Month: March 2017

Our Park Thou Art in Heaven…5

…In time the municipality built a permanent brick shelter by the rink.  It was a place where we could hang out in relative warmth during the winter months and tie on our skates and flirt with the young gals and show off to our hearts content.  It was also the abode of the caretakers who were responsible for the maintenance and the flooding of the ice service.

I remember one evening, a school night, it was about mid week.  I was running late and it was as cold as ice outside. I had been at my friend’s house and was now on my way home taking a short cut through the park, alone with my thoughts and my futile attempt to stay warm. There was a cruel frost in the air that froze one’s breath into that visible plane of C02 stillness: opaque, inert like foggy dull whiteness that seemed to just hang there in mid air, motionless, wafting for a second or two, then disappearing wistfully until followed inexorably by the next sustained exhaled breath.

I sauntered down to the area of the rink.  The usual bandits were not there. In fact no one was there except a lone figure holding a fire hose emitting a jet streamed rush of water over and on to the ice surface. The natural light of the half moon and its reflection off of the snow and ice surface made it somewhat surreal watching this stream of water jet forth from the nozzle like liquid crystalline, then arc its way up and over some invisible barrier then down and out it went splattering onto the surface of the ice flowing and emanating outward in what appeared to be rippled waves of smooth liquid velvet sheets across a frozen yet clear rejuvenated expanse. Ironically that cold blast of water resembled a cauldron of steam, exploding like an expansion crack when it made contact with the surface and frigid coldness of the ice.

The caretaker just stood there, like an automaton, as if watching and admiring the outcome of his work from afar.  He would move the hose from side to side, then up and down a few times as if coaxing, then directing the stream to do its magical work, somewhat like a maestro conducting a movement.  He was old, about 40 I would guess, crusty, with a wrinkled face of someone who made his living working outdoors.  He had a low forehead from what I could see just shy of his toque. His was a square face with a set strong jaw and a bulbous crooked nose masking dark, brooding inset pair of eyes.  From time to time one could see a slight glint but that only came to light as part of the draw on his rolled cigarette. The exhaled smoke, combined with his frozen breath, gave the impression of a magician’s folly with nature’s illusion of turning water magically into ice…

Our Park Thou Art In Heaven…4

Winter’s Friday nights were also a hoot at Wedgewood’s outdoor rink. For Friday night was the time to show off one’s skills and daring in front of the girls. The girls from both of our schools, Protestant or Catholic, it didn’t matter for this was also a nun free zone. It was also an unwritten rule that Friday nights were off limits to hockey of any sort.  Just skating in pairs, arm in arm, holding hands with the girls, chatting some useless banter and stammering, nervously, to get the words out in some nonsensical bit of juvenile conversation and vocal drivel that would only seem important or relevant to a twelve year or fourteen year old, while moving to the music provided.  It was all too innocent and pleasant.

Everyone had their favourite partners.  Partners, as in many, for we were shy enough to move on when the conversation became uncomfortably sparse. For every goodbye there was a new hello and on and on it went this way for a few hours every Friday night in the dark and cold winter months. And, if we were really lucky and had the requisite athletic and organizational skills, a game of “Snap the Whip” would arise. This was like a giant conga line on skates. The lead skater would grab the next skater by the arm with his or her right hand. The second skater would do the same to the third, the third to the fourth and so on and on so it went until such a long sinewy line of skaters would form sliding like a snake along and to the whim of the lead few skaters:  hooting and hollering, crying out with laughter and shrieking with delight. The idea was to gather enough speed and momentum while holding on to one another such that the last few skaters on the line would be snapped like a whip, usually on a sharp turn, and off they’d go, launched into space and darkness. Their dark human forms silhouetted against the backdrop of the dull, ghostlike and unworldly aura of the winter’s night and set adrift in the cold night’s air. Into the snow bank they would fly and the line would suddenly dissolve amidst the laughter and the giggles of boys and girls, not to form again but on the unrehearsed whim and unorganized thought of one of the young skaters.  It was truly amazing how suddenly that line would form without any hesitation at all for we all knew exactly what was required…and we did it over and over again without a prompt or a prop or an adult in sight. Those were magical evenings. They were hugely popular, especially for us lads and gals who were nearing the transitional phase of hormonal development and immaturity…

