year for thirty-eight years.
Since the day in 1952 he touched the Cup at centre ice in Toronto, he had touched it again an uncountable number of times. In the history of the Cup, no other person who has held, lifted or touched it more than Stan Cooper. He lifted it on and off airplanes, trains and ships. He rode with it in the back of an ox-drawn cart, the front of an ocean-going canoe, a hot-air balloon and four different cable cars.
In late August of 1991, the Cup was returning to Canada on a transatlantic flight from Moscow. Stan had spent a week in Russia, escorting the trophy to the celebrations of two different players. It had been an uneventful trip as foreign visits go. There was the usual unending supply of vodka to be poured from the bowl, but this time, thankfully, no one had vomited into it. At one party, Stan noticed two very well-dressed men about whom people whispered and pointed from the edges of the room.
There was something in the perfection of these men and in their easy disregard for everyone else, something that smelled of violence. Other people’s reactions to these men made Stan nervous for the Cup. But they seemed bored by the trophy; they ignored it and instead wandered the room in slow circles, boldly appraising the local girls with their eyes. The young Russian hockey player pulled Stan aside.
“Two-Second, don’t worry,” he said morosely. “They are here for my money, not your cup. They do their business as quietly as possible. Taking your cup would make too much noise. They don’t want to be noticed; they just want to be paid.”
Stan relaxed, and found himself experiencing an unexpected and unfamiliar pity for the young athlete. The older Stan got in his job, the less he had in common with the players who won the Cup. Though he’d never much participated in the shit slinging and underwear grabbing that seemed to entertain Cup-winners when he was a young man, at least they had shared a history as adults. With the kids he chaperoned later in his career, there was rarely anything of substance to be said, and he often could not even communicate with them. Their English vocabulary was held within the confines of the rink. Over the years as well, these young men became richer and richer, pushing an even greater divide between them and the older underpaid man who carried their trophy for them. What do you say to a boy in his early twenties who owns his own helicopter? How do you make small talk with the kid who buys prostitutes by the half-dozen?
But the Russians were often different. They liked their fun as much as anyone, but, as in the case of this young man, they had troubles their Canadian teammates could not guess at or imagine. With their giant paycheques came immense notoriety back home, and with the notoriety, trouble. In a country where a meal at the new Pizza Hut could cost a month’s wage, the salary of a hockey star was an obscene temptation. These players paid out hundreds of thousands of dollars in protection for the privilege of returning home to an intact family. They themselves were never threatened. The local mobs would never cripple their winning horse. But the weight of generations of relatives hung around their necks. The flights to Moscow with the Cup were never quite as raucous as the flights to Moose Jaw or to Thunder Bay. And at this particular party, celebration of the Cup came second to celebration of the payoff.
Each new Cup-winning player in turn learned Stan’s hated nickname and used it endlessly despite objections. He was convinced half the kids didn’t even know why he was called “Two-Second” Stan, but they all liked the name, and liked even more that he so obviously hated it. With the foreign players, for some reason, it was often easier to remember “Two-Second” than his actual name, a convenience that meant, in other countries, he was introduced as a slim measurement of time.
In 1991, Valeri Berschin was one of the earliest young Russians to enjoy the curse of winning the Cup. On the ice, he was a goal-scoring surgeon, cutting past defenders with a combination of raw speed and brilliant fakery. Stan had been present for his game-winning goal in game five, a subtle backhand chip into the upper corner. The boy had not even been looking at the net, or the puck. In fact, he’d been looking at nothing at all. The slow-motion replays clearly showed a smiling Berschin with his eyes closed, scoring by instinct and feel. As the puck left the tip of his stick blade, he took the inevitable hit in front of the net, spun deftly on the toe of one skate and did not open his eyes until his back hit the end boards, his arms wide to receive an avalanche of teammates.
It was, in terms of raw skill and artistry, the greatest goal Stan had ever witnessed. And now the same young man stood by a table weighed down with food and drinks, sheepish in an uncomfortable-looking brown suit, the servant of two huge men with bad reputations. Stan waited until the evening wore on a bit louder and drunker, then approached Berschin.
“Look at the Cup, my boy,” he said.
The young man blinked and downed the last third of a tumbler of vodka. “Two-Second,” he said, smiling and drunk. “Yes, the Cup. What about it?”
“Do you own the Cup?” Stan asked.
“No, Two-Second, you own the Cup. I know. I can win it, but only you can own it. You’ve told me this before.”
“Do those two mobsters own the Cup?” Stan asked.
“Two-Second, no, I told you already. You own the Cup.”
“So, look at the Cup. You will take all that money you’re making because you won this Cup, and you’ll divide it up and it will all go away into the world. All that money is long gone already, some to your family, some to these two guys, some to you. Do you think this Cup gives a shit about your money?”
“I guess, no, I don’t know what you mean.” He was blinking now, trying to see Stan’s point through a clear vodka fog.
“Stop thinking about these two guys. That’s just life. Everyone’s got his shit to deal with. They’re your shit, so deal with them, but don’t let them ruin this, this moment when this Cup, which you do not own and never will no matter how many fancy goals you score, this Cup is here for you. It’s a short time, believe me. Tomorrow, I take this Cup away from you, we’re back on a plane and you, my boy, you may never touch this Cup again after that. Stranger things have happened. Have you ever heard of Bill Barilko? Compared to that fact, those two big uglies mean nothing. You get my point? I see you standing around worrying about two men who will steal your money. You want to worry about someone in this room, worry about me, because it’s me who will take this Cup away tomorrow.”
“Two-Second, you win. You are the scariest man here.” The young man smiled and slapped Stan between the shoulder blades. “From now on, I worry only about you.”
“Some day, Berschin, trust me, you’ll be closing your eyes and chipping rocks through your fence rails out there, rather than chipping pucks past goalies in the finals. When hockey is through with you it will let you know, believe me, and then those gangsters will be through with you as well. There’s always another fucking superstar.”
Berschin nodded and refilled his glass from one of the dozen clear, half-empty bottles on the table in front of him. “You are the wise old man of the Cup, yes Two-Second?”
“Damn right,” said Stan, and walked away, trembling from sudden anger. It was a cruel speech in many ways, and a kindness. It made him feel briefly equal to the brilliant young player, an unfamiliar but satisfying feeling. On his way past the bar, Stan made a point of introducing himself to the two gangsters. Not caring if they understood him, he shook hands with them and looked each of them straight in the eyes.
The next evening, on the flight from Moscow, Stan fell asleep immediately after dinner. He’d felt all day as though a cold were coming on, and was glad this would be his last trip overseas for the season. The Cup sat secured in its case and strapped in with a seat belt in the first class seat beside him. He always gave the Cup the window seat, as that kept
