SPORT, May 1974
The main reason? Esposito, said the Hawks, was a lousy playoff performer....
On paper, he was. In 29 National Hockey League playoff games with the Chicagoans, the big center came up with a grand total of four goals. And four assists. Mr. Choke, they labeled him.
So, what happened in Boston? Simple: In 52 playoff games, Esposito collected 33 goals and 50 assists for 83 points—the finest playoff record ever amassed. Each time the Bruins went beyond the first round, Espo was the playoffs' top scorer. He set a playoff mark for total points with 27 (in only 14 games).
Esposito, whose book Hockey Is My Life, written in collaboration with Gerald Eskenazi, is now in paperback, knows the pressure and the pleasures of the playoffs. Here is his view in 1974.
For years, I’ve been hearing ae say the playoffs are a whole new season, and maybe they are, in one sense: Where you finished in the regular season doesn’t matter; once you lose four games to any team, good or bad, you’re dead. But as far as playing goes, as far as I’m concerned, the playoffs simply carry over from the regular season.
There’s no four-month break. I just try to imagine that each playoff game is one more game in a long season. Maybe that’s why I don’t appear rattled. Maybe that’s why—after a slow start, zero points in my first four Stanley Cup games playing for Chicago—I’ve got a good playoff record.
Sure, there’s extra pressure, and sure, I’m nervous, and sure, I know the style of play in the Stanley Cup is different. Maybe it fits my style just right.
First, there’s the checking. It’s much tighter than in the regular season. I don’t know how much tighter it can get than in the playoffs. Everyone on the ice knows that a goal can mean a victory, and you only need four of those.
When the checking becomes tighter, the tempers flare more. But in the playoffs, the referees don’t call the nickel-and-dime penalties. It seems that they want to make damn sure they call real good penalties. So players may get away with more in the “pit” —the area in front of the crease where I like to hang out.
But the playoffs are more than checking and whistle-blowing. The atmosphere is more electrifying. One good pass and the crowd’s on their feet. A body check (for the home team) sends them into ecstasy. And there’s something else: The weather. You're into April—and May, if you get to the finals—and the weather’s nice and warm.
I know some doctors won’t agree with me, but I think big fellows like myself benefit from the warm weather. This is a key part to the playoffs. You’re going to sweat like you haven’t sweated during the regular season. It’s spring. The arenas get warm, the 17,000 fans packed together create more heat, the hot floodlights for color television beat down on us.
That leads me to my unscientific conclusion: The bigger the team, the better they do in warm weather.
Hear me out. A bigger guy doesn’t tend to get as tired as a smaller guy—especially after 78 games. Take a little guy, say Gregg Sheppard on our team. I must outweigh him by 40 pounds. When you get to the playoffs you’ve got a game practically every day (Tuesday-Wednesday, Saturday-Sunday). We eat only one meal the day of a game. So four days a week, poor little Gregg is eating his steak just once. Then he gets into a game. It’s hot, and there’s some pretty good bumping going on. He’s got to be sapped more than me.
My big-man theory extends to the Rangers’ Pete Stemkowski. He’s got that extra stamina. He’s always done better in the playoffs than in the regular season. Another big man is Brad Park—he’s got extra weight he can lose and it won’t bother him. If a little guy, a Stan Mikita or a Sheppard, drops a few pounds—hell, he melts away.
I'm glad to see that at an average of 189.6 pounds we’re the heaviest team in the NHL.
There is one way you can compensate for lack of size: Get a hot goalie. More than any other factor that’s how you win the Stanley Cup. Don’t laugh, but it’s conceivable an Atlanta or a Los Angeles can make it to the finals if their goaltending gets hot—if anyone’s goaltending gets hot. That’s why, practically every time, you'll see the goalie who’s going great wind up on the winning team.
The hot goalie can come up with the big saves. And since there’s so much emotion in hockey, a big save is like a shot of adrenaline for the entire team, We go out there figuring that we have nine lives, that no matter what happens we’ve got the good goalie behind us and he'll save us.
