A Great Game (40 page)

Yet the amateur ideologues had again missed the big picture. If it was true that Ontario's smaller centres could not support major-league hockey, then it was just as likely that Toronto could. In a matter of a few months, the Queen City's hockey order had undergone a remarkable transformation. After a seemingly total victory for the amateurs, the pros were back with a vengeance. The city had gone from being a professional wasteland to having not one, but two franchises in the sport's biggest commercial association.

This link of the new Toronto franchises to lacrosse clubs was not coincidental. The leaders of professional lacrosse and professional hockey were increasingly found in the same circles, pursuing the same business models. In fact, the National Lacrosse Union would also soon drop its smaller-market clubs, morphing into the new Dominion Lacrosse Association. The DLA, like the NHA, would find itself mired deep in a recruiting war with a league on the Pacific coast. It was the creation of one Conrad “Con” Jones, a western sports tycoon—the lacrosse parallel of the hockey Patricks and their PCHA.

Unlike the PCHA clubs, however, Toronto's new NHA teams were firmly anchored in the city's sports culture. The lacrosse-sponsored Toronto Hockey Club even had some echoes of its professional predecessor. Jimmy Murphy, now president of the NLU, had been an advisor and sometime coach of Miln's outfit while he was manager of the Toronto Lacrosse Club. The perennial hockey spare man of 1906–09, Hugh Lambe, had long been a star defenceman on the same lacrosse team.

The most visible resemblance between the two clubs was, of course, in their jerseys. The new Torontos quickly became known by the moniker of their lacrosse parent, the “Blue Shirts” (sometimes in hyphenated form).
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However, they too would be at times referred to as the Professionals.
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The strongest connection to the past was yet to come: in October, Bruce Ridpath, founder of the original Torontos, was named playing manager of the NHA team.

In leading Ottawa to the Stanley Cup the previous season, Ridpath had emerged as one of the league's premier forwards. Incidentally, his change of residence was not entirely amicable. Despite having granted Riddy permission to go back to his hometown, the Senators would periodically demand compensation from his new bosses.

Ridpath was certainly worth it. Quite simply, he was the best hockey player Toronto had ever produced. Almost three years since his departure, he was still the hero of the city's hockey fans.

Riddy was also quite literally a hero, having saved a life the previous summer. It happened while he was competing in the Canadian Canoeing Association championships on Ottawa's Rideau River in early August. The junior-four crew capsized near the press stand. “The boat overturned as the Valois paddlers acknowledged greetings from their friends,” reported the
Citizen
, “and for three minutes Hamilton, who cannot swim, was in grave danger of going under . . . Ridpath seized a row boat and pulled Hamilton into it, just as he was on the verge of collapse.”
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Ridpath's homecoming—a huge coup for the new club—was eagerly anticipated. However, it would soon be eclipsed by a terrible tragedy. On November 2, 1911, Ridpath was the victim of a near-fatal accident. Getting off a streetcar on Yonge Street near Alexander Street, Bruce walked behind the trolley and began to cross the road to meet a younger brother. Startled by the dimly lit headlights of an oncoming motor vehicle, he was hit and thrown back. The hockey star ended up under the car with severe head injuries, just barely alive.

The Montreal
Gazette
reported that an “automobile containing a party of men and women came down Yonge Street and Ridpath was struck down [and was] thrown to the side of the street with great force, as the automobile was travelling fairly fast.” The driver, Colin A. Campbell, stopped and carried Ridpath to a nearby drugstore before running for medical help. “Two doctors worked over Ridpath, but could not restore consciousness, and he was taken to the hospital in the ambulance.”
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Campbell followed the ambulance to the hospital and then went and found Ridpath's brother, informing him of the accident. Shortly after midnight, he was arrested, “charged with causing grievous bodily injury, and lodged in cells.”
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The Ridpath story was huge news in the hockey world throughout Canada. Though initially given almost no chance of surviving, daily
news briefings from St. Michael's Hospital began to note some improvement in his condition. After a few days, Bruce began to sporadically regain consciousness. A month after that, he left the hospital. Nevertheless, Bruce suffered from severe head pain and memory loss, and there was no possibility that he would play in 1911–12.

