world of sports some things don’t change. All praises to the hockey gods.
