This Day in Hockey History

[forty_three]

 

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[mattola]

lol "unintentional" haha

 

[buffhockey]

 

[mattola]

man that was a BIG BADDA BOOM.

 

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^

 

[sbb122]

Watching Guy Lafleur (and that whole Montreal team) as a kid is a great memory.

It sucks now that every time I see or hear his name the first thing that I think of is that moronic Paul Steigerwald comparing Tyler Kennedy to him during a Penguins broadcast


The quote was something similar to "watching him fly down that right wing and unleash that wrist shot, it's very reminiscent of Guy Lafleur in Montreal"

 

[dash]

Watching Guy Lafleur (and that whole Montreal team) as a kid is a great memory.

It sucks now that every time I see or hear his name the first thing that I think of is that moronic Paul Steigerwald comparing Tyler Kennedy to him during a Penguins broadcast


The quote was something similar to "watching him fly down that right wing and unleash that wrist shot, it's very reminiscent of Guy LaFleur in Montreal"

He caused the Bruins a whole lot of grief during the late 70's.

 

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[dare2be]

16 years today

 

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[mattola]

those were 72 game seasons back then correct? Man that is when this should happen... not in June

 

[dash]

those were 72 game seasons back then correct? Man that is when this should happen... not in June

Start the season the first week of October (or even the last week of September). Start the playoffs the 1st week of April and wrap it up the last week of May.

 

[mattola]

Start the season the first week of October (or even the last week of September). Start the playoffs the 1st week of April and wrap it up the last week of May.

you are going up against NFL no matter what, just do not go on the 1st week.. that is ratings suicide.

 

[dash]

you are going up against NFL no matter what, just do not go on the 1st week.. that is ratings suicide.

Nobody watches hockey in the States...

 

[puckhead]

In my grade 6 English class, I wrote an ode to that Stanley Cup run to the tune of Poe's The Raven.
To be fair, I got the meter out of a Mad Magazine parody of The Raven, but it was still pretty awesome.
Wish I could find that again.

 

[mattola]

In my grade 6 English class, I wrote an ode to that Stanley Cup run to the tune of Poe's The Raven.
To be fair, I got the meter out of a Mad Magazine parody of The Raven, but it was still pretty awesome.
Wish I could find that again.

Thank you Chat GPT

The Ravenous Cup (A 1982 Canucks Lament)
(To the tune of “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe — as if rewritten by a Canucks fan for Mad Magazine)


Once upon a springtime dreary, Canucks fans hopeful, bleary,
Watched their scrappy underdogs come crashing through the playoff door—
Though oft they’d flub and bungle, this time they'd found their jungle—
From Calgary to Chi-Town, they roared with something more.
“I smell a miracle,” we shouted—“Bring us Cup lore!”
Quoth the Islanders: “Sweep in four.”


Ah, I remember, cold and shaking, towel-waving fists were aching—
Roger Neilson raised that rag, and thus inspired a West Coast war.
Smyl was charging, Snepsts was heaving, Brodeur blocking, Thomas weaving,
Even King Richard, despite his size, stood proud like Viking Thor.
We thought, “This scruffy bunch might write a legendary score!”
Quoth the Islanders: “Try game four.”


Game One: A Long Island slaughter—goals came like boiling water,
Trottier danced and Bossy blitzed—our net resembled open shore.
Two... Three... the rout kept climbing, our defense badly timing,
Clark Gillies grinned, while Denis Potvin chalked up six assists or more.
“We’ve just begun,” we mumbled, dazed, “This can’t be what’s in store…”
Quoth the Islanders: “There’s two more.”


Game Two came with no reprieve, not one Canuck dared believe—
Our power play expired like a soggy Timbit on the floor.
Thomas tried to keep us steady, but our ship was half-sunk already—
Even Snepsts looked at the bench and softly mouthed: “What for?”
And when we lost by five again, the press began to roar—
Quoth the Islanders: “Two more.”


To Vancouver they returned us, beat down, bruised, burned, and wordless—
But still the Pacific crowd did chant: “Just win one, we implore!”
Yet from puck drop it grew clearer, as our hopes slid ever nearer
To the cruel, unmerciful sweep—the hockey gods would not restore.
Four games. Four falls. No fairy tale, no mighty underdog folklore.
Quoth the Islanders: “Best of four.”


So now I sit with jersey faded, dreams of glory all outdated,
Recalling Tiger Williams’ tears and fans passed out upon the floor.
Still we cherish that mad rally, that weird and wondrous playoff alley—
The path that took us close enough to see the Cup and then... ignore.
“Nevermore?” Nah—next year, we’ll try once more.
Quoth the Canucks: “Just one more.”

 

[mattola]

"Never Score?" – A 1994 Lament (Now With Riot!)
An ode to the Canucks vs. Rangers Stanley Cup Final — to the tune of Poe’s “The Raven,” via Mad Magazine

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Once upon a June night reeling, while my fandom still was healing,
From years of playoff torture, losses, heartbreaks, and folklore—
Suddenly, a hope came glowing—’94, the Cup was showing!
Quinn had built a ragtag dream, and Linden bled across the floor.
“To win in seven?” I declared, face pressed to the liquor store.
Quoth the Rangers: “Try Game Four.”


They took the first, we took the second—by Game Three we barely reckoned,
That Richter wore some cosmic shield and Messier drank unicorn gore.
Game Four: disaster, fifth’s no better—six arrived like a love letter!
We roared in rain-soaked jerseys as we evened up the score.
And on to Game Seven we marched, fists clenched for ancient lore.
Quoth the Rangers: “We’ve got more.”


Now Game Seven, tight and sweaty, fans in bars, some slightly heady,
From Gastown up to Hastings, nerves were shot and throats were sore.
Leetch was dancing, Graves was shooting, Kovalev’s whole line was looting,
While Richter stopped more rubber than a goalie ever should endure.
Linden scored—still bleeding, grim—and the Garden held its war.
Quoth the Rangers: “Hear our roar.”


Then—LaFayette. The post. It rang. That haunting pipe still loudly sang.
The puck slid wide, and Richter smirked, as curses echoed through the core.
The clock expired. Rangers flying. Canucks fans quietly dying.
Messier raised the Cup so high, we swore and wept on every floor.
And then… as pain consumed the night… the city called for one thing more—
Quoth the riot: “Flip that store.”


Windows shattered, signs were burning, jerseyed mobs no longer yearning
For silver cups but TVs, sneakers, and a liquor drawer.
Smoke rose high near old Robson—chaos lit with Molson’s sob song—
“We lost Game Seven!” screamed one fan, hurling chairs through Safeway’s door.
The Cup was gone. So we set fire to that which we adore.
Quoth the riot: “Never score.”


Now years have passed, and we remember—flames of June, tears of December,
The city scorched, the team so close, yet legends lost to stat and lore.
Still we curse that Game Seven evening, fists unclenched, our spirits grieving,
Dreaming of a Cup parade that didn’t end in looting stores.
But deep inside, our fandom whispers through each 5–4 final score—
Quoth the Canucks: “Next time... four.”