The accident was more than just a personal tragedy. In Toronto, it heightened a growing backlash against the automobile. Though still relatively rare on city streets, cars were becoming common enough to provoke a growing number of pedestrian injuries. Incidents of drinking and driving caused particular anger. Action was demanded by the citizenry. Mayor Geary proclaimed it outrageous that cars “should travel around at twenty miles an hour and keep citizen [
sic
] dodging them all the time to escape being killed or maimed.”
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In high-profile cases like Ridpath's, charges were being laid and the proceedings were intensely followed in the papers. Campbell had to post bail in the amount of $5,000—a substantial sum at the time. Also, for months to come, debate raged over speed limits, driver credentials, road lighting,
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signalling, mandatory crosswalks, the size of fines and prison terms, and even possible bans of the new mechanical menace. One writer pointedly asked, “how are the aged and infirm to escape when the most vigorous and alert fail to do so?”
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Surprisingly, Ridpath bore the man who had nearly killed him no malice. When he could finally speak to the press, he assigned no blame. Bruce told them that “his injury was due to ‘nothing more than an unfortunate accident.' ” He said the vehicle had its lights on, that there was no speeding involved and that the driver, Campbell, had had no chance to avert the accident.
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The recovering Riddy was not forgotten. An immensely popular figure wherever he had performed, he had benefits held for him in Cobalt, Ottawa and Toronto over the course of the season. The largest was a Massey Hall extravaganza organized for May 2, 1912. Attended by all the city's dignitaries and sports personalities, it featured tributes, musical entertainment and a free airing of a film featuring Bruce's canoe exploits—a hit of Toronto's early cinema years.

Toronto's Ridpath benefit had a significance, however, well beyond its charitable purpose. It showed how quickly and completely the cultural values of the sports world were shifting. The affair had been spearheaded by the city's amateur athletic clubs, out in force with their colours on display. Try as the amateur bosses might, the star professional athlete was no longer an outcast to his amateur brethren. On the contrary, he was in an elite category to which most of them aspired.

The loss of Ridpath was obviously a huge blow to the fledgling new Torontos. To temporarily take his place, Quinn hired as manager his fellow referee Chaucer Elliott—one of the men associated with the efforts to organize a Toronto pro hockey club in 1905–06. Percy also made lacrosse star Eddie Powers the team's captain.

Soon, however, both the Toronto Hockey Club and the Tecumseh Hockey Club were in serious jeopardy. Their entire season depended on a new arena, and that facility showed few signs of being ready.

Toronto was experiencing a historic boom in construction activity, with intense competition for approvals and crews. Demolition of the old Caledonian building itself did not begin until August. No sense of nostalgia would greet the landmark's death. The
Star
even went so far as to proclaim: “Good-bye, old Mutual Street Rink! Farewell! At last! At last! We are going to have a real hockey rink!”
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When the structure finally came down, the architects were dumbfounded by what they found. So decayed were the stonework and woodwork of the foundation, it was a miracle the old barn had not just collapsed of its own accord. Indeed, during demolition some parts did, injuring several workers.

Once work began, it seemed to just crawl along—with seemingly one serious accident after another. In mid-November, the NHA released its schedule, which had the Blue Shirts and Tecumsehs on the road until well into January. By then, the clubs were frantically looking for backup plans. They were checking out rinks in Toronto and neighbouring Ontario cities. They briefly toyed with the notion of playing the entire season out of Montreal or even Boston.

Finally, on December 16 at a league meeting in Montreal, the NHA dropped the Torontos and Tecumsehs for the 1911–12 season. The league went further, seizing their $500 deposits as a fine for the inconvenience caused. Quinn and Querrie were furious. Coming on the heels of the Tecumseh dispute over their franchise and the (ongoing) Blue Shirt one over Ridpath's rights, bad blood was already developing between the pro association and its Toronto clubs. The consortium building the new artificial-ice arena was said to be contemplating the formation of an
alternative “International League,” with similar ventures in the northeast United States.

In spite of the lack of a permanent facility, the two Toronto clubs did not give up entirely in 1911–12. They decided to move over to the Excelsior Rink and began to look around for other options. However, with the OPHL gone, there were no plausible leagues to play in. They then looked to barnstorm, but soon had to face the fact there were no other pro clubs at any reasonable distance.