Watching U.S.-Russia game in Russian bar

ADLER, Russia - The first vuvuzela blast from a carload of hockey fans came at 4:07 p.m. Saturday, 23 minutes before the puck was dropped at the United States-Russia game in nearby Sochi.

An old woman in a Team Russia babushka turned toward the hopeful sound before refocusing on the customers at a kiosk where she sold Alex Ovechkin and Evgeni Malkin jerseys plus a variety of Russian flags.

Fifty yards away, occupying the front windows of a clothing store, two mannequins were dressed in red-and-white Russian hockey outfits, right down to their helmets and skates.

And near the intersection of Lenin and Kirov Streets, young men with close-cropped haircuts and hard eyes kept poking their heads into a tiny bar to see if its two flat-screen TVs were airing the game yet.

They remember here.

Hockey is Russia's beloved game. In the 1960s and 1970s, the great Soviet teams revolutionized the sport and dominated internationally.

Then came the 1980 Olympics. In a distant American town, in a different political and cultural universe, a bunch of American college kids humiliated the mighty Soviets.

For 34 years, through movies, documentaries, books, newspaper articles, and countless comments from U.S. visitors, Russian hockey fans have continued to hear about the Miracle on Ice.

That's a long time to wait for the appropriate redemption.

Eight wins by the Soviets/Russians in 12 subsequent games with the U.S. team - all on neutral or American ice - didn't satisfy them.

To undo a spell of this magnitude, they knew, a victory in the motherland would be required.

That's why Adler and the rest of this vast nation were mesmerized by Saturday's first-round Olympic meeting between the former Cold War enemies, their initial meeting on Russian soil.

"That [1980] game, I know, was emotional for both countries," said Dimitri Rudakov, an Olympic park volunteer from Volgograd. "The world was much different then. But you were the victors. We have lived with the loss many years."

Rudakov, 24, wasn't around in 1980. But he's heard about the loss all his life. Friday night, bored in his volunteer-village room, he decided to stream Miracle, Hollywood's version, on his laptop.

"I had never seen it before. It was very good," he said. "I know now why we are so happy for today."

In Adler, a popular summer-resort town that technically is a micro-district of greater Sochi, the narrow streets, humming with activity just an hour earlier, emptied as 4:30 neared.

Inside the little bar with the TVs, the crowd expanded.

This was no Cheers. Nobody knew my name - or my language, as it turned out. Nearly everyone smoked. And there were two babies in strollers among the late-afternoon hockey crowd.

The bar's name was unreadable, but on its sign there was a palm tree. It had no barstools, so patrons sat at tables or in booths, carefully positioning themselves for an optimal view of the TVs.

Some drank vodka in tiny tubular glasses. Others espresso or Coca-Cola served in chilled 61/2-ounce bottles. A scent of fresh crepes drifted in from the kitchen adjacent to the bar.

The menu was in Cyrillic, but thankfully my waitress understood when I pointed to photos of a Coke and ham-and-cheese crepes.

The game began before my order - the crepes were delicious - arrived. A waitress in jeans and a red V-neck sweater turned up the sound on both TVs. One of the patrons yelled something loudly in her direction. Men laughed. She blushed.

At first, these fans yelped loudly at every Russian shot, save, or check, even when they were merely modest efforts.

When Malkin fanned on a pass during a two-on-one break, the tone quickly turned to disgust, and a Philadelphian had no trouble translating the aggravated hand motions.

An elderly bald man came in for an espresso. Looking up at the TVs, he delivered a long-winded monologue during which Malkin's name was spoken several times. Four men in a booth nodded vigorously in agreement.

After a while, it was clear that when these Russian fans were pleased, their words were loud and high-pitched. If unhappy, the comments had a lower timbre, more guttural and hard-edged.

Midway through the first period, a young ponytailed man in a Russian team jacket entered and sat down at a table next to mine. He lit a cigarette and, though an Adlerian, ordered, in English, a Jack Daniel's and a powdered-sugar crepe.

He gave his name as Vasily and agreed to translate for me.

"That one," he said, pointing to the bald man, "thinks he is a hockey teacher. He said Malkin was passing too much and that he must shoot more because the American goalkeeper is very weak."

Noticing we were discussing him, the bald man looked quizzically at Vasily, who informed him I was a sportswriter from Philadelphia.

"Ah, Philadelphia. Flyers no sportsmen," the bald man, who obviously recalled the Red Army team's walking off the Spectrum ice in 1976, said in English far superior to my Russian.

When there was an animated physical scrum in front of U.S. goaltender Jonathan Quick, the room hummed excitedly. The noise increased when American Dave Backes, checked hard from behind, sprawled onto the ice.

"Hoo-hoo!" yelled one young fan.

Ah, Adler. Russians no sportsmen.

"They are saying they think the Americans try to bully us," Vasily explained.

The game in the Bolshoy Ice Dome, almost 41/2 miles to the north, was still scoreless. But in the palm-tree bar, the vodka was gaining a decided edge.

"Many Russian fans," said Vasily, noting the noisier atmosphere, "are more fans of the vodka."

Pavel Datsyuk's goal midway through the second period broke the tie and generated both a frightening roar and a round of kisses, even among the men. During the celebration, an in-use ashtray fell inches from one of the strollers.

From then on, the action and the interest in it ebbed and flowed until the final shootout created several minutes of animated chaos and, sadly for these Russians, another American victory.

"Some are saying it is only the opening [round] of the Olympic Games," Vasily said. "But some are angry that the Americans defeated us again.

"One," Vasily noted with a wide grin, "says it is just like the Cold War."

@philafitz