Those Golden Years of Hockey
One short excerpt from the tribute to Coach Eddie Jeremiah written by Ad Winship '42 would have done injustice to a lively recollection of Jerry's early years as Dartmouth coach, so we did not quote from it last month but waited until we could run the whole of it:
My Melrose heritage never took my hockey talents beyond the Ell Pond caliber, but nevertheless it provided the stimulus which was finally rewarded with the managership of Eddie Jeremiah's great '41-'42 team. Hence my pride at being included in the numbers of his fraternity and my claim to sharing in the affection which so many of his players have for Jerry.
Those were heady days in Dartmouth hockey history, especially as seen through the eyes of a kid from Melrose who had seen his G. B.I, heroes by names of Guibord, Lewis, Foster and Goding move on to big things with the Green. And it even made sense that G.B.I, arch-foes like Hughes, Maloon and Campbell should help to mold the great Green teams of those days - not to overlook men like Mather and Walsh from that upstart Bay State League. Preppies were working their way in too, with the likes of Sullivan, Feeley, Merriam, and Snow. And even Minneapolis was starting to get into the act with Larkin and Kelley. And Skowhegan, Maine sent Cross.
These were the stars of Jerry's first four seasons as varsity coach at Dartmouth - and it was already apparent that his future talent was going to be plucked from more than just the greater Boston leagues. Dartmouth hockey was more than holding its own as the game was rapidly spreading in popularity across the country.
In 1941 Dartmouth followed Yale's example of the previous year and became the second Eastern team to move into the Canadian-studded western circuit to prove the East still dominated college hockey. That was the start of Eddie's great and glorious stretch of dominance that lasted for nearly a decade and featured the great names of the Harrisons, Rileys, and Rondeau, another Mather and Campbell, Cunliffe, Warburton and others.
But to the '41-'42 season. Two totally unrelated factors nearly combined to make it the season that never was. Pearl Harbor threatened to cancel the western trip, and Jerry had to talk harder and faster than ever before in his life to keep alive the ac tuality of December 16 departure. And the weather blossomed hot. Our practice before entraining for Colorado Springs was limited to a foray to Storrs Pond where Ted Lapres' goalie equipment proved much too heavy for the thin ice on the edges. The only other practice was the first scheduled game against Colby.
The story of the season was written early and richly by sophomore stars Dick Rondeau, Bill Harrison and Jack Riley, backed up by the toughest defensive combination in Dartmouth history, Harry Gerber and Johnny Krol. The team won 21 and lost two, losing only its third and fourth games, both avenged with matching victories. The sophomore line scored some 200 points alone in the 23-game season, led by Rondeau with 77 and Harrison with 75. The rest of the squad would have done justice to any Dartmouth team, and each in his own way carried the full load of his job with competence.
The fun highlight? Keeping the boys down on the farm while at the Broadmoor. Some difference from the Manger! The rarefied air may have bothered them on the ice, but the heady atmosphere didn't bother a thing but sleep. The only time we could corral the whole group - off the ice - was for a news photo of Dartmouth's Indians in their ten-gallon hats.
Jerry was so concerned throughout the season for the health and well-being of his young sophomores that he had to make separate and special dispensation for John Krol, who was ages older than all others. In fact this manager drew the special assignment of living apart with Krol just to make sure he set no examples for the others. This led to some experiences best not recounted here, but suffice it to say Jerry knew what he was about with his special dispensation. John turned the only hat-trick of his career against B.U. after a memorable night at the Manger.
My favorite personal memory of the season was at Minneapolis where Jerry accepted the sound advice to nominate one of the goal judges and promptly assigned the duty to me. Their rink was the last outpost in hockey with no goal lights, so the judges stood in rubbers on the ice behind the cage. I got caught ducking a high hard one which hit a post, and naturally couldn't call in what I couldn't see. All hell broke loose, both squads, 5000 screaming fans, and me in the middle of a free-for-all. Jerry, the officials, and even some of the opposing team backed me up, of course, but the only basis on which the Minnesota coach would continue the game was on my banishment. That terminated a short career.
We had our policemen in Gerber and Krol, who drew their full share of blood and penalties, but Jerry's big worry was Dick Rondeau whose unpredictable temperament was exceeded only by his brilliant play. Dick was banished from one western swing game, and my fondest memory of his explosiveness, still clear in my mind's eye, was the way he golfed a Yale player's stick the length of the ice just as the Blue was reaching to retrieve it. The referee saw it too.
Everyone on the squad had his moments of glory. Jim Hayes saw a lot of goalie action when Ted Lapres' injured knee acted up. Stan Priddy got to be a regular after John Krol ran afoul of studies (he was a poet at heart, but poetry wasn't his major). Dave Pierson got a hurry call to join the squad after Jack Riley broke his finger in Illinois. Bud Cannon and Duke Dushame did an awful lot of scoring backing up the first line. Bill Remsen and Mo Mulhern were dogged raggers during our surfeit of penalties. Snooks Hughes, Bob Pelren and John Brooks made everyone remember it takes a good third line to enjoy a winning team. And Wiley Hitchcock, piano virtuoso, made the best travelling substitute goalie a team could be blessed with.
Another fond memory was of the Colgate game, which we thought we ought to win handily yet which concerned us because the Buffalo press was so high in its pregame praise of Greg Batt, "the greatest college hockey player in history - can he stop Dartmouth singlehandedly?" Batt took the ice, the only player without headgear, and he was a mighty handsome blond, high-flying skater. He took the opening face-off from Rondeau, circled his cage and literally flew down the ice trailing his wings behind him. But Messrs. Gerber and Krol, who had not gone without pre-game reading of press clippings, moved out and joined forces at the blue line with such perfect timing that I can still see Mr. Batt somersaulting ten feet up. Dartmouth beat Colgate handily.
For a bunch of kids who spent Christmas at a fraternity house in Champaign, Illinois, who were feted handsomely by alumni both East and West, who savored the thrill of being the nation's best, and most of all who sensed that theirs might be a foreshortened team experience because of the fates of war, the '41-'42 season was a great experience that even for Jerry perhaps has not been equalled since. It was his pinnacle in "the last years of normalcy." By the time the post-war dust settled, around 1950, and the last of the polyglot returned-veteran teams had played out, hockey no longer was "Jerry's domain." Too many colleges had discovered its thrill. Canadian boys were monopolizing the nation's best. Academic standards were favoring other and newer big-time hockey powers.
I've personally enjoyed returning to Hanover and watching from the sidelines over the past seven years as Jerry has continued to teach Dartmouth hockey, and has fashioned some darn good teams in the process. Now he coaches from the box, which partially explains the understandable irritability of a man who for many years never had to say "do as I say." Younger hands give leadership to such energy-demanding programs as Hanover's burgeoning youthhockey program. Jerry has an able assistant coach to work with freshmen and help mold his varsity material. This is all as it should be. For when a man gives as much energy to his calling as Jerry has over the years, it is fitting that he also learn to pace himself in the process. The noteworthy thing is that he still produces exciting teams, including a very recent Ivy League winner, that he continues to be honored as a dean among hockey coaches and that Jerry will serve out his appointed time in a long illustrious career in his familiar pose in the box, looking for all the world as if another long undefeated skein is just around the corner.
