Bruins' Win Has Special Meaning

The text messaging function of my cell phone had quite a workout late Wednesday night.

10:40 p.m.: Scott (niece’s boyfriend) — “Congrats”

10:42 p.m.: John (nephew) – “Oh my God we’re going to win”

10:44 p.m.: Erin (daughter) — “YEAAAAHHHHH!!”

10:44 p.m.: Caitlin (daughter) — “Daaaaaadddde soooi awesome”

10:45 p.m.: Sarah (daughter) — “YEAHHHHHHH!!!”

In the meantime, my friend Allen and I maintained a steady text conversation about this game that would bring the Boston Bruins their sixth Stanley Cup Championship. My wife, the lovely Suzanne, and Ed, my "hockey goombah," had spent many nights like this, parked with me in front of the television watching the Bruins. But never before had the game meant as much, had our focus been as keenly sensitive as it was for this game.

The clock ticked down its final seconds. The phone rang. It was my son and as I struggled to focus on the television through tear-filled eyes, I could hear the call waiting beep indicating more callers. Soon I would talk to my brother, then two of my sisters and friend Carl. We laughed and shouted and congratulated ourselves on this wonderful shared experience. But through it all, I knew that for me, there was one person in particular who was missing from the celebration.

Editor's Note — The following first appeared in the January 2 edition of Shannahan's About Town column:

On New Years Day, I was at Norfolk Arena. As I leaned forward on my stick awaiting the start of our hockey game, I looked to my right and saw my son John, and in front of us a forward line consisting of my brother James, and my nephews John Hovsepian and Daniel Ferdenzi.

Our opponents, cousins Dan and John Doherty and their children were waiting eagerly across the ice. The stands were filled with a collection of family and friends eager to watch, for the first time, a friendly family competition waged to honor a long-deceased relative of tremendous influence. The puck was dropped and the game began.

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It was February 1968. The snow was falling steadily when the cab pulled in front of the Milford home my parents were renting. My sisters and I, busily shoveling the driveway paused, for it was clear that the cab's occupant was in uniform. And just as clear, was our understanding that we were AWOL from school for the day.

From October 1967 until June 1968, a period measured for me by the Red Sox winning the pennant and Bobby Kennedy's assassination, my family lived in Milford. My parents had sold our home on Regal Street, and during the construction of our new home on Granite Street, we lived two blocks from my grandmother's home in the town of my mother's birth. My sisters and I continued to attend Holliston schools, and on this particular day, a severe winter storm compelled my mother to determine that it would be foolish to attempt the daily Braggville crossing. Thus we were at home, granted temporary reprieve from the rigors of the .

The sight of the uniform caused our young minds to race. Was this a special truant officer sent to capture us and return us to our classes? Had we really done anything wrong?  What was going to happen?

When the cab door opened, we soon had our answer. Our Uncle Patrick had returned from the service.

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Edward Patrick Doherty was the youngest of Dan and Mae Doherty's children, and as such, was the closest in age to my sisters and myself. Born on St. Patrick's Day, he had graduated from St. Mary's High School, and the College of the Holy Cross, and as he walked up the driveway to greet us, had recently been discharged as a Captain in the Air Force.

Patrick was more than special. He had an electric presence that drew people to him like a magnet. When Patrick arrived at our house, all normal activity ceased. Books would be dropped, television shows abandoned, and kids would come flying down the stairs so as to gather every moment of his attention.

His effect was just as powerful with adults. We loved to travel as his companion, to sit quietly by his side when he met with friends at the Soda Shoppe to discuss local politics and related issues. Patrick was smart, witty and thoughtful. When you had his attention, you had him completely.

I had no idea at the time that Patrick's return would affect me as much as it did. He returned to live with my grandmother while preparing to enter law school in the fall. Living so close to us, he would visit us in the evenings, and it was then that he introduced me to the Boston Bruins.

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That year (1968) was a wonderful time to become interested in the Bruins. Bobby Orr was in his second season and a trade had brought Phil Esposito to the team, elevating them from last place in 1966-67 to a legitimate Stanley Cup threat. They would eventually win the cup in 1970 and 1972, with the team and its players reaching a level of public interest and admiration not seen since in this region.

If the Bruins were playing during one of Patrick's visits, he would dim the lights, and we would sit trance-like around an old radio listening to Bob Wilson's booming voice filtered by the weak WHDH signal. My parents, never on the technology forefront, had yet to invest in a television capable of receiving UHF broadcasts, in what was Channel 38's first year associated with the team.

