The little kid on defense, all 5 feet 2 inches and 110 pounds of him, one day would change everything we thought about hockey, not just here in Boston, but everywhere.
It was early in 1961, and five members of the Bruins’ front office, including Milt Schmidt, drove up from Boston and spread out around the rink in Gananoque, Ontario, eager for someone among the bunch of 12- and 13-year-olds on the ice to catch their eye.
“We had two names to watch for,’’ recalled Schmidt, now 98 years old, bits of that day still as vivid in his memory as the sun’s glare on fresh pond ice. “One was Eaton, the other was Higgins.”
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Rick Eaton and Doug Higgins, both defensemen, were from that part of southern Ontario, and it was a good bet other clubs had them on their watch list. There were only six NHL teams — and fewer secrets — in those days.
“Let me tell you,’’ said Schmidt, “it wasn’t long that day before we all said, ‘The hell with Eaton and Higgins!’ ’’
The Boston contingent instead was nearly transfixed, focused completely on Bobby Orr, the wisp of a 12-year-old from Parry Sound who darted all over the ice and never surrendered the puck. It took the Bruins the better part of three more years to tie up the wunderkind’s playing rights, another two years before Orr for the first time pulled on what soon would become his iconic No. 4 Boston sweater.
Now 50 years ago, Sept. 15, 1966, to be exact, Orr reported to his first camp with the Bruins in London, Ontario. Almost immediately, what had become a risible franchise, without a playoff berth for seven straight seasons, blossomed into a thriving, at times intimidating, force in the NHL. With Orr at the forefront, the Bruins won a pair of Stanley Cups (1970, ’72) by the time he was 24, the rare case when all the hype proved to be substantially less than what the “phenom-to-be’’ actually delivered.
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Orr was fast, tough, offensively prolific, at times spellbinding, even when charged with the mundane task of killing a penalty. Ultimately, he was transformative, in the true sense of the term, rather than its loose interpretation of today when it’s affixed to players who merely compile impressive statistics, win trophies, and sign mega-million-dollar contracts.
Unrestricted by systematic play, mind-numbing trapping schemes, or the peer/coach pressure to conform to a team’s style in his youth, Orr changed the game by leading the attack as a defenseman. Blessed with speed, what teammate Ted Green once called “18 speeds of fast,” Orr made a trademark out of his rink-length rushes, defenders left like candlepin detritus in his wake, goalies turned into pratfalling stunt clones as he finished off with clever tucks and lifts at their net.
We had never seen anything like him, not here, not anywhere.
Because of Orr, rinks sprouted up by the dozens, around Boston and throughout New England.
Because of Orr, fans arrived at Causeway Street at 2 a.m., eager for the Garden box office to put the next few games up for sale. By daylight, the line reached North Washington Street and wrapped around toward the Charlestown Bridge. Eventually, doors swung open and ticket buyers filed into the empty Garden, filling seats by the thousands before they were herded to the box office to make their purchases.
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Because of Orr, everyone in hockey thought offense first, US national TV bought in with weekly broadcasts, and the rival World Hockey Association became reality. Player salaries soared. Street hockey thrived.
And Day 1 was a half-century ago with the Bruins in London, Orr winning over reporters and teammates immediately with his humility and politeness. He hadn’t been sure, he said, if he would report to London, the camp for the Boston varsity, or to St. Thomas, the other camp in Ontario where the Black and Gold minor leaguers trained. Veteran John Bucyk, his training camp roommate, early on pleaded that Orr stop calling him “Mr. Bucyk.’’
This was, after all, a kid who worked summer jobs as a bellhop at the Belvedere Hotel in Parry Sound, sliced bacon at his uncle’s butcher shop. He grew up playing the game on outdoor ice, in northern Ontario temps often 10-20 degrees below zero, some of the other kids, including native North Americans, chasing the puck with twigs and branches they fashioned as sticks.
Orr didn’t pull on his first new pair of skates until he was 14, the year he finally signed his amateur card with the Bruins — a deal valued at just under $53,000. It included a secondhand car and the Bruins put a fresh coat of stucco on the family home on Great North Road.
It was a far simpler time, particularly in the media. On Sept. 11, with camp about to open in London, a brief, non-bylined story in the Globe reported that four amateurs, including Orr, Ross Lonsberry, Ted Hodgson, and Dick Cherry (a reinstated pro and brother of future Boston coach Don Cherry) would be in camp. Of greater note was that “all eyes will be on Ted Green,” the hard-nosed defenseman attempting a return from knee surgery.
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Tom Fitzgerald, one of the Globe’s Hockey Hall of Fame media honorees, noted Week 1 in London that the team had a much different feel, particularly with Orr and rookie coach Harry Sinden, 34, “who even talks about sports psychology, without apologetic overtones.’’
Great days could be at hand for the Bruins, but the wise Fitzgerald preached caution.
“Boston hockey fans can help a lot,’’ suggested Fitzgerald, “if they contain themselves in their appraisal of the lad. They must not expect that Bobby immediately will be a combination of Eddie Shore, Doug Harvey, Jack Stewart, and Dit Clapper.’’
Quickly, almost magically, he was all of that and more. Boston and the entire NHL changed because of Orr. A half-century later, the game again begs for the life and creativity he gave it.
Kevin Paul Dupont’s “On Second Thought” appears regularly in the Sunday Globe Sports section. He can be reached at dupont@globe.com. Follow him on Twitter @GlobeKPD.