By just about every measurable, Viktor Tikhonov will be remembered and lauded as perhaps the greatest hockey coach we’ve ever seen, but the great USSR bench boss’s legacy will always be tied to the semi-final between his men and the underdog Americans in Lake Placid, otherwise known as the Miracle on Ice game.
Plenty has been written – including by your humble blogger – and plenty more will be written about the victors. The Team USA story is a brilliant one, the stuff Hollywood blockbusters are made of, but the passing of Tikhonov this week has, at least for me, moved the glare of the Miracle spotlight off of the Mike Eruzione’s, Jim Craig’s and Mark Johnson’s of the world, and over to the opposite bench.
What’s undisputed is that Tikhonov was a great coach, a master tactician and, by all accounts, a serious disciplinarian who liked to have input in all facets of his player’s lives, too. But, as the old saying goes, even champions have their off days, and Tikhonov’s came that wintry February day inside the Lake Placid Field House, when his nearly-professional USSR squad faced a group of Americans, mostly from heated rival universities Boston and Minnesota, under the quirky, controversial and unconventional Herb Brooks.
Back in 1980, the Olympics remained an amateur gathering, and though the USSR squad were nominally government employees, which was code for them really not doing anything other than spending their days at a rink, working on their game, in the vein of NHL professionals these days. Tikhonov’s team boasted the world’s best defencemen, the best forwards and the world’s most dominant goalie, a brick wall human named Vladislav Tretiak.
And it was the handling of the USSR goaltending situation that day in Lake Placid that will forever be a part of Tikhonov’s legacy. Somehow, the cool and level-headed coach lost his mind at the end of the first period, a 2-2 tie, and benched Tretiak after giving up a late goal off a costly rebound to Mark Johnson.
Late, as in with 0:01 seconds to play. Sure, it was a bad goal to give up, the rebound off of Tretiak’s pads was a juicy one, and Johnson was in the right place at the right time, but the entire sequence went against the run of play. Had it not been for a shot-in-hope from inside the American blue line, the entire Miracle on Ice might never have happened. Surely, the competitor in Tretiak, angered by giving up such an easy goal, would have come out breathing fire in the second.
One thing is certain: Tikhonov would have been appalled by the ease with which Johnson scored. But one bad goal isn’t generally reason enough to pull your goalie. Especially not when he’s the best in the world. Not without giving him a chance at redemption.
Alas, we will never know what Tretiak might have done, just as we will never know exactly what happened in the locker room during the first intermission – to a man, the beaten USSR squad have spoken little about that day – but, in yanking Tretiak in favour of Vladimir Myshkin, Tikhonov made exactly the sort of kneejerk reaction that he was famous for forcing from the coach opposite him.
It was an unthinkable move then, and still is, more than thirty years after the game. Herb Brooks, seeing Myshkin skate to the crease to begin the second period, must surely have wondered whether his mind was playing tricks. The Americans, of course, capitalised, ramming home two more goals – Johnson scored his second, a power play tally, and then there was Mike Eruzione’s immortal winner, and his immortal celebration thereafter – on Myshkin and the Russians were ousted in sensational fashion, despite dominating everywhere but on the scoreboard. Amidst the backdrop of the Cold War, it was a monumental victory, one that transcended hockey, and one that will not soon be forgotten.
Tikhonov’s squad went on to comfortably win a silver medal in 1980, and Russia would do so again under the legendary coach in 1992. His coaching record is far from shabby – Olympic Gold in 1984, 1988 and 1992, Olympic silver in 1980, as well as World Championship Gold in 1978, 1979, consecutive years between 1918 and 1983, as well as in 1986m 1989 and 1990, plus the Canada Cup in 1981 and the 1979 Challenge Cup – and more than enough to land him in the International Ice Hockey Hall of Fame. He was awarded many state-based honours including the Order of Merit to the Fatherland for outstanding contribution to the development of national hockey.
Don’t get me wrong, Tikhonov deserves every plaudit received since his death in Moscow this week, coming after a long illness, but, to me, there will always be a question mark over his handling of that situation. He was still a brilliant coach, and should be remembered as such. But, like I said, even champions have a bad day. His was historically bad, though.
You can only wonder at what was going through Tikhonov’s mind that day in Lake Placid. It’s one of hockey’s great mysteries, and one likely never to be solved.
Was he scared? How could he be scared by a group of Americans who barely tolerated each other off the ice when the USSR had roundly dominated their opponents to that point, and although they were tied with the underdog Americans, the home team’s last goal had been something of a fluke, and, besides, the USSR skaters were piling on the shots. They had the advantage in every statistical area, and seemed poised to ram home that advantage, hence the uneasiness of the pro-American crowd.
Alas, Tretiak rode the pine and Myshkin, coming in cold as the back-up, was the goalie of note in one of the greatest sporting boil-overs the world has ever seen. And I wouldn’t mind betting that Tikhonov’s decision that day proceeded to haunt him for the rest of his life.
Vale, Viktor Tikhonov. One of the greats.
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