DALLAS – It’s the heavy lifting that went into winning it that in the end makes the 32-pound Stanley Cup so light. When the clock reaches zero, so does gravity.
“I have a bad shoulder, but I managed to get it up there,” smiled Scott Stevens.
He got it as high as a captain could ever lift a team, soaring, with his selection as the Conn Smythe Trophy winner to a higher level of recognition than any defensive defenseman has ever enjoyed.
The Devils’ captain was indefatigable, irrepressible, an absolute marvel at age 36, the beacon of the Devils’ drive to a second Cup in five years. Gary Bettman gave the Cup first to the right guy for a reason greater than is rank.
“I have never seen a look in Scotty’s eyes like I did this year from training camp,” said Ken Daneyko. “He is going to be a Hall of Famer someday, he’s done a lot, but he had an attitude this year that said, ‘Jump on my back, fellows.’
“This put to rest any questions of Scotty Stevens’ leadership. He is the best leader I have ever seen.”
He led with his shoulder, his heart, reaching down for an energy level than no 36-year-old should be able to maintain after 18 years.
“When I took this job, there was always questions before, ‘Oh, our club doesn’t have leadership,'” said Larry Robinson. “That was the first thing that we straightend out when in came in here. I said, ‘Listen, you have got probably the greatest leaders in the league here right here.
“Because he doesn’t stand up and shout and holler, and you don’t hear him talking all the time doesn’t mean he’s not a great leader. Bob Gainey was a man of few words, but he probably was one of the best captains that I played for. And Scotty reminds me of Gainey because nobody works harder in practice, nobody comes to play every night more than Scotty Stevens, nobody plays with more heart than Scotty Stevens.
Real men win the cup. Grown men cry when they hold it. Old men go their graves fulfilled by it. Outside of delivery rooms and wedding chapels, the day a hockey player wins is the very best one he ever had.
Over time, the celebrations gets better and better, too, and not just in the sense of satisfaction that stays with the winner. The party lasts longer these days, goes to more of the people. It is only over the last two decades that the tradition has evolved where each winning player gets his own day to share the Cup with friends and family and townspeople, adding new chapters to the lore.
The Cup that was kicked into Ottawa’s Rideau Canal by a member of the Silver Seven in 1905, was forgotten at the side of the road by the 1924 Montreal Canadiens in, was put to use as a flower vase when left behind at a photographer’s studio by the 1906 Montreal Wanderers, has recently served as a water bowl for Clark Gillies’ dog, wound up at the bottom of Mario Lemieux’s swimming pool, was nuzzled by strippers at the joint across the street from Edmonton’s Northlands Coliseum.
“It’s their Cup, too,” frowned Mark Messier, accused of sacrilege for providing the priceless vase as a prop for women paid to take off their clothes. “Why shouldn’t they share the enjoyment of it?”
Major league baseball, the NFL, the NBA, have commissioned gleaming trophies, named after their sports’ great figures, to reward to their champions. They have only have created photo-ops, not really the history of a $48.67 hunk of tin, donated by a Lord whose children loved the game and who never saw one himself.
At age 107, the Cup is a visual monstrosity, really. The base has grown so much there is no longer space for all the early winners. It is clunky, unwieldy, has scratches, misspellings, names of obscure non-combatants.
At the hock shop, the silver itself wouldn’t bring a week’s salary for a fourth-line winger. This is all the more reason why it is utterly priceless, why players would willingly give body parts to win it, why to hold it at last, as the Devils and Scott Stevens did last night, is the essence of the hold it has on the combatants and their supporters.
The Cup already had Stevens’ name on it once. Twice was for the good measure of someone who measured up to the eight-week grind like few players ever have. The privilege of competing for it so coveted, the history of it so compelling, the sight of it so inspiring, the rewarding of it so moving, that as many words can be devoted to what the Stanley Cup means as there are names on it, and still not capture the essence of the yearly ritual.
Simply, it is why they play, why we love watching them do it, why we are grateful to see the magic of a Scott Stevens lifting the Stanley Cup last night.