I Wanna Party Like It's 1975

 

I doubt many people would look back at 1975 fondly. The US was still suffering the effects of the worst recession since World War II, with inflation and unemployment both sky-high. Our national confidence was still shaken from the gas lines and rationing of the 1973 oil crisis. We were cynical and depressed about corruption at the highest level of our government, following resignations in disgrace by both our president and vice president. And though the Vietnam War was finally declared over, it was punctuated with horrific footage of the evacuation and fall of Saigon, documenting the first lost war in our nation’s history.

 

Against this gloomy backdrop, I was a 13-year-old kid, a seventh grader at Iroquois Central. While I had some sense of the gravity of the times, I was fortunate enough to be insulated from it. Dad had a good job at Bethlehem Steel. He was a Seneca Voc grad who enlisted in the army at 18, then drove tanks in the “good war” but didn’t talk much about it. He was physically imposing and intimidated the hell out of my siblings and me just by glowering at us, so it was a treat for us to watch him laugh uproariously while watching “All in the Family.”

 

Mom was a superb homemaker. Buff State-educated with a degree in Home Economics and a former nutritionist for The Statler Hotels. She was a Jesse Ketchum medal winner at South Park and she held us kids to high standards in school. The seven of us were well loved and cared for, and had all the things we needed.

 

At 5:30 a.m., I’d wake up to the sound of Dad’s spoon scraping against his bowl of Shredded Wheat before he left for work. Then Mom got up and turned on the radio to the sound of Clint Beuhlman’s jingling intro on WBEN. Between the news, weather and Clint’s folksy monologues and commercial endorsements, he’d play soft pop fare like The Carpenters and John Denver. Meanwhile, in the bedroom across the hall, my sisters were listening to Led Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynrd and other strangely named groups on the recently launched Q-FM-97.

 

I waited my turn for the single bathroom we kids shared, typically taking a lukewarm shower because my sisters used all the hot water. If I knew it was a swimming day in gym class, I’d beg my mother to write a note attesting to my phantom cold or sinus infection, as we had to swim naked in gym. I don’t care how immodest you are— that was weird (I say with some irony, as I would be suspended for streaking a baseball game five years later… but STILL). Sometimes Mom came through, most times not.

 

This all probably seems like meager scraps for lasting memories, let alone celebration. Indeed, I might only recall the trauma of swimming naked in gym if it were not for the Buffalo Sabres.

 

The Sabres are a fixture for my childhood recollections, a Christmas tree on which other memories hang. Although Buffalo had the Bills and Braves in 1975, the Sabres dominated our attention and made Buffalo a hockey town. In just their fifth season, the Sabres were one of the best teams in the NHL, rivaling the Montreal Canadiens and defending cup champion Philadelphia Flyers. The Sabres finished the 74-75 regular season tied with both of those clubs atop the league. The city was gripped by Stanley Cup fever, fed by local store promotions, Buffalo Evening News features, and even a jaunty earworm “We’re Gonna Win That Cup” that played frequently on the radio. I remember arguing with a kid on the school bus about who sang it – I insisted it was Joey, the Super Duper lady. I was wrong.

 

“Me and the Buffalo Sabres yeah yeah yeah…”

 

Sabres fans were blessed at that time with two world-class sports announcers: Ted Darling and Rick Jeanneret. The duo’s play-by-play calling made the TV and radio experience almost as exciting and entertaining as being at the games. Fortunately for me, I saw several Sabres home games in person that season, because I grew up across the street from the Boldt’s dairy farm. Mrs. Boldt was a secretary for the franchise-owning Knox brothers and received a pair of season tickets as a perk with her job. They were great tickets, too, in the lower blues above the Sabres’ blue line. Because of the demands of the farm, the Boldts often couldn’t go to the game, and because they were nice people, they offered the tickets to my Dad, and because I was such a fanboy, Dad took me.

 

Much has been said about the 74-75 Sabres being the greatest team in franchise history. I certainly share that opinion. They were electrifying, even in loss, and they played every game like it mattered—because it clearly did to them. The whole team exuded pride, individually and collectively. They seemed to genuinely like each other and have fun playing together. They were a young, brash and defiant new guard in a league still dominated by the stodgy original six teams. Punch Imlach encouraged—if not deliberately shaped—that personality after having been fired by Toronto despite winning four cups as their coach. It was Imlach, after all, who in 1974 drafted Taro Tsujimoto, a fictitious player allegedly from Japan. It was a bird flip to the league, in addition to being a great publicity stunt for the Buffalo fan base. I felt like I was in on the joke, as I had picked fresh strawberries many times at Tsujimoto’s farm on Seneca Street. Before the opening face-off of every game, Dad always pointed out Punch in his signature fedora, seated in the golds behind the opposition net.

 

The Sabres were led offensively by one of the greatest lines in NHL history, “The French Connection” featuring Gilbert Perreault, Rene Robert, and Rick Martin. I knew the story of “The Three Musketeers” and saw the 1973 movie at some point (the one with Raquel Welch, I distinctly remember that!) and these guys were hockey’s version of the graceful and daring swordsmen. Speed, finesse, power and highly reactive chemistry made them such a thrill to watch. I remember Perreault wheeling around Buffalo’s net to start his trademark full-ice rush. The crowd ‘s “OOOOOOOH” building, we rose to our feet as he stickhandled through the opposing team, Martin and Robert weaving along with him. Sometimes he took the shot himself, but more often he dished a perfect pass to set up Martin or Robert. As I recall, most rushes ended with Ted Darling’s incomparable “HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES!!!”

