The story dates back to the early 1990s, and involves one of the great hockey legends from the Soviet Union -- defenseman Viacheslav “Slava” Fetisov. Fetisov -- sometimes called “the Russian Bobby Orr” -- was one of the greatest hockey players ever to step on the ice. He played for the famed Central Red Army team in Moscow since the late 1970s, and was the dominant player on a Soviet national team that won a total of nine World Championship and Olympic titles in the 1980s. But he was always quite a renegade in the Soviet Union, and was constantly fighting against the heavy-handed tactics of the Soviet coaches who rules their teams with an iron fist.
The New Jersey Devils of the National Hockey League had drafted Fetisov back in the mid-1980s, when the Soviet government wasn’t allowing any of its players to play in North America. But during the era of Gorbachev’s glasnost and perestroika they finally allowed some of these players to sign contracts with NHL teams. Fetisov was one of a group of several older Soviet stars who were permitted to emigrate to the U.S. and Canada in the late 1980s.
The Devils used to open their practice sessions to the public, and one day in the early 1990s I stopped by on a day off from school to see the players up close. There were maybe a dozen people in the bleachers at South Mountain Arena that morning before the players came out for practice. Instead of sitting up in the bleachers with everyone else, I casually sauntered over to the other side of the rink and stood just behind one of the benches. Spectators weren’t supposed to be there, but I figured I’d stay there as long as I could until someone came and chased me away.
The players came out of the locker room and skated onto the ice. They went through an informal warm-up period before the practice began, and Slava Fetisov skated right over to the bench and began leaning against the boards and stretching his legs out. He was one scary-looking, stone-faced guy, and when he looked over at me I just nodded at him (it ain’t cool to ask players for autographs when they’re on the rink, and that would surely draw some unwanted attention from the arena security staff). He nodded slightly and then went back to his stretching.
I suddenly remembered a story I had read in the newspaper a few days earlier. Fetisov had written a book about his hockey career in the Soviet Union, and it recently been released to great fanfare in Moscow a week earlier. He was something of a celebrity in Russia -- due to his highly-publicized battles with the governing body of hockey in the Soviet Union -- and the book had a lot of personal details about the trials and tribulations of a great athlete behind the Iron Curtain during the latter stages of the Cold War. I thought to myself: I bet he'll get a kick out of this.
“Hey Slava,” I called over to him, “When are you going to have your book translated into English and released here in the U.S.?”
He didn’t look over at me, but he did answer (same stone-faced expression as always) in broken English with his heavy Russian accent:
“Book is not for Amedi-cans. Is for Russians only.”
“Oh, come on,” I answered, “I think a lot of hockey fans here in the U.S. would love to read what you’ve written.”
“No,” he continued (same stone-faced expression), “Only Russians understand Soviet hockey experience.”
“I still think you should translate it. I’d definitely buy it.”
His stony face didn’t change, and now he even got a bit annoyed as he got ready for the start of practice. He looked over at me with a pissed-off look of the former Central Red Army captain that he was.
“Why you so serious about dis, anyway? And why you want to read dis book?”
“’Cause I think you’ll be the next in a line of great Russian literary giants,” I said, “Dostoyevsky . . . Solzhenitsyn . . . Fetisov.”
He couldn’t resist that one. A small grin appeared on his face, and he shook his head with an expression that said, “What the heck is this dude thinking?” as he picked up his gloves and prepared to skate to one end of the ice for the start of practice.
“You will be veddy disappointed if you tink I write like doze men!”