Tag: Royals

My Book Pick

I love Spam! I have three tee shirts to prove it. Y’know I have never received as many comments as I have received when wearing one of my “I Love Spam” tee shirts.
I love processed cheese too. Nobody can make a grill cheese sandwich better than those made with Kraft processed cheese slices. Be honest with me now. You feel the same way too.
I love hot dogs. When I was younger I always felt that my dream job was to work in a meat processing plant, processing my favorite food groups.
Who says I am not an enviro-mentalist. I love plant food. I am well preserved going into my 74th year.
Quote of the week:
What happens when banks lose your money?They charge you a finder’s fee of course.

My continued book pick of the month:

I Thought I’d Died and Gone To Heaven

An irreverent look at growing up in a parochial, conservative environment in pre-woke era Toronto of the 1950s and 60s.

Just click on “Buy on Amazon” to purchase on line. You can also get this book in audio format. Go to Amazon.ca (Canada) or Amazon.com (US Residents) and type in audible and the book title.

Another excerpt:

“The second shift comes out, more of the same. A little better
coordination perhaps as both coaches are screaming at the
players from the bench. Suddenly, a shot from us. Wide, puck
ricochets into their corner. A Royals defenseman picks it up and
slides it over to the opposite side. Another player fires the puck
off the boards and down the ice. Icing is called. Line changes,
puck is back in the Royals’ end. Just then their wooly mammoth
comes off the bench and takes his place on the right side of the
circle. Puck drops; the Royals’ center wins the face-off and hacks
the puck back behind their net. Suddenly their man gets the puck
and skates with it behind their own net and just stands there,
weighing in on all that surrounds him. The rest of our team begin
to skate backwards in rapid succession, some of us lining up on
their blue line, the rest of us at centre ice. None of us would even
dare to challenge this guy. He was not a normal twelve-year-old
kid at six feet tall—with his skates on. Skinny, lithe, slippery as a
snake, one would think that being that tall and that skinny that
one could just puff in his direction and down he’d go. Unfortunately
for us, he was not the gangly uncoordinated klutz. Far
from it.

At this moment in time, I had no idea what must have been
going through McDink’s mind. For he surely had to know what
was coming his way. He did seem to back up way into his net as
if he thought doing so would offer him some form of protection.
Nope. Then out he slides, centred in the goalie crease and
crouched with blocker and stick out to this left side with his
glove hand to his right and arced slightly upward. McDink did
look the part.

Art, the wooly mammoth of a player began to move, slowly at
first, then accelerating. He deeked around a couple of his own
teammates, then turned on an oblique angle across his own goal
toward his own blue line. Faster and faster he went, with every
cut of his blades. He leaned his tall frame expertly to his right,
pulling the puck with him as he went. It was a sight to behold.
Then he leaned to his left until he was on a straight trajectory to
our goal and our goalie, McDink. The only thing standing in his
way was about four of us, but we were in such a state watching
this unfold that we couldn’t move a muscle, not that we would
even try of course. From the centre line where I was standing,
looking back at his end with him coming at us full tilt, you could
see, sense, then feel the thrusts of his skates as he came straight
for us. Like a rocket—whoosh! His eyes ablaze, his face
contorted as if his every move generated g-forces. Woosh, woosh,
woosh, as he flew past his own teammates, then past us one by
one as if they, we, were standing still. Crunch, crunch, crunch,
the sound of his blades cutting into the ice, leveraging and transferring
that energy up into his entire being.

We let him be. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, we opened
up a lane for him by moving backwards toward the boards on
both sides of the ice surface. He had a clear and straight path to
our goal. The only thing standing between him and hockey
glory was McDink. What must he have been thinking, McDink,
especially seeing us, his teammates, opening up the lane for the
enemy such that there was no impedance between the
mammoth and himself. In what must have been a nanosecond,
McDink came out of his net ever so slightly; he looked to his
right, then to his left, then straight ahead, his legs, his pads,
forming an A-shaped hole that a Mack Truck could have driven
through.

The fans were going nuts. The rafters seemed to be shaking.
The ice was melting due to the friction and fire coming from the
blades of the Royals’ star player, as he was crossing centre ice in
a flash. McDink made his decision after a split second of determination,
analysis, and assessment of the situation. McDink
again turned to his left and then to his right and in another split
second turned and ran on his blades to seek the protection of the
net. Not inside mind you but the back, outside portion of the net
itself—BEHIND THE NET. And there he crouched; no, he
kneeled, as if praying to his Lord to protect him, to save him
from this terror on ice.

