If you believe the Edwards family legend, I watched Paul Henderson’s winning goal in the eighth and final game of the 1972 Summit Series from a comfy baby recliner. I was exactly five months old and while Dad claims I was rivetted to the hockey, it’s just as likely that I was enthralled by the contrasting colours on the black and white TV screen.

Nonetheless, the Henderson experience planted the seed for what would become a full-blown fascination with hockey, a passion that continues unabated to this day. And in a sense my Dad is right: family and history and hockey are entwined together for me like a pretty three-way passing play — and Henderson still plays a part.

After that goal in ’72, my father ordered a copy of Frank Lennon’s iconic picture of Henderson jumping into the arms Yvan Cournoyer in the moments after the goal. He hung it in a simple black frame in a place of honour: on the wall of the downstairs bathroom, where the morning sports pages were digested along with the morning constitution.

My parents divorced before I was two and after that I saw my dad on a Byzantine schedule of holidays and summer breaks. Because we didn’t know each other on a day-to-day basis, connecting was sometimes hard, increasingly so as I got older and more sullen.

But there were always sports. My dad lived in Montreal and there were countless Montreal Canadiens games in the old Forum and Expos games at the Big O. My dad, a student of sport, taught me not just the basics but also the nuances of what was going on. Sports united us, made us a team in supporting our teams. Even though I spent 85 per cent of my days growing up in southern Ontario, I am a Canadiens fan. Just like Dad.

I’ve tried to pass on this appreciation of sports — and of hockey in particular — to my girls, but with limited success. My older daughter played for exactly three Sundays before deciding all the falling down wasn’t worth it. On the few occasions we’ve gone to sporting events, she has been more enamoured with the team mascots and the indigestible goodies than with the games.

And I’m perfectly fine with this, actually. I don’t think my girls need to be clones of their old man and I’ve tried hard to engage with them on their level: I look pretty good in a princess costume and I know several Hannah Montana songs by heart.

But still, I was pleased to find both my girls on the couch last Sunday watching the tail end of the gold medal hockey game between Canada and the U.S. They watched initially because everyone in the house was glued to the TV screen — even their mom was watching, a sure sign something big was happening.

And while the three-year-old eventually wandered off to wreak havoc elsewhere, my older daughter stayed put, drawn in by the palpable energy of the moment. “This is exciting,” she said as the overtime period churned on.

When Sidney Crosby finally scored, sending the country and my living room into howls of rapture, she too jumped off the couch. She had heard of Sidney Crosby — even nine-year-old girls with only passing awareness of hockey knows of Crosby in this country — and she knew that this was big. Really, really big.

In the days after, I’ve spent some time considering whether Crosby’s goal is more important than Henderson’s. It’s certainly in the pantheon of Greatest Ever, along with the Gretzky-to-Lemieux beauty from the ’87 Canada Cup. And while I don’t think it has the political charge of Summit Series, I think it’s fair to say Crosby’s golden goal may well become this generation’s Henderson.

I’m happy I shared that moment with my daughter. My Dad, still in Montreal, called all three of his sons in succession in the minutes after it happened. The four of us, separated by so much distance, can always seem to come together in situations like this.

A few years ago, I had reprints of the Henderson picture made and gave them to my brothers in a simple black frame. They dutifully placed it in their own throne rooms, regardless of the esthetic consequences.

I think I’ll find a shot of Crosby in the moment after his big goal. I will give it to my older daughter and hope that the sentiment of it, and the history, stays with us all.

Drew Edwards is a Guelph-based journalist. He can be reached at drew.edwards@rogers.com