Seven Red

There’s nothing I love-dread more in sports than a Rangers-Devils playoff series.

Growing up a Rangers fan in the 80′s meant taking a lot of shit. The Rangers had not won a Cup since 1940, and the drought had reached that turning point where it had taken on the character of destiny: you were the sad sack losers who were fated to get that close and blow it, a la the Red Sox Curse, or Chicago’s own loserdom over at 1060 West Addison. To make matters worse, the upstart Islanders had just won four straight Cups, and threatened a fifth until a couple of young guys named Gretzky, Messier, Kurri, and Fuhr put an end to all that.

Now, every kid in Queens (ahem, well…) was either a Rangers fan or an Islanders fan. If you were an Islanders fan, you practiced chanting the numbers “Nineteen Forty” with maximum obnoxiousness. If you were a Rangers fan, you practiced kicking those kids asses, but secretly finding that unsatisfying. What wasn’t on the radar during those years was the almost meaningless entity across the river known as the New Jersey Devils. All that changed in the late spring of 1994.

The Rangers had the best record in hockey, boosted by trades that landed most of the old Edmonton Oilers dynasty in blueshirts: Messier, of course, but also Craig MacTavish, and Esa Tikkanen. They also picked up a couple of guys from the Blackhawks named Brian Noonan and Stephane Matteau. With the lines firm, the Rangers embarrassed the hapless Islanders in the first round, sweeping them soundly (6-0, 6-0, 5-1, 5-2), with the final indignity being the packed crowd of Rangers fans waving brooms at the Nassau Coliseum for the final blow-out. The Rangers then won three more games against the Capitals, losing only one, and thereby finishing off the Caps in 5. The city was now primed. People were paying attention. Could this be the year? Could the chants of Nineteen Forty finally be finished?

Across the river, another kind of playoff was developing. The Devils, fronted by the then twenty-one year old Martin Brodeur, waged an epic battle with the Buffalo Sabres in the Conference Quarterfinals, a series that went seven games and included a quadruple overtime nightmare that the Sabres manged to win. The Devils barely survived. The next series was equally harrowing: the Devils went down 0-2 to the Boston Bruins, than managed to pull back the series and win in six. The stage was set.

When the puck dropped for game one, everyone I knew had found some way to watch. The Rangers lost the first game in double overtime, but that was alright, because this was our year, and the Devils were nobodies. That Jacques LeMaire had basically reinvented the game with his version of the neutral zone trap was largely unrecognized, and Brodeur’s greatness had yet to be really tested in the playoffs. The Rangers stormed back to win the next two. The first game was just a bump in the road. But then it wasn’t. The Devils tied up the series, and then came into the Garden and snatched another game. And the chants of “Nineteen Forty” started to grow louder on the streets, and in the minds of fans. Again? We’re going to lose again? To the fucking Devils?

Then something very weird happened. Before game six, a game that promised yet another ignominious exit from the playoffs, Rangers captain Mark Messier did what you’re never supposed to do. He guaranteed victory. Where most fans would get behind such a gesture, Ranger fans just groaned. If your team is fated to lose, Greek tragedy style, the last thing you want to see is the hubristic moment that presages the fall. Guaranteeing victory? Nineteen Forty…Nineteen Forty… We sat in Steve’s car listening to the game, me, Steve and George the Greek. It was a rainy, miserable night, or we would have been sitting outside. The Rangers went down by two goals, playing like absolute shit for the first thirty minutes of the game. It was over. It was all over. Nineteen Forty…Nineteen Forty. Rangers coach Mike Keenan called a time out, and said nothing. A few minutes later, Messier dropped a pass back to Alexi Kovalev, who scored. Then Messier scored. Then Messier scored again. Then Messier scored again, on an open net. Guarantee. Hat trick. Game 7. Madison Square Garden. (The mythic status of the Messier Guarantee in the New York sports imaginary is exemplified by the relative corniness of YouTube videos on the subject).

It was a Friday night, I think, and we were hanging out at the park. Somebody had brought a radio, and we were listening to the game. Brian Leetch scored early: 1-0. Could this be it? Then nothing happened. Second period: nothing. Third period: nothing, nothing, nothing. As the minutes ticked down, more people started to gather around the radio, then more. Three minutes, Rangers up 1-0. Two minutes, Rangers up 1-0. A crowd now, huddled around a radio in a park in Queens. One minute, fifty seconds, forty seconds, thirty. But since destiny has that way, it was going to sap the maximum hope out of us before it snatched it away. With 7.7 seconds remaining in the deciding Game 7 of the 1994 Eastern Conference Finals, the Devils Valerei Zelepukin scored, tying the game and sending it to overtime. A universal groan from the City of New York. Steve said “Let’s go,” and a few of us went back to his place to watch the disaster unfold on TV.

Because it was assured that the Rangers would lose now. You don’t win after the other team ties the game with less than ten seconds left. Especially not if you’re fated to lose. But we picked up some beer and sat in front of the TV and watched, waiting for the dreaded moment: Devils score, Devils win, Nineteen Forty…Nineteen Forty… The first overtime period came and went, and nothing happened. We sat in silence, drinking. The second overtime began. Every time the Devils were in the Rangers’ zone, we cringed. Every shot was catastrophe. I think a Devils shot hit the post. Richter threw his glove at another. We cringed. Oh.

Then the puck was in the Devils zone. Devils defenseman Sergei Fetisov picked it up and tried to clear. Fetisov was on the old Red Army teams (indeed, he was on the 1980 Russian team that lost the “Miracle” game in Lake Placid). They were trained to play aggressive defense, one feature of which was passing into the neutral zone even it meant going cross-ice. This is an inherently risky move, since there tend to be more bodies that might block your clearing attempt. A more conservative play is always to clear up the boards, but it lowers your chances of converting directly to an offensive footing. But the Russians were trained to pass when they cleared, even cross-ice. So Fetisov tries to clear. Tikkanen knocks it back before it leaves the zone and it trickles to the corner. Scott Niedermeyer tries to collect it for the Devils, but Ranger Stephane Matteau is a little faster to the puck. He gathers it up and brings it behind Brodeur, who’s a little slow getting to the far post. So here’s one of the classic calls in the history of hockey, if not all sports:

Pandemonium, hugging, craziness. Impossible. Out on the streets, the city was going nuts. People were literally running out of their houses and apartments in joy. We went back to the park and it was a huge party. The chant of Nineteen Forty was still there, since the Rangers would still face the Canucks for the Cup, but for that night and a few others, it was supplanted by another mantra altogether: Matteau, Matteau, Matteau…

I offer this Great Moments in Sports History, of course, because the Rangers finished off the Devils tonight in the Eastern Conference Quarterfinals. They beat ‘em 4 games to 1, with considerably less drama, but it doesn’t fail to evoke those heady days of 1994.

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