It was during these broadcasts that I first learned the game, its rules and its players. Until then, I had only been interested in baseball, often being referred to as "baseball sick" by my Regal Street friends. This was something new, and I grabbed it and ate it up, like a scurvy-riddled sailor would a lemon.

The Bruins' success bred an intense interest in hockey throughout the area. Hockey became an important part of my life and that of my friends. Dedicated hockey stores (including one in Holliston) and rinks sprouted like weeds throughout Eastern Massachusetts. Programs such as Holliston Youth Hockey were initiated.

We moved back to Holliston, and though Patrick's visits were reduced, when Christmas eventually came, it was clear with whom Santa had spoken. Under the tree was a complete hockey outfit: shin pads, gloves, pants and more. To me, it was heaven on earth.

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Life went on. Patrick was married, and finished law school. He also began to have serious health issues, and at age 32, was diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease. After grueling radiation and chemotherapy sessions, he was eventually determined to be cured. In 1975, his wife Claudia gave birth to a daughter they named Sarah.

In the meantime, I had graduated from and in 1978 from Northeastern University. I became engaged to my wife Suzanne, and asked Patrick if he would stand as my best man. Without hesitating, he happily agreed.

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A few months later, I mentioned to Patrick that some friends and I had rented ice and would be playing some pickup hockey. Patrick, an old goalie, expressed a desire to play, and with delight, I extended him an invitation to join us. 

I was somewhat surprised at Patrick's desire to play. At 36, he would easily be the oldest participant. And his health had once again started to deteriorate.

My photo negative sheet lists the date as October 21, 1978 at Loring Arena in Framingham. With friends, Patrick and I took the ice together for what would prove to be our final time. A month later, while at Thanksgiving dinner, the cancer we wishfully had willed away, reappeared, attacking Patrick's spinal cord, and paralyzing him. He died in March, five months to the day before my wedding.

Sue and I were married, and moved to upstate New York. In November 1981 our son, John Patrick, was born. We moved back, and during the mid-eighties, I started playing hockey on Friday nights with my cousins Danny and John Doherty of Holliston — also nephews of Patrick — with whom I had always been close despite our approximate 10-year age gap. My younger brother James also caught the bug and joined us.

Life again continued. Schools were attended, marriages celebrated, and children born.

A little more than a year ago I was talking to my cousin John, and he told me how he was playing on a hockey team in a league in Marlborough and having a great time. John and Danny lived in Franklin with their families and were parents to a combined five children (four boys and a girl), all of whom played hockey. I begged him to get me on the team, and by the time a new season was starting, had completed sufficient groveling to have earned a spot.  In time, I pressured Danny to join us, which he did.

This past September, Patrick's daughter Sarah and her husband Chris celebrated the birth of their first child, Edward Patrick Doherty Amato. The birth of Patrick's first grandchild filled me with memories of this man that we all loved so much, and caused me to look at the lasting effect he has had on our lives.

The first annual Patrick Doherty Memorial Hockey game, featuring the Shannahan branch of the family versus the Doherty wing, was organized. A trophy, appropriately, of a goalie making a save was purchased to recognize the event. 

In the movie "It's A Wonderful Life", as the character George Bailey contemplates a world in which he never existed, his guardian angel Clarence knowingly advises "Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. And when he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

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It's obvious, that Patrick touched the lives of all of the family members gathered in Norfolk on Saturday. He shared his love of hockey with me, and subsequently, that love has spread through multiple generations of our immediate and extended family.

Unlike George Bailey, Patrick never had the opportunity to decide his fate. But as I stood in the rink, and looked at the cousins and nephews and friends who joined me on the ice, as well as the wives, mothers, cousins and children in the stands, I easily understood the impact that this one man had, and continues to have, over all our lives.

Let the record note that the Dohertys defeated the Shannahans 7-3. The championship trophy was presented to the winners by Sarah, accompanied by her husband and newborn son, sleeping soundly in his Bruins shirt and Snuggli. And for this one brief day, as measured by the smiles and excitement of all the game's participants, Patrick was still very much alive.

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As Wednesday night faded into Thursday morning, I checked Facebook to see my friends’ reactions to the Bruins victory. I saw that my cousin Sarah had posted on my homepage. With a picture of her cute son Teddy in his Bruin’s shirt, she presented a simple yet sincere inquiry.  “Can’t help but wonder if EPD had anything to do with this win…:).” 

I wonder ...