Author: admin

God Save the Queen

…With a smirk and a grunt he turned; his body presenting an oblique aspect to our end of the ice. Without any forward movement whatsoever, he raised his stick.  Down it came, like a bolt of lightning, hitting that puck square on, followed a few seconds later by a thunderous whack: a whack, a crack, a whack that reverberated throughout the arena.  I believe they heard it in the canteen, the washrooms, in the dressing rooms, down the street.  Sparks flew. Year’s later people who witnessed this event could tell you exactly where they were, what they were doing, what they were thinking, at this precise moment in time.

The puck seemed to rise ever so slowly off of his stick, as if in a state of inanimate shock.  Slowly at first, then ever so rapidly, picking up speed as if driven along a physics worthy trajectory: not unlike a cannon shot or a sling shot projectile that is driven faster and faster, ballistically speaking, to what seemed to us to be faster than the speed of light!  We all stood there watching in shock and awe. That puck whizzed by us all in a whistling high pitched squeal sort of way. Up and up and up it went, no soared, in what seemed to be a black blurry mass of hard, coarse rubber.  High above the ice, past the blue line, above the goalie and then, as if programmed by some royal decree, found its mark and imbedded itself squarely into the glassed in portrait of the Queen, about 20 feet above the surface of the ice. The portrait’s glass covering shattered into a thousand pieces of shard like projectiles. Everyone ducked, or covered themselves as best they could, especially our goalie, who was right below the melee.  Suddenly there was dead silence.  The picture of the Queen hung precariously then tilted to one side, a slight pause, tilting to the other side before falling down to the ground and lodging itself with a glass shattering clang into the concrete floor between the protected fencing of the ice surface and the wall of the arena. “God Save the Queen” for she was not amused!

Suddenly all hell broke loose.  An uncomfortable silence was broken. One stick, then two, then a mass of hockey sticks slapping the ice and boards in joyous approval, amusement and delight at what had just occurred.  We all screamed in admiration, jumped up and down as best we could with all that gear on and laughed our collective asses off for none of us had any sympathy or empathy for our distant monarch.   Some of the parents had a slight smirk, slight grin on their faces but for the most part they were not amused at this show of national affliction or affection. Some of them, my dad being one, had a good laugh while they were having a smoke at the far end of the arena. The perp meanwhile just stood there, at centre ice, enjoying the adulation, the admiration, the attention he was receiving for his skill and effort. I thought I heard him say to his world: “I always wanted to do that”

I did wonder though how his dad would react when he got home…

The Hulk

…A few years later we got a real indoor, artificial rink to play on: Central Park Arena. It was huge with real dressing rooms, a canteen, washrooms, a canteen, showers, viewing areas for the parents and a canteen. Did I mention a canteen?  It even had a Zamboni or ice cleaning machine. Above the west end area of the rink was another viewing area and offices, glassed in, and just below that on the wall was the requisite large portrait of the Queen with the appropriate crossed national and provincial flags adorning the image, which was looking down on us with that side glanced smile of hers: a monarchial Mona Lisa. Yet it seemed as if she was mocking us in some imperial fashion.  Not quite cricket this hockey.  We kids hated that image. So much so that we used to fire spit balls with pea shooters at a similar portrait while in class at school. Monarchists we were not, although we were not quite sure what a monarchist was.

It was during a rare afternoon game that the most interesting thing occurred. I can remember the incident as if it happened yesterday and not some 55 years ago.  The game was going on as per normal.  We were playing against the team with that giant anomaly of a player.  The game was close. They were up about 20-1 I think. The game was almost over. I was out on the ice, a defenseman, not a great position to play against this team, especially if the Hulk was on the ice. Sure enough, in this instance he was. We were somewhat down, a tad depressed, forlorn. I think he sensed it for just then in his usual fashion, taking the puck from behind his own net, he began his trek down the ice toward us and our poor depressed, timid looking goalie.  What could we do?

Suddenly he stopped and with the puck he skated back behind his own goal. No one dared go after him but to leave him alone with whatever murderous thoughts or misdeeds, pain, he must be construing in the small brain of his. He just stood there for what seemed like an eternity.  Suddenly he relaxed, sighed, as if a huge strain had suddenly come off of him. He took a deep breath and in that instance he began to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed while pushing the puck forward with the blade of his stick.  Faster and faster he went, weaving and leaving his opponents, our teammates, in his wake as if they were caught flatfooted in a cold mist of snow and ice.

