In Search of Pelle Lindbergh

Photo: E. Panda

It's strange how some things that happen when you are a kid stay with you all your life, even though you only had the smallest connection to them. One of those things for me was the death of Pelle Lindbergh.

Pelle Lindbergh, born in Stockholm, Sweden (where I write this now), was an ice hockey goaltender. He played for Hammarby as a kid, later he played briefly for AIK (teams here in Stockholm), before finding his way to the NHL after the 1980 Olympics.

In 1981 he came to the Philadelphia Flyers. He would only play 4 seasons with them despite winning the Vezina Trophy, given to the best goaltender in the league, in 1984. (In fact he was the first European ever to win it.) That same year he was elected to the NHL All Star team. .

The 1985-86 season started and the city of Philadelphia was optimistic, more optimistic than usual. They had a team that was competitive and young, and they had the best goalie in the league. The season before they had made it to the Stanley Cup finals and were hoping to do it again. However, that all changed on November 10th, only one month into the season.

On the night of the 9th Lindbergh had been rested for a game against the Bruins. He was invited to a party after the game with other members of the team at a bar near where they practiced. He drove there in his one million SEK ($125,000) custom Porsche.

With way more than the legal amount of alcohol in his system Lindbergh and two passengers left the party around 5 AM and set off. 10 minutes later, going too fast to make a turn, the Porsche rammed into the brick wall of a school in Sommerdale, New Jersey.

All three were seriously injured, Lindbergh suffered a broken jaw, leg and hip. And irreversible brain damage. He was taken to a nearby hospital and put on a respirator. His mother (who was visiting at the time) and team mates, gathered at the hospital and received the news that morning that he was breathing, but was pronounced braindead with no chance of recovery. The two passengers would survive the accident.

He was kept alive until his father could come over from Sweden, after that the respirator was turned off and his organs donated to save the lives of a number of critically ill people.

A funeral was held in the Swedish church in Philadelphia, followed by another here in Stockholm at Sofia Kyrkan. Both were attended by fans, team mates, and family.

It is a sad tale and it's hard to forget even after 20 years. I think I was on the bus going to school in the morning when the news was broadcast over the radio about the accident. Tragic pictures of the wrecked Porsche were on the cover of all the area papers. Even at the young age my brother and I were then, it was difficult to believe. I guess we were already Flyers fans.

The Flyers finished out the season wearing a black 31 (Lindbergh's number) on their jerseys, and since then the team has unofficially retired the number. They would make it to the playoffs that year, ending the season with the league's second best record, but would lose in the first round. They now honor him with a trophy in his name that is given to the most improved Flyer each season.

This past summer I was thinking about all this again, when it occured to me that in all the years I'd lived here in Stockholm I had never been to see Pelle Lindbergh's grave. Something inside me at that moment really wanted to see it. I didn't think that it would be so hard.

I went searching around the internet trying to find out where he was buried, but to no avail. A lot of old articles have him listed as being buried in the wrong place, and his name is not listed in the public records here in Sweden. So, I gave in, and went to a number of churches here in the city and asked or actually searched through the cemeteries. Nothing.

I was going to give up on the whole thing when I discovered a recent article (three years old) from one of the papers here in Stockholm with a picture of Lindbergh's mother next to the grave. The picture is taken at an angle so as not to expose the location, but it was obvious which cemetery it was. One I hadn't been to, but also one of the largest in Sweden.

Skogskyrkogården is actually part of UNESCO's World Heritage list. The name literally translates as forest or woodland cemetery and is quite an amazing achievement of design and architecture. It lies to the south of Stockholm on a large plot of land and is among other things the final resting place of Greta Garbo.

One of the things you don't do when you come to that cemetery is randomly go looking around for a specific grave. Which is unfortunately what I ended up doing the first time I went out there. As luck would have it the visitor's center had closed about ten minutes before I got there. But, I thought, what the heck, I'll just go and look around. This was essentially like trying to find a particular blade of grass in someone's back yard. After an hour I gave up and went home.

It was a couple of weeks later that I finally got back there and this time I came early. Too early actually, I had to wait around for an hour before the center opened. It was worth it however since it meant that I was the only one there. As I waited around for help I looked around the small building which has a café and a small shop. In one of the rooms there was a guestbook which I flipped through and was surprised to see a number of entries from Philadelphia and it's suburbs. It was a good sign.

When I was finally helped it was by a young girl who had been working there for less than a week, this turned out to be rather fortunate, I explained to her that I was looking for Pelle Lindbergh's grave. She had no idea who I was talking about. She looked up the name in their records. Nothing. Not surprising, really. Then I remembered the article. His sister was buried there as well. She was able to track it down by entering her first name, and Lindbergh, since I couldn't remember her last name, which brought up the surviving family's address in Stockholm and the identification number for the plot. Now, I'm not saying I wasn't grateful, but I imagine this is not standard procedure.

I was given a map and directions and set off back across the cemetery. Around the corner from the entrance, in an area not unlike all of the other's, I came upon it. The feeling was a bit surreal.It was like going back in time to another place, to see the name and the Flyer's symbol and the number 31. I haven't quite gotten over the strange emotion, I still get it looking at the picture.

I didn't stay too long, just long enough to take the whole thing in. To say hello for my brother and I. To let him know he was part of what made us love hockey growing up. And to say that we and the city of Philadelphia remember him.

K. Panda