If Calgary Isn’t Hell, It’s a Suburb

Americans in Calgary keep going down in flames.

Somehow we aren’t surprised at the nasty thing that happened to the Kings here Tuesday night. Ninety-six seconds away from winning Game 1 of their Smythe Division playoff series, they gave up a game-tying goal, then got burned in overtime, 4-3.

No wonder they call the home team the Flames.

This place is Frozen Hell.

In the Olympic ice hockey a year ago February, our Team USA boys were knocked right onto their unlucky butts.

In the women’s figure skating a few days later, Debi Thomas slipped and tripped in her United States skates.

A couple of months thereafter, in the 1988 Stanley Cup playoffs, the Kings came up to the Saddledome, hoping to unseat the Flames. Instead, they were stampeded right back to California. Calgary won all three playoff games played here.

OK. Fine. These things happen.

The Kings just weren’t ready to compete in this company yet.

Then another National Hockey League season rolled around. This time, the Kings came armed with a whole new cast of players, led by Prince Alberta himself, Wayne Gretzky.

Didn’t matter.

Four times the Kings came up here, four times they got their helmets handed to them.

One of the games was 11-4, for hell’s sake. Another one was 8-6. There is no truth to the rumor that the Kings played each of these games with an empty net.

OK. Fine. These things happen.

Hey, Calgary had the best record in the league. No disgrace losing to the Flames.

After all, only one team outscored the Flames in the NHL this season, that team being the Kings.

So, the problem was keeping the Flames from scoring, right? Right.

OK. Fine. Bruce McNall held out that fat checkbook of his, told Rogie Vachon to go buy a 24-karat goalie.

The Kings went right out and found themselves a hired glove, Kelly Hrudey. One of the best in the business. Let’s see the Flames get the puck past him, they said.

So, up to Calgary they came, on March 23, for one last regular-season game. And what happened?

Calgary beat Hrudey and the Kings, 4-2.

OK. Fine. Hrudey wasn’t ready. He was new to the team. By the playoffs, he would be in peak form. He’d become the favorite masked man in Hollywood since Clayton Moore.

April came. Playoff time. The Edmonton Oilers dropped by for a visit, and Hrudey turned them away. He guarded that net the way a Doberman guards his doghouse.

The Kings booked passage for one more trip to Calgary. They had everything they needed. They loaded up their superstar, Gretzky, and their goalie, Hrudey, and their coach, a guy named Ftorek, and needed to buy nothing else, except maybe a vowel.

Up they came, to Frozen Hell.

And this time, the Kings really had them. Had them hooked. Had them stuck. Had them locked in a box with only two minutes to go.

First, Bernie Nicholls slapped one of those slapshots right out of the Bobby Hull scrapbook, whistling it over Calgary goalie Mike Vernon’s shoulder.

Next, Chris (Goal a Game) Kontos did his ever-improving Phil Esposito impersonation, loitering around the goal mouth long enough to finally bat one into the net.

Finally, Jim Wiemer shot one from, oh, somewhere around Medicine Hat, and it wobbled right off Vernon’s glove and into the net.

Everything was bouncing L.A.’s way.

It was 3-2 in the third period, and all the Kings had to do was kill time. They played conservatively. They went into a four-corner offense. They dumped the puck down ice, as though they were killing an endless penalty.

Ninety-six seconds away from winning Game 1 on the road.

Then up jumped the devil.

Gary Roberts got a lucky bounce, right in front of the King goal, and tapped the puck past Hrudey, tying the score. Overtime. You could see what was coming. Doug Gilmour got the game-winner, and that was that. Another American tragedy.

“That’s just hockey,” Hrudey said afterward. “Funny things happen.”

Funny, hell.

These Calgary people aren’t using hockey sticks, I tell you. They’re using pitchforks.