Ken Dryden was such a big deal that, had he wanted a massive funeral, he’d surely have gotten it. I’ve been fielding the question ever since the iconoclastic Montreal Canadiens’ superstar died last Saturday: Will he lie in state at the Bell Centre in Montreal? He won six Stanley Cups; surely the Habs would do that for him, right? Will his cabinet colleagues from his days in politics be at the funeral? Oh, and incidentally, where is the funeral? Surely, a massive church or auditorium that can house thousands.
No, no, and no.
The Drydens held a small, intimate gathering at the Mount Pleasant Funeral Centre in midtown Toronto on Tuesday. I always thought Ken and I had a wonderful friendship, based on our shared love of hockey, politics, and authoring books; our frequent emails to each other; and my delight in having him on The Agenda on TVO every time he came out with a new book. But the fact is, you’re never really sure with someone that famous whether you are as important to them as they are to you.
I’m now sure.
Dryden reunited with Soviet goaltender Vladislav Tretiak. (Steve Paikin)
Ken or his family (or presumably both) saw to it that I was invited to the remembrance service, which was one of the great honours of my life. His former Canadiens’ teammates were well represented in Serge Savard, Bob Gainey, and Frank Mahovlich. The owner of the Habs, Geoff Molson, was there too.
Ken had a pretty good run in politics, serving as the MP for York Centre from 2004 to 2011, when he lost his seat to Stephen Harper’s Conservative majority. But there were precious few people in attendance from his years in politics. Nearly 400 photos played in digital rotation on a big screen during the service; only a tiny handful were from his time on Parliament Hill.
Instead, nearly all the pictures were from intimate family or hockey-related moments. This was decidedly a gathering for family and close friends only. People burst out laughing at some of the more adorable shots of Ken with his children or grandchildren. And they giggled to see a shot of him in a canoe doing, what else? Reading a book. That’s so Ken Dryden.
My read on the guest list wasn’t that Ken wanted to exclude people who wanted to be there. It was his innate sense of hyper-modesty coming to the fore. He just didn’t want this service to be a big deal.
Dryden's best friend, John Ritchie, whom he knew for 70 years.
His sister Judy told a story about Ken’s time at Cornell University, where the Big Red national collegiate team won 76 games, lost only four, and tied one over his three seasons. When one championship game went into multiple overtime periods, past curfew, the organizers decided to leave the game in a tie, giving both teams bragging rights. Ken left the game with the championship trophy hidden under his overcoat.
“He just didn’t want to draw attention to himself,” his sister said.
Ken’s best friend of 70 years, John Ritchie, gave a eulogy as well, and described a relationship that was uber-competitive in every way: hockey, basketball, baseball, football, tennis, lacrosse, and later in life, bocce. Ken may have been mild-mannered on the surface, but as we learned in his books, he had a burning desire to win. You don’t collect six Stanley Cups, five Vezina trophies as the league’s best goalie, and the Calder trophy as its best rookie with apathy.
It extended to everything. When the Ritchies and Drydens vacationed together, one man paid for the gas, the other for the hotels. Ritchie had the gathering in stitches as he explained how Ken would drive into the wee small hours of the morning if it meant finding a cheaper hotel and thus beating his friend in the contest of who could pay less. It sometimes took the intervention of his wife, Lynda, to say: Enough, we’re staying here!
Ken Dryden's iconic pose, seen here playing for Team Canada in 1972. (Steve Paikin)
Ken and Lynda’s daughter, Sarah, elegantly emceed the affair, and at one point, she got deep into the weeds of a story. She stopped herself and said: “Okay, Sarah, get to the point — which may have been something my dad heard from a book editor over the years from time to time.” Ken was one of the few politicians who didn’t speak in 10-second clips. He spoke in thoughtful paragraphs, which was another reason he stood out from the usual political crowd.
Sarah’s younger brother, Michael, described a relationship highlighted by sports road trips. In 1990, at the age of 12, the pair attended eight games in seven days at six different ballparks around the United States. Another trip in 2002 saw the duo drive from Calgary to Boston, stopping in Indiana for a game. As a guy who does a baseball road trip every year with my now 92-year-old father and however many kids or relatives can come along, I completely appreciated how wonderfully bonding these experiences can be. Michael recalled one conversation that began about his dad’s teammate, the great Jean Béliveau, moved on to the manager of the Detroit Tigers, A.J. Hinch, and ended with a discussion about the operatic legend Luciano Pavarotti, “And I felt quite sure that nowhere else in the world was anyone else having a conversation about Jean Béliveau, A.J. Hinch, and Luciano Pavarotti,” he said to laughs. It’s true. Conversations with Ken were utterly unique.
A relatively small crowd of family and close friends gathered in midtown Toronto for Ken Dryden's celebration of life. (Steve Paikin)
There was a moment in the ceremony that could have been awkward, had it been attempted during someone else’s service. At the front of the room, many Dryden cousins gathered in a traditional family group hug, then urged the crowd to do the same. Like watching a crowd perform the wave at a sporting event, row by row, all attendees opened their arms and hugged the person next to them. I was sitting beside former Walrus and Toronto Life editor John Macfarlane, whom I’ve known for many years, but not well enough to hug. But there we were, hugging each other, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. We compared notes after: neither of us felt a second’s awkwardness, and we didn’t think anyone else had either.
“I’ve been to a lot of funerals,” the 83-year-old Macfarlane told me. “And most of them quite frankly are a lot of yadda, yadda, yadda.” Then, simultaneously, we both said: “This was not that.”
The service concluded with everyone singing Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” together, and it was all just so lovely.
What wasn’t so lovely was the fact that Ken died at 78, despite still being so engaged in the world. In my previous column about him this week, I pointed out that he was still pitching me show ideas for The Agenda this year, and in fact, we did one of them on June 26 during the program’s final week on the air. It was the last time we spoke.
Everyone at the funeral knew Ken was battling the aftereffects of a miserable back surgery, which dramatically stymied his mobility. But no one but close family knew that he was dying of cancer as well. When I asked around about what kind of cancer Ken had, friends not only didn’t know what type, but they didn’t even know he had cancer at all. And the close family that knew weren’t saying. It confirmed what a private guy Ken was, and how a farewell tour among his friends and acquaintances, focusing too much on his declining health, just wasn’t on for him.
To the end, he was the guy sneaking the trophy out of the arena under his coat. It may have deprived all of us of one more conversation with Ken, but I think we all understood that these were Ken’s wishes and they needed to be respected. Of course, we did and do.
So, what are we now left with? To be sure, several lifetimes of memories, books, documentaries, speeches, and, of course, spectacular reminiscences of what may have been the greatest pro hockey team of all time: the late 1970s Canadiens, who won four straight Stanley Cups. As his daughter Sarah told me, he packed more into his 78 years than anyone could possibly imagine.
But I’ll admit, I feel ripped off on everyone’s behalf that Ken lived only 78 years. His conversations were so fascinating, and his books so different and memorable. We often talked about his next thing, whatever it was, and even though Ken was dying, I’m sure he was deeply engaged in a next thing.
I hope one day we can see it.
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