As it is with most, my first and lasting memory of Pat Quinn was that thunderous body check in the 1969 playoffs against Bobby Orr. It was a hit for the ages, one that cemented Quinn’s legend as a player. There was that night I remember as a kid, Quinn skating out of the Zamboni entrance at the Pacific Coliseum for the expansion Vancouver Canucks — and a famous elbow on Stan Mikita etched on film with Quinn a member of the Atlanta Flames.
To be honest, Pat Quinn was not a Norris Trophy candidate. But what he lacked in ability, he made up for in character. It was that character, and his leadership, that has put Pat in the Hockey Hall of Fame. Those same traits were identified by Fred Shero, who put Quinn on the Flyers staff in the late 1970s, which ignited a career of coaching and management that truly left an impact on four NHL franchises.
I first met Quinn as a young producer at Hockey Night in Canada, thrown into the breach and producing the Stanley Cup Final of 1980 between Quinn’s Flyers and the New York Islanders. He was larger than life and an intimidating figure. He could easily have been aloof and unapproachable, but that wasn’t Quinn’s manner. He quickly diffused any tension with a huge smile and even bigger handshake. Our friendship began and lasted until his passing. He truly was a gentle man.
Quinn is easy to admire and so are his accomplishments. He was always frank. He was always disarming. He always gave his time.
For the Flyers, he returned the franchise to glory with four winning seasons. In Los Angeles, Quinn created a new identity for the Kings in a very short period of time.
But Quinn’s true contributions came in Canada and for Canada. The Los Angeles experiment was cut short when Vancouver owner Frank Griffiths lured Quinn to British Columbia to help save a sinking franchise. Within short order Quinn became the constant for the Canucks franchise as coach and General Manager. This was a team and a franchise that was on the verge of collapse and Quinn’s leadership stabilized them on and off the ice.
He built confidence in his players, his management team and in the fans on Canada’s west coast. The franchise exuded Quinn’s personality for more than a decade.
In Toronto, returning behind the bench, he returned the Maple Leafs to respectability, as well. Seven seasons, never less than 90 points, and three times reaching the 100-point plateau. With the launch of Leafs TV in 2001, Pat became our most valued commodity. His post-game press conferences lasted as long as reporters had questions. There were no cut-offs, just Pat talking, sometimes laughing, gesturing and showing everyone that there was no question too silly to answer. It became great TV, and was never — NEVER — predictable.
Add a World Junior Championship, a Spengler Cup, a World Cup and an Olympic Gold to his resume. No one wore the Red Maple Leaf more proudly than Pat Quinn. He believed in hockey in Canada with such fervour. He understood that creating a strong national program would trickle down to minor hockey from coast to coast, and help grow the game. He nurtured people who are still leaving a mark on our game: Brian Burke, George McPhee, Bob Nicholson, Trevor Linden.
But it wasn’t team success or winning that made Pat Quinn special. It was about how he made people feel. He was always warm and caring to everyone, young and old. When we’d talk, there wasn’t a summer that would go by where he didn’t ask about my daughter, who he met on one trip years earlier.
He had immense pride. In Salt Lake City, he sat after an Olympic game telling everyone within ear shot about his lucky socks given to him by one of his grandkids, then he lifted his pant leg to show the white socks adorned with sparkles. He wore them every game. In the Maple Leaf dressing room, at a mirror shaving, he asked if I had a job for one of his older players, who he knew was soon to be released. He thought he would be good on TV.
Yes Pat Quinn loved hockey, but that smile, I’m convinced was because he just loved people.
And that’s why he is in the Hockey Hall of Fame. It’s just a shame he isn’t here to enjoy the night.