Edition: U.S. / Global

BACKTALK; The Rockets' Red Glare and Their Hearts Bursting With the Joy in the Air

Published: June 19, 1994

Someday soon we'll be saying how young they all looked, even the oldest among them, when the words Stanley Cup champions felt brand new as they flashed overhead and the Rangers formed a pile on the ice of Madison Square Garden. After the white-gloved attendants finally brought the cup in view, after it was placed in the hands of Mark Messier, who screamed, "I can't believe it," as he began to skate, it was time for one of the most recently developed traditions in sports, the team picture that transforms professionals into peewees before our eyes. The tradition was imported from Edmonton, too.

The noise from the stands was still pouring down. The sweat was still in their matted hair. The adrenaline was still flowing, and their arms and legs were no longer so heavy. They sat and crouched and leaned around the silver trophy, arms locked around shoulders and necks, as if there were station wagons waiting outside the rink to take them home. And their heads bobbed and their chests swelled as they remembered the resolve that pulled them through the longest Ranger season, all from the same end of the rope: "HEAVE-HO, HEAVE-HO, HEAVE-HO, HEAVE-HO." The Song Says It

A few moments before, as the players began to gather, the voice of Natalie Merchant of 10,000 Maniacs boomed from the speakers above:

"These are days you'll remember/ Never before and never since, I promise, will the whole world be warm as this/And as you feel it, you'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky/It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you."

That was the most joyous discovery that began Tuesday night and echoed through the canyons of lower Manhattan on Friday, when the 18,000 hockey fans we've heard about all these years were joined by roughly 1,482,000 unidentified passionate passersby. It mattered little whether the followers were in their teens or old enough to remember presenting a G.O. card and 50 cents for the privilege of standing to see most of the ice from the side balcony of the old Garden. If part of their identity had ever been traced to a section, row and seat number, they had to be consumed by an overwhelming depth of gratitude that could not have been imagined until it arrived. 'Door to a New World'

"It's a new world," one of those fans shouted as he stood before a camera from the MSG Network as the celebration began Tuesday night. "It's like opening the door to a new world."

It was not until late in the evening, as Ranger fans roared "1940," their happily-ever-answer, that they could begin to comprehend the importance of all the efforts that ended with all those disappointments.

Through so many of those years, the Rangers had been unwitting teachers, presenting generations of adolescents with artificial heartbreak, moments that felt like authentic grief but would become a frame of reference for the real thing. As the fireworks exploded above them in the Garden, the process was being reversed. Now the joys of once-in-a-lifetime days were flooding to the surface to be applied to the end of a game. For decades, from the red seats to the blues and before that all the way up to Eighth Avenue between 49th and 50th, fans had wondered how they would feel if it ever happened. When it finally did, they were let in on a secret: They had known all the while. Eyes Are Moist

Already, fans have told stories of walking down a street and suddenly realizing that for no apparent reason their peripheral vision was blurred, their eyes were moist and breathing had become a challenge. It's not the pollen count. Their joy has only begun to grow and bloom.

That is the value of a cup secured by adopted sons from other nations who chase a frozen rubber disk around an artificial rink. That is why during the finals, the people of Vancouver, whose last Cup was won in 1915, stood in line at all hours -- schoolchildren at lunchtime, grunge kids in black Canucks jerseys in the evenings, men in suits and women in cocktail dresses long past midnight -- to stop for a few seconds and stand reverently.

About an hour after the display was dismantled in Vancouver, several hours before Game 4, more than a dozen young children in raincoats, holding hands two-by-two as they crossed the street, suddenly stopped on the sidewalk as they discovered the empty picture window.

"It's gone!" a small voice said. The empty looks on all their faces were not unlike the ones of the Canucks when they bent over or fell to their knees at the end of the series and prepared to form the line on the wrong end of the final handshake. Effort on Both Sides

The value of the cup comes from the endless effort of the people on both those lines through all those years, regardless of whether their effort is rewarded with a dance around the ice and a banner that hangs from the roof. Which is why one day, when Brian Leetch's No. 2 is retired, Brad Park's name should hang alongside. If Adam Graves's No. 9 is sent to the ceiling, Andy Bathgate should receive the same honor. And when Mark Messier's No. 11 appears up top with Willis and Clyde and all the others, Vic Hadfield's name should be included, and Ulf Nilsson, who helped open the door to another world, should be there to share in the applause.

When the old Rangers gathered for Ed Giacomin night several years ago, there was an unmistakable difference between the retirement of his No. 1 and the honors for the championship Knicks. There was a trace of melancholy and a sense of unfulfilled hopes in a crowd that was becoming less clever and more bitter. That's all over now. After all the years of giving and hardening their hearts in their pursuit of validation, the Ranger fans discovered something else last week. When their hearts finally came back, they were better than when they were given away.

Photo: The jubilant Rangers gather around Coach Mike Keenan and the Stanley Cup after their victory on Tuesday. (Barton Silverman/The New York Times)