As he approached his own blue line he looked up briefly as if to catch his breath and his bearing, adjusting his course ever so slightly to the right. No one could stop him, touch him or attempt to check him. He was just too fast and too agile and too big for our liking or ability to curtail him. He seemed to be able to swat us away as he skated by as if we were an annoying swarm of flies.  We just let him pass and opened up an unrestricted lane straight down to our end of the ice and our goalie. I would hazard to guess as to what was going through our goalie’s mind at this moment in time. He must be shitting his pants.

“Hey, what on earth are you guys doing?  Stop him for heaven’s sake” he seemed to curse to no one in particular with words to that effect.  No need to bother as there was nothing on this god given patch of ice that was going to curtail this monster.    

Just then he stopped, just shy of the red line at centre ice.  He stood straight up, his legs slightly apart and athwart the direction to our net.  The puck securely ensconced against the blade of his stick. He looked at his bench, his teammates, his coach, and his fans. Then at our bench, at us, our parents and our fans. What on earth was he doing? All of this took about a nano second in the fullness of time.  He must have sensed our confusion, disbelief, wonderment, impatience in exactly what he was up to.  He seemed to be saying to us telepathically:  “Watch this.”…

Man We Hated Those Guys!

…Kid’s equipment varied as well. We were all working class kids: lower middle class and some of us regrettably, came from poor families.  But the Catholic diocese, being the loving, benevolent and charitable organization that it was would never exclude some poor kid due to a lack of funds.  Everyone played.  Equipment was another matter.  There was no such thing as a CSA or UDL approved piece of kit.  Some of the kids had telephone books for knee pads or skates that were sometimes too big or too small with no ankle support.  No helmets, or neck guards, or mouth guards for that matter.  Skates being too big were the worse thing because no matter how hard you tried you could not control yourself on the ice in skates that may have been one, two or three sizes too big:   constantly falling on your ass.  Mother would invariably stuff rags or paper into the toe areas of the skates to make them fit or to stiffen them up.  This had the added benefit of keeping your feet warm.   Skates that were too small were torturous not only because was the threat of gangrene was all too real with circulation being cut off but your tootsies bloody well froze as well. Getting a puck on the toe of the too, too small skates was analogous to stubbing your big toe really, really hard.  It was torturously painful.

Surprisingly there were very few accidents to speak of.  Then again the majority of us still had our baby teeth.  Mouth guards didn’t really matter at that young age. Fighting and checking were also an integral part of the game, at all ages.  Being a young kid didn’t qualify as an excuse to avoid body contact.  What was comical was watching a squad of players skating on their ankles and sliding down the ice in controlled chaos.  In time we did improve and the dedicated ones became quite skilled at such a young age.

In every league at every level there were the stars. Those kids who had been playing hockey from the very minute that they surfaced from the womb.  Out they came with their hands clutching some imaginary stick: their smiling faces already aglow with a toothless grin. That slap on the ass was their calling card to wake up, take a short breath and get the hell out there on the ice.  Fathers were so proud. These kids were the stars for they scored the most goals, hogged the puck, played dirty, knew how to check at such a young age, could deek like a caged rat and shoot a puck faster than a speeding bullet. The rest of us just sat there in awe at their display of talent and skill.  Man we hated those kids.  Hate them maybe for all the talent that they had but we were not scared or intimidated by them. No, no, no.  They would just leave us flatfooted on the ice as they deeked past us in full flight and glory.  Their shots, as fast as they were, were not accurate enough to cause much damage or to scare us or the goalie. Their prowess lay in their ability to skate from one end of the rink to the other, deeking here and deeking there. Man those guys could deek everywhere: nudging, bowing, leaning to and fro. Smooth skaters, graceful and smart: calculating every move until the target, the goalie, was in sight.  They would deek right, deek left, deek the goalie out of his pants then tap the puck into the wide open net.  Cheering, arms raised, team mates aglow in congratulatory rapture while the goalie just lay there on the ice, bewildered, dumbfounded, gobsmacked in disbelief, and not quite sure exactly what had just occurred to him.   Some of these guys could and would score about 10 goals in a game.  Man we hated those guys…