Gerry Cheevers did that for us. Look at what this guy did. Cheesie always had a reputation among the fans (never the players) as just a fair goalie who was lucky because he played for a great scoring machine. His goals-against average was never pretty. But look at the 1969 playoffs. In only nine games, he turned in three shutouts for us. That was as many as he got in 52 games during the regular season. Gerry is one of the few goalies whose average in the playoffs is better than in the regular season.
The most frustrating goalie for me in the playoffs was the big giraffe, Ken Dryden. What he did to me in the 1971 finals I'll never forget. Giraffe? Hell, he was some kind of octopus. Everything I threw at him—and I must have had 60 shots in seven games—he stopped. I never saw a guy play like that. He’s big, he covers that net so much you can’t even see a pinhole. But size alone doesn’t always stop me. Look at Gump Worsley of Minnesota. He’s only five-foot-seven. But he gives me grief.
If we make it to the finals this year, these are some of the clubs we might meet:
Philadelphia. A good hockey team. People are finally taking them seriously. You don’t hold down first place for most of the season against a team like Chicago unless you're good.
Chicago. They'll play that real good defensive style. They’ve been doing it for years. And they’ve got my brother Tony. He’s simply a terrific goalie. They know how to tighten up their defense when it comes to the clutch games.
Montreal. No matter what kind of season these guys have, they’re always tough. And we know on the Bruins that, except for last year, the Canadiens are the only team that’s beaten us in the playoffs the last six years. The three times we faced them we lost. The other times we won the Cup.
Toronto. A great playoff team and they’ve got a tradition in the playoffs. Look at how many times they won the Cup and didn’t even finish first. That shows how they come through when it matters. Red Kelly will have them higher than a kite.
New York Rangers. There’s a lot of talent here. But the guys I look for especially in the playoffs are Stemkowski, Park and Jean Ratelle. I consider Ratty one of the great ones. And, of course, their goaltending is super with Eddie Giacomin and Gilly Villemure.
Why is it that strange things happen in the playoffs? Everyone acts just a little bit weirder. I know that I'll probably be more protective of my territory in the locker room. Before every game I get meticulous. I lay my stick out on the floor in front of my locker-room seat. Then I put my right glove to the right of the stick, my left glove to the left. Palms up. The gloves line up. I get very nervous if anyone touches that arrangement. Even Derek Sanderson knows better than to fool with my superstitions.
And when we go on the ice, we'll go in a certain order. We won’t change it for the playoffs. When we leave the ice, my handsome right wing, Ken Hodge, has just got to be the last one off. Once, crazy Derek hid in the net. Hodge thought everyone was off and started to leave. Then he heard the guy on the Zamboni laughing. He looked out and saw Derek—and old Hodgie was livid. He broke a speed record rushing out. He grabbed Derek and shoved him off the ice. Then Ken left.
It may be funny to look back at it now, but one of the hairiest moments I had came after the ‘72 Cup. We were a happy bunch of guys as the plane landed at Logan after we had stopped the Rangers. I didn’t expect what happened next. I looked out the window and there were people—wall-to-wall people. Ten thousand Bruin fans (equal to 100,000 any-other-fans). Well, I decided, what the heck. I had a few celebration swigs on the plane and why not get out to meet the people? They left a space about three feet wide to walk through and so I figured I could do that easily enough. But as soon as I put a foot down I got claustrophobia. Hemmed in. And someone screamed. In a second my watch was torn off my wrist. My suede coat was shredded. Women were trampled. I was with Bobby Orr and we spotted a side door and I said, “Let’s run for it.”
I found myself in a parking lot. I didn’t know where the hell my car was, so I wandered around. I got spotted and a fan shouted, “Hey, Espo,” and boy did I take off. I leaped a fence and within seconds I was gone.
The next day we had a party at City Hall. Me and Wayne Cashman walked out on the balcony. And suddenly I felt like the Pope. There was this mob below us and I started blessing them.
That’s how big winning the Stanley Cup makes you feel.