Our Park Thou Art In Heaven…3

“Barrel Jumping” used to be an accredited winter sport, both amateur and professional.  It was never a winter Olympic event but it should have been.  I remember watching it on the Wide World of Sport TV program: that late Saturday afternoon stalwart of sports, “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat,” which I believe is no longer a fan favourite being replaced by the mundane and hyped Monday Night Football.  Barrel Jumping was a real man’s sport, sort of like winter’s version of the “High Jump and Long Jump” combined and all rolled into one event except that on completing the leap the competitor either landed squarely on his blades on the ice in triumphant jubilation or crash mercilessly, convulsively, into the barrels themselves. With hope upon hope, he tripped himself up after his leap into space falling on to his backside then sliding into the boards of the rink or snow bank.  Unlike the “High Jump” there were no padded landing zones to break the skaters fall just the hard cold ice zone to break ones legs, one’s knees, ankles or pride.  Concussions seemed to top the list as well.  Probably a good thing as the more one became concussed the braver one became in this sport.  It was like their badge of honour. It was not the Sport of Kings but rather the sport of Dentists, Orthodontists, Chiropractors and Idiots. 

The premise being that, in spite of idiocy and insanity, it was all about jumping over plastic barrels on skates, on ice of course. The more barrels that were cleared the more adventurous and dangerous it became. It was very popular in the Northern States, particularly New York State around the Lake Placid area; Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine plus the backwoods of Quebec and parts of northern Ontario, Manitoba and Saskatchewan Canada. It was a hugely popular and well followed event. We all had our own barrel jumping heroes.

The competitor, or idiot on skates, would circle the barrels like some sort of displaced matador insanely focused on the barrels themselves that were racked side by side on the ice. Starting with one barrel the excitement and suspense of the fans grew exponentially as the number of barrels increased: two, three, five, eight, ten and on and on it went until there was only one man left standing, or sliding into the boards. The crowds would cheer as each participant cleared the barrels in flight and cheered even louder if one came crashing down into one of the barrels. The cacophony of oooos, aaaahs and groans were the real metric of approval.  Scoring was dependant upon the competitor’s misstep and choreographed mishap, which was the real essence that made this event so compelling from a spectator’s perspective. With each subsequent jump the competitors would try and outdo one another for the admiration and adulation of the crowds. Some would twirl, some would spin and some would jump like a drunk figure skater before building up the speed over distance that was necessary to clear the barrels. 10, 20, sometimes 30 miles per hour they could muster, their leg muscles bulging with every stride, their arms flinging in a sideways motion as if giving flight like an airplane or like the birdbrains that they were. The jumper must leap about 6 or seven feet in the air with a forward projection if he has any hope of clearing the barrels.

The competitor must have agility, speed and guts and be intellectually challenged if he is to be successful in this sport. Some would just leap and fall without the grace or agility of a showman. Others would appear to be running in thin air. Their legs, arms and skates pumping like the madmen that they were while others had the audacity and fool’s courage to project themselves horizontally over the barrels once in the air, like a human cannonball or like superman in flight with their arms outstretched dead ahead only to come crashing down to earth headlong into the barrelled mass. These guys were a crowd favourite. In essence the sport of barrel jumping was never really about clearing the barrels but about the chaotic showmanship of the competitors and their relationship with the barrels themselves as they went flying in all directions.

Unfortunately Barrel Jumping never became an Olympic sport. Instead we have Rhythmic Gymnastics!

“It was too brutal of a sport” a commentator was heard to say. “No one ever made it as all the competitors seemed to fall on their backsides.”

Yesss, exactly.  

Our Park Thou Art In Heaven…2

…in those days winters seemed to be long and cold.  I often tell people today that when the snow came it stayed. It was deep in drifts with a purity of the colour white that was difficult to describe, especially on those cloudless, bright sunny days against the backdrop of a sky that was an unbelievable shade of blue. The sun was so blindingly bright.  It was on days like that that a young lad like me couldn’t wait to get up, get out of the house with my skates and stick and run up there to the park and get on to that clear, blue tinged sheet of ice. The ultimate thrill was being the first to grace that snowless expanse of smooth frozen water, as it was flooded the night before by a city caretaker. Like a winter’s magic carpet it transported a young lad like me to a fantasy world that was etched only by my skates, with the freedom and ease of movement that was pure athletic ecstasy.  Gliding, soaring, twirling: forward then backwards, sliding and turning or stopping on a dime, all by myself, alone in the whole wide world, to dream of hockey prowess and to dream of hockey glory.  To be alive! Then alas, like a sheet of glass the illusion is shattered as others arrive to enjoy and partake in this winter’s offering.  Soon the rink is packed with boys and girls with the odd parent or grownup all trying to claim their own bit of freedom’s frozen grace and elegance. As the day progressed the rink became clogged: the ice transforming itself into a whitish brown coloured slush, which impedes any chance of moving a puck gracefully.  It will only come alive again at days end when the caretaker, all alone on the rink with his own thoughts, clears the ice of snow then rejuvenates it again with its life giving water. 