Remember the Royals

Hockey was our real religion: road hockey, ball hockey, ice hockey, everything hockey. We played on the streets. We played on the Church parking lot across from my house. We played in the schoolyard. We played just about anywhere there was a relatively flat surface. The protestant schoolyard was probably the best venue of all because they had a plethora of paved areas in which to play.  Ideally one also wanted a concrete backstop behind the net such that one wouldn’t have to run so far to retrieve the ball once it had been shot toward but wide of the net.  Sticks, a ball, a couple of nets but failing that four quashed milk cartons would make fine goal posts for us.  Not too shabby.  I can also remember spending hours in the basement trying upon all hell to build a hockey net but to no avail. It was just too damn difficult at the time lacking the necessary wood, the nails, a proper hammer and the requisite carpentry skills. Pop? Forget it. He was upstairs watching TV.  We were on our own in those days.  Our parents were too busy making a living and recuperating at the end of the day to worry much about us.

We belonged to the Knights of Columbus Hockey League.  It was the league of choice, the only league tied to our parish, our diocese, our church. Sponsors of this league included the Whynot Funeral Home and Undertakers; the Parish Priest’s Benevolent Fund for Retired Nuns; Assumption Cemetery and Crematorium; and the infamous Holy Roller’s Hockey Team. Team colours were generally green, white, crimson and purple – the four colours of the Liturgical Apocalypse. We had no choice but all kids being kids we couldn’t wait to get our uniforms adorned with our favourites: 14: Keon; 27: Mahovolich; 4: Kelly; 9 Maurice “Rocket” Richard; or 9: Gordie Mr. “Hockey” Howe.  Boy oh boy we were proud of those sweaters and our own personal number preferences of our hockey heroes.  We wore those uniforms day and night – much to the chagrin of our parents and teachers.  Sister Mary Bernice in particular wasn’t impressed but she let it go.

We didn’t wear helmets when I first started to play.  We also played on outside rinks. There were no indoor, artificial ice surfaces for grass roots hockey leagues such as the Knights of Columbus in those days. That was not good, especially for our parents because the parents of the losing team had to go out and clean the ice surface after each game.  Not nice.  While it may have seen that our parents, our fans, were yelling phrases of encouragement for our skill, our prowess and our ability on the ice during the game they definitely had an ulterior motive for their enthusiasm. It weren’t us I can tell you.  For it was damn cold standing there watching us kids play and the last thing they wanted to do at the end of the game was to go out on that cold, blanketed sheet of ice to clear off the snow, the slush, and sometimes, the blood in preparation for the next game.  The winners?  There was no mercy for they laughed and they cajoled, ribbing the losing team’s dads for the effort that was soon to befall them…

Life’s Tough

…”Dad’s orders. Sorry, I can’t get in or let you in until I get this done.”

No way!  I was beginning to feel really small.  This cannot be happening to me. It was and it was beginning to look futile to just give in.

Have you ever been in a situation where you feel you have put in way too much time or effort or sweat equity into something to just let it go nilly willy, or is it willy nilly?  Like waiting at a bus stop for an eternity, wondering to yourself:

“Should I just walk the extra mile or should I continue to wait here for the bus.”

Of course you know what will happen.  Just as soon as you decide to take the hike that bus will be seen barrelling over the horizon.  Of course you will now find yourself just a wee bit too far away to make it back.  Never fails.  Happens every time.  I believe they call this phenomenon in psychological circles, Escalation Theory and its corollary: Determinants of Commitment.  Yet, if I had just lit a cigarette at the bus stop instead of striking out on my own accord the same outcome would have occurred.  Of course, who smokes in public when they are 10 years old!

I was committed and determined to see this damn thing through.  My blood was beginning to boil, temperature rising, escalating to new highs, but what could I do?

Gerard was incessantly confident that all was right with the world.   I knew I was duped by his mischievous charm and his roguish aura of playfulness.  One way or another I had to see this through.

I looked at the pile of newspapers, felt a chill and looked about.  Kicking the snow and, as if by proxy, kicking myself in the ass.  You idiot, I thought.  This cannot be happening to me.

Then Gerard threw me a couple of caramels. “Just in” he announced. “Fresh as a new day’s snow.”

Wow. I was taken aback.  My interest in this endeavour was piqued, again. This must be true I thought.  I popped one of the caramels into my mouth. Sensationally savoury!

“Okay Gerard.  Let’s get these done before it gets too dark here.”

I was back in!

He snipped the lashings off the stacks, sorted the papers into two equal piles, placed them both onto a toboggan and more or less directed me to take hold of one of them lines.

“You just do as I tell you.” He said.

“I have to pull you as well?” I objectively stammered.