 

I remember collecting autographs, along with a bunch of other kids, outside Holiday Twin Rinks in Cheektowaga. Back then the Sabres held practices there. Rene Robert emerged from the main door looking snappy in bell bottoms and platform shoes, his gear slung over his shoulder. The mass of us ran for him, unaware that Gil Perreault was sneaking out the side door we’d just run past. When we got within a few feet of Rene, he yelled “Hey kids! Look! There goes Gilbert Perreault!!” We all turned to look and Rene started running for his car. The group fractured, most heading after Gilbert. I stuck with Rene and he stopped, laughing and grinning broadly. He then graciously penned his autograph on the napkin I handed him, plus whatever else the other kids gave him to sign. I then sprinted to the other end of the parking lot to join the tail end of the Gilbert gang. He, too, generously accommodated us all.

 

My brother likes to tell of his encounter with Rick Martin, in the parking lot of Leisure Rinks in Orchard Park. He was waiting to pick me up from The Buffalo Sabres Summer Hockey School, which featured occasional instruction from various Sabres players. While my brother was seated in his ‘67 GTO, Rick Martin parked alongside in a ’69 Trans Am with a healthy rumble. He called over to Rick, “Hey, nice car! You wanna race?” Rick laughed and called back, “Oh no! I’m barely holding onto my license right now. Besides, this is Gilbert’s car!” I’m sure there are many people out there with stories of their own chance Sabre encounters from that time. They were so accessible and they really seemed to enjoy their fans’ attention as well as being in Buffalo. And that made us love them more.

 

Back to the lineup! The Sabres had the best checking line in the league, with Don Luce, Craig Ramsey, and Danny Gare. It’s amazing to think that they were typically matched against the other teams’ top scoring lines and yet compiled ridiculously positive plus-minus ratings. They were also lethal offensive threats in their own rights, each tallying at least 75 points by the end of the 74 -75 campaign. In addition, Luce and Rammer were penalty-killing wizards on a team that ranked third in the league in penalty minutes. Though short-handed minutes were always fraught, with 10 and 20 on the ice there was comfort we’d weather the storm.

 

Then there was Gare. If Perreault, Martin and Robert were the Three Musketeers, Gare was D’Artagnan. A rookie that season, he quickly won the hearts of the fans and the respect of the players across the league. I’ve seen Danny Gare described as “scrappy.” Calling Danny Gare “scrappy” is like calling the Blizzard of ‘77 a “snow event.” He was ferocious and relentless in all aspects of the game. Even though he was the smallest skater on the team, he would battle anyone, including the guy I hated most back then: evil goon Dave Schultz (I later softened toward Schultz a bit when he played for the Sabres in the late-70s). Danny had a laser wrist shot, delivered with a quick release off his inside foot: a move that caught goalies by surprise. I practiced his technique for hours after school and adopted it as my own (my shot was more like a flashlight and it was the only one I had). Danny also had his own fan club, which operated in addition to the club-sanctioned Sammy Sabre Fan Club.

 

Every player on that team is worthy of legend, but some really stand out in my memory: Brian (Spinner) Spencer was great fun to watch, careening around the ice with reckless intensity. Sadly, that playing style carried over to his personal life with terrible consequences. Rick Dudley was colorful, both a 30-goal scorer and a fierce brawler. (My sister went through a headband phase in honor of him.) Jim Lorentz was a crafty and dependable two-way player who could be trusted in any game situation. Jim Schoenfeld (Schony) and Jerry (King Kong) Korab were two bruising giants on the blue line, the policemen on the team (and Schony recorded an album!). Regarding the defense, in my imagination they played alongside the spirit of their mentor, Tim Horton, who had died tragically just a year prior.

 

Not surprisingly, the matchup I remember most was also the most bizarre game in NHL history. I also remember that I was very lucky to go, and not just because the Boldts had too much farmwork. I had gone shopping with Mom a few days before and gotten yelled at in Kobackers for sliding down the railing to the basement level. Then, at Kings, a man yelled at me for clipping his heel while I push-rode a shopping cart. Mom was justifiably annoyed and was giving me the silent treatment, which was far worse than being yelled at. Shortly after Dad came home, the phone rang with the ticket offer. Several minutes passed while I strained to hear my parents’ conversation downstairs. Finally, Dad’s voice boomed up from below, asking whether my homework was done. I replied in the affirmative and he told me to get ready to go. Mom had come through.

 

That evening, May 20, was exceptionally warm and humid, which added to the atmosphere of oppressive anxiety in the Aud. The Sabres had dropped the first two games in Philly and struggled to solve Flyers goaltender Bernie Parent. I heard a wave of cheers among the crowd before I saw the bat, then joined in when it flew over our section. As it flew closer to the ice, the ref paused play at a faceoff circle in the Flyers’ zone. I saw Parent swing and miss. As the bat approached Jim Lorentz, Mr. Dependable swatted it lacrosse-style into the circle, near the skates of Rick MacLeish. He picked up the dead bat and delivered it to the penalty box. The fog formed some time after that and grew increasingly thicker, to the point where you couldn’t see the puck. Play stopped repeatedly for attempts to clear the fog, first by the players who skated in large circles, then by Aud ice staffers who skated around while holding bed sheets. Despite their efforts, the fog persisted, so play continued in the soupy air until the Sabres won the game on an improbable goal by Rene Robert in overtime.

 

That was the last game I went to that season. The Boldts attended the next two. I’m glad I wasn’t there to see that final game, because I wouldn’t have wanted to cry in front of so many people as the enemy hoisted the cup on our home ice. Twenty-five years later, my sons would experience similar disappointment during the “no-goal” game. Sadly, fifty seasons removed from that foggy night in 1975, my grandson follows football and baseball. The Sabres aren’t even on his radar. I miss Buffalo, the hockey town.

 

If you have a favorite Sabres story you'd like to share, please email it to info@abuffalomind.com.

 

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