The best time to go to the outdoor rink to avoid the crowds is during a school night. Unfortunately one had to convince the parents that homework was done – correctly – with the promise of being home at a reasonable hour. The lucky ones were those who lived adjacent to the park for there was little effort on their part in being able to get out there.  There were very few of us on the rink during a school night.  Either they were having a difficult time with their schoolwork; wanted to watch some nebulous TV program; or it was frightenly cold out there. The cold didn’t seem to bother me and out I went as often as I could for I wanted that ice surface all to myself, or perhaps with just a few of my closest friends.  The rink wasn’t lit at night artificially, directly, but for the natural light that emanated from the stars on a clear night; from the moon when there was one; or from the green, magnetic, sinuous hues of the northern lights; or from the artificial backdrop of the street lights and house lights.

There we were with our skates, parkas, toque perhaps, no helmets, gloves or mitts, blue jeans and the like.  Red rosy cheeks, with clear, warm snot running down from our noses. Sniff, sniff and sniff again.  We were a chorus of sniffs: soon to be yellow tinged icicles hanging, dangling from our nostrils and the cleft of our chins. But hey, it was healthy snot! On top of that, tingling toes and burning fingers signalling the early onset of frostbite – but we didn’t care. We were alive and young, and free. The faster we flew on our blades the warmer we felt and exhilarated by the sweet nectar of being alive.

We would set up a couple of goals and play a form of pond hockey. The sound of slapping sticks or pucks to wooden blades: the swishing, whishing and crunching sounds of our metal blades on ice were the only sounds to be heard.  Of course there was also the odd whooping, whistling and ribbing sounds coming from someone’s mouth when a deek, a fake or a shot of speed was masterfully executed.  Laughing, sometimes arguing, ranting and definitely cursing when a puck went astray off the ice and into the snow. Normally we could find it but on those rare occasions when we couldn’t find the puck in the snow banks we came up with our favourite “Barrel Jumping” competition…

Our Park, Thou Art in Heaven

Wedgewood Park was our universe.  Summer, winter, spring or fall: baseball, hockey, football, tag. 

The park wasn’t all that big. About one quarter of a mile long and about half of that again wide. It was surrounded by suburbia on three sides with Wedgewood school and the playground filling out the eastern end: the same school that was the nemesis of Our Lady of Peace. We didn’t really care all that much for the stupidity of our parish rules and played there to our hearts content.  Those rules weren’t God rules. They were man’s rules.  I learned that bit of wisdom later on in life. Some of my bestest friends ever even went to that school although they were damned for life, so I thought.  Hell was full of great guys. Damn!  Hell was full of goodness!

The municipality really did a great job on that park. They laid out an area for skating at one end, which became a tennis court in the spring and summer, keeping the other end open for just about any game that could be imagined by our limitless imaginations: home run derby in the spring or summer months and touch football in the fall.  On those rainy days that occurred from time to time we ventured out to play tackle, mud football. Didn’t really need to organize anything because a couple of kids playing football in the mud became a natural magnet that telepathically drew kids from all over the neighbourhood. Within a Nano second we had two teams going at it in a glorious bath of textured mud and goo.  Great fun.

One of my fondest memories of those days was O’Grunt’s dad firing footballs passes to Sean and I.  He had a canon for a foot as he would kick that football so high as to be almost lost in space. We did our best to try to catch it in the air but for the most part couldn’t.  It wasn’t as if O’Grunt’s dad did it all that often with us. No, just a few times, but those few times that he did kick the ball with us was kind of magical and remains a permanent memory: clear, enduring and endearing in my brainbox.  It was as if by our presence and participation that we received an acknowledgement from a grownup, from the adult world, that as kids we did exist and meant something.  Yes it was magical. There in that small park with my best friend at the time, running hard, sweating, laughing, cajoling each other and taking turns trying to catch that iconic bit of pigskin.