“Yes, better this way.  I can sort them while you pull me and the whole lot.  Believe me, it is the best method of getting these papers done.”

I surrendered.  Off we went.

Good thing he lived on a street that was one part of a two part Crescent: each Crescent forming a half circle. I was surely the circle jerk in this operation. We got the route done.  Or should I say, I got her done as Gerard never left his perch on that toboggan. I pulled, I carried, I ran and I delivered every single one of those newspapers. He just sat there and directed traffic.

Finally done, back at his house out of breath and somewhat tired.

“Okay Gerard.  No more fooling around.  How about those caramels?”

It was getting late, for us at least.  Almost dark.

“They are in the basement,” he piped. “We will have to go in quietly by the back door. C’mon.”

I followed him and in we went: down the back stairs and into the dark, damp, dank confines of his basement.  It seemed to be one big room, but full of boxes. Floor to ceiling high with stuff, junk. The smell of staleness and mould was overwhelming to the senses.

“Turn on the lights,” I asked of him.

“There are none.” he said, “But I know where the caramels are stored and I’ll direct you to them.”

My suspicious mind was beginning to get the better of me.

“Over here” he touted. “By the big work bench. Now, you’ll have to get down on the floor.”

Boxes everywhere.  Funny that as they all seemed to be so light as to be empty.

Not to worry he reassured me. The caramels are in similar sized boxes, stacked at the back of the wall at one end of the workbench.

By this time I was down on all fours scrum-aging around underneath a massive workbench trying to come to grips with the situation.  Gerard just sat there by the back stairs directing me here and there. The boxes of caramels were beginning to be somewhat illusive. A spectre perhaps, a spectre of confectionarianism.  As unreal as a caramel reality could get.

Just then all hell seemed to break loose at my expense. Gerard began to laugh, slowly at first then uncontrollable bursts and guffaws right from the gut.  As if on cue his older brother Art was there as well: laughing, laughing, and laughing. Their faces red with humourous glee. In between bursts:

“Thank you Gilly” he laughed

“You are welcome.”  I was not laughing.

“Thank you for walking me home.” he laughed again

“You are welcome.” I was humiliated

“Thank you for shovelling the driveway.” he continued to laugh

“You are welcome.”  to my stupidity

“Thank you for delivering my papers” he laughed, uncontrollably. His eyeballs were so huge as if they seemed to be popping out with ridicule.

“You are welcome.” for my naïveté

And to further put salt in the wound I knew what was coming next!

“Hey Gilly” they could hardly contain themselves at this point.

“You want a caramel?” Art and Gerard just kept hammering away at me relentlessly, in between their gut wrenching guffaws, their bellies shaking as if in hysterical convulsion, and I deserved every salvo I got.

“Don’t feel bad Gilly.” he relented. “You are not the first.  Last month it was Oh Henry’s.”

I got out of there just as fast as I could: with my tail between my legs no doubt, metaphorically speaking of course.

I ran home: disgusted, embarrassed, humiliated and stupid.  Stupid to fall for something that in hindsight was truly ridiculous. The Great Caramel Caper of Our Lady of Peace.  I felt so small, so vulnerable: useless and not a good day for my self esteem or self worth, and definitely not wanting to show my face at school tomorrow.  Gerard would be merciless in his cat calls and ribbing.   I knew then that I would just have to take it all in stride and ignore him and his friends and attempt to deflect the onslaught of ridicule and mockery that was sure to come my way.  That’s about all one can do.

I got home. It was dark and very cold outside.  But inside, the warmth, the kind hearted glow of yellow tinged light and the comfort of familiarity greeted me. I was safe and sound.

“How did it go at Gerard’s?” my Mom asked.

“Fine” I lied. “His train set was awesome.”

“I am glad to hear you had a good time.”

And in the same breath, as mothers always do.

“You are just in time for dinner. And, I have a big surprise for you for dessert.”

“Oh yeah?”  I suddenly became very interested in this train of thought.

“One of your favourites – Jell-O pudding.” she volunteered.

“Oh yeah?”

“What flavour?” I cringed, for telepathically, almost knowingly, I seemed to be fairly confident in my feeble mind as to be able to predict with some authority the answer to that question

“Butterscotch CARAMEL!”

Oh nooo! The torture continues!

Note to self. I will never, ever, ever have another caramel in my entire life.

And I didn’t!

I thought, you know: “Life is tough, but when you’re stupid it’s horrendous!”…