(The above footage shows Derek Sanderson assisting on a Don Burgess goal in Quebec.
Accustomed though they are to humiliation and despair, Philadelphia
sports fans could hardly believe their wary eyes last week as $3.5
million worth of shiny new hockey talent went crashing to the ice.
There they came, the gaudy Blazers, among the biggest, boldest spenders
of the infant World Hockey Association and, sob, there they went: Center Derek Sanderson, possessor of a $2.3 million contract, with an injured shoulder; Goalie Bernie Parent ($750,000) with a broken foot; and Player-Coach Johnny McKenzie ($450,000), self-banished temporarily from the bench in favor of crusty old Phil Watson, once the mind and mouth of the New York Rangers.
As the week ended the Blazers had settled into last place in the WHA's
East Division with a 1-8 record, dutifully following the example of the
town's woebegone baseball Phillies, football Eagles and basketball 76ers.
It was Sanderson above all—trendy and tactless but a superior player when he was a Boston Bruin with McKenzie—who was supposed to win hockey fans away from Bobby Clarke and the Flyers of the National Hockey League. Or at least draw enough new ones to Civic Center (formerly Convention Hall) to pay his keep. Not surprisingly, Sanderson was in a let-'em-eat-cake mood. "I got an ulcer in Boston over winning," he said. "I ain't gonna get one in Philadelphia over losing."
By so saying, Sanderson assumed a central role in a developing morality play. Bum shoulder or no, bad Derek conceded that he was not in very good shape to play hockey anyway. Followers of the Canada- Russia series will recall that the fast, fit Russians exploited the Canadians' soft underbelly. The question was bound to come: Doesn't a handsomely paid star like Sanderson owe the fans a little fitness? And just how fit are North American hockey players? It was clear last week that the best-conditioned teams were doing far better in the standings than their more lackadaisical opponents. One was Detroit, innocent of superstars but winging along at a 6-2 pace. Another was Buffalo, a product of recent expansion but now, if you can believe it, undefeated. Still another: Montreal, a dynasty reawakening.
And how sharp was the contrast in Philadelphia between Sanderson, he of the $31,000 Rolls-Royce, the circular water beds, the gossip-column flings with Joey Heatherton, and Clarke, the Flyers' quiet kid from Flin Flon, Manitoba—married, a suburbanite and a mere $100,000-a-year player. There was a difference at the gate, too. The Flyers were averaging 14,732 spectators, the Blazers 4,920.
"Nothing is going right for us," Sanderson complained Wednesday morning when the Blazers came home to play the Cleveland Crusaders after opening the season with six straight losses on the road. He didn't know the half of it. In the game's first minute Parent broke his foot while making a routine save—and now he will not play for at least a month. Moments later a Cleveland rookie making maybe $20,000 checked Sanderson—and there went his bad shoulder again. Unable to play because he had broken an arm in a preseason game, McKenzie buried his face in his good arm as the Crusaders won an 8-2 laugher. "There'll be some changes before Friday night," McKenzie said. "This is ridiculous."
Well, one change put Chief Scout Watson behind the bench as McKenzie took to the stands to get the overall picture. A new goalie, Yves Archambault, was brought in from Roanoke, Va., of all places. Nevertheless, the Blazers finally won a game, defeating the Los Angeles Sharks 5-4. "That figures," Sanderson said. "They pay me millions, and we don't win a game until I leave the lineup. Maybe I ought to give them back some of the money. They can have $200,000 if they want it."
What Sanderson and a few dozen other members of hockey's nouveaux riches could give without pain in the pocketbook is old-fashioned effort. "There's no doubt about it," Sanderson himself said. "We're all making so much money that we've become complacent." Before the Russians came along and rudely spoiled the good life, most hockey players thought a push-up was something you did to get out of bed around noontime and a jog was a doctor's prescription for an elderly eccentric with irregular heartbeat. Judging by the success of Soviet-style conditioning elsewhere, those thoughts may become as obsolete as $25,000 salaries for rookies just up from Shawinigan Falls.
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