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The cabinet of Prime Minister Paul Martin had gathered in Centre Block ahead of a confidence vote in the House of Commons. The government faced the threat of imminent defeat, which would plunge the country into an unplanned election. To raise the stakes still higher, Conservative Belinda Stronach had, just two days before, bolted from the opposition to join the Liberals and BC MP Chuck Cadman, who was dying of cancer, had risked his well-being to travel to Ottawa and vote for the government against his own party. But the atmosphere remained piano-wire tight because the vote’s outcome still could not be predicted. It was simply too close to call and therefore, cabinet had met to prepare for the uncomfortable possibility of its own collapse.

The room was still and serious when, just before breaking, Dryden spoke up. “You know prime minister, Scotty Bowman always used to say, if the game is worth playing, then it’s worth winning.”

The effect was almost physical. This invocation of sporting legend, expressed in Dryden’s typically gentle tone, rallied the room, raising the spirits of everyone present. At a moment when, frankly, they needed raising.

Hours later, the government survived in a dramatic tied vote that meant Parliament would continue. No one present for Dryden’s intervention would soon forget its impact.

In many ways, the former NHL hero was an odd fit for politics. But then again, he’d been an odd fit for professional hockey.

This was a guy who, despite a lifetime in the spotlight, didn’t crave public approval — something that can’t be said for many politicians. He spoke quietly and carefully. He didn’t curse or chase down cocktails at the bar. He seemed to lift into political life his habits as a goaltender: standing still as others buzzed about, letting the action come to him. Always setting his own pace.

This method was most apparent in his style of speaking, which some branded as too plain and plodding. He chose his words deliberately and released them at an equally deliberate pace. Every phrase seemed long-considered and precisely composed. He may not have raised any roof beams with his oratory and his campaign style was the opposite of the backslapping, glad-handing of most candidates. But his inherent decency and thorough commitment to the issues about which he cared generated its own charismatic depth.   

As a minister, Dryden was tasked to build consensus in favour of national child care. It was not an easy assignment. Advocates were divided in their views as to the optimal model for delivery. Many premiers considered the idea an intrusion into provincial jurisdiction. And the public was skeptical. But within a year, Dryden had brought these disparate communities together and a national accord with every province and territory was signed into being.

His approach was straightforward. He dedicated himself with diligence to the file, mastering the nuances and, with a skill that surprised some, massaging the political sensitivities of each group and government he encountered. He also wielded a secret weapon of sorts: he was a star. This quiet, understated man understood better than anyone the power of his sporting celebrity. And while he usually avoided the lure of clumsy hockey allusions, he was shrewd in using his Hall of Fame status to woo allies and draft support. 

For all the talk of Dryden as a professorial, cerebral creature, he knew full well how to leverage his own history to strategic advantage provided the cause was worthy — as with child care during his time in government or concussion syndrome in later years. He was, in this regard, a far more astute politician than he was usually credited.

As both a sports legend and political leader, Dryden offered an example we see much too little of these days. Our times are loud and selfish. He was quiet and curious. Our times are extreme and assuming. He was measured and thoughtful. Our times are dismissive and dividing. He was kind. And, recalling that cabinet meeting in 2005, impressively able to rally people together.   

Which makes it all the more unfair that we should lose him at a time when we could so clearly use more of him.