There was stunned silence throughout the arena. The Royals
star couldn’t believe what he was seeing. From his perspective,
all he saw was an open net with a large blob-like mass crouched,
kneeling and blubbering, behind the net. He stopped, looking
around as if he was not quite sure on what to do. He shook his
head a few times as if in comical disgust, then sauntered ever so
slowly down to the goalie crease and tapped the puck, gingerly,
into the net. All of a sudden, laughter broke out from the fans.
The players on both benches banged their sticks against the
boards, screaming and hollering in their amazement. The referee
and linemen raced toward the net, expecting some sort of scuffle
between the Royals player and McDink. McDink seemed to be in
total shock and scared shitless. I am told they had to pry him
away from the backside of the goal. But they couldn’t get him
up. He was a blabbering, blubbering nincompoop. I do believe,
though I can’t be entirely sure of this, that he pissed himself and
soiled his shorts. In due course they had to carry him off the ice.
The game was over.

But before all of that happened, Art skated up to McDink and
in a loud, sarcastic, but assertive voice told McDink in no uncertain
terms: “Remember the Royals.”

And he did, and we did, for years to come.

In a few years’ time, McDink discovered religion and became
a born-again Christian. Like so many of his comrades. Perhaps it
was atonement for the summer of love. Nevertheless, in his
newfound passion and state of grace, he really became
obnoxious!

I lost track of him after I joined the Navy.”

No helmets. In the US they have “Friday Night Lights.” In Canada, we have “Friday Night Fights.

I believe this was around the last time the Toronto Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup. I was in diapers then and I truly believe I will be in diapers when they win the cup again!

Have a nice day.

 

Remember The Royals

…There was stunned silence throughout the arena. The Royal’s star couldn’t believe what he was seeing. From his perspective all he saw was an open net with a large blob like mass crouched, kneeling and blubbering behind the net. He stopped, looked around as if he was not quite sure on what to do.  He shook his head a few times as if in comical disgust then sauntered every so slowly down to the goal’s crease and tapped the puck, gingerly, into the net. All of a sudden laughter broke out from the fans. The players on both benches banged their sticks against the boards screaming and hollering in their amazement.  The referee and linemen raced toward the net expecting some sort of scuffle between the Royal’s player and McDink.  McDink seemed to be in total shock and awe and scared shitless to render himself almost comatose. I was told later they had to pry him away from the backside of the goal. They couldn’t get him up. He was a blabbering, blubbering nincompoop.  I do believe, though I can’t be entirely sure of this, that he pissed himself and soiled his shorts.  In due course they had to carry him off the ice. The game was over. 

But before all of that happened, Art skated up to McDink and in a loud, sarcastic but assertive voice told McDink in no uncertain terms:

“Remember the Royals”

And he did, and we did, for years to come.

Whoosh

…Finally the referee blew the whistle as a signal for the teams to line up for the face-off and the start of the game. I wasn’t on the ice, second shift for me. Goliath was on his bench as well. Puck drops, the games on.  Confusion and chaos begin as everyone on both sides go for the puck at the same time. No sense of order, teamwork or synergy among the players. No one played positional hockey as there were ten puck hogs out there.  Everyone wanted to score.  Nobody scored.  Next!

Second shift comes out, more of the same. A little better coordination perhaps as both coaches are screaming at the players from the bench. Suddenly, a shot from us. Wide, puck ricochets into their corner.  A Royal defenseman picks it up and slides it over to the opposite side.  Another player fires the puck off the boards and down the ice.  Icing is called.  Line changes, puck is back in the Royal’s end.  Just then their wooly mammoth comes off the bench and takes his place on the right side of the circle. Puck drops; the Royal’s center wins the faceoff and hacks the puck back behind their net.  Suddenly their man gets the puck and skates with it behind their own net and just stands there weighing in on all that surrounds him. The rest of our team begin to skate backwards in rapid succession, some of us lining up on their blue line the rest of us at centre ice.  None of us would even dare to challenge this guy. He was not a normal 12 year old kid at 6 ft tall – with his skates on.  Skinny, lithe, slippery as a snake, one would think that being that tall and that skinny that one could just puff in his direction and down he’d go.  Unfortunately for us he was not the gangly uncoordinated klutz.  Far from it.  

At this moment in time I had no idea what must be going through McDink’s mind.  He surely had to know what was coming his way. He did seem to back up way into his net as if he thought by doing so would offer him some form of protection. Nope. Then out he slides, centre’d in the goalie crease and crouched with blocker and stick out to this left side with his glove hand to his right and arced slightly upward.  McDink did look the part.

The wooly mammoth of a player began to move, slowly at first, then accelerating. He deeked around a couple of his own team mates then turned on an oblique angle across his own goal toward his own blue line.  Faster and faster he went, with every cut of his blades. He leaned his tall frame expertly to his right pulling the puck with him as he went. It was a sight to behold. Then he leaned to his left until he was on a straight trajectory to our goal and our goalie, McDink. The only thing standing in his way was about 4 of us but we were in such a state watching this unfold that we couldn’t move a muscle, not that we would even try. From the centre line where I was standing, looking back at his end with him coming at us full tilt you could see, sense, feel the thrusts of his skates as he came straight for us. Like a rocket – whoosh!. His eyes ablaze, his face contorted as if his every move generated negative “G” forces. Woosh, woosh, woosh, as he flew past his own team mates then past us one by one. It was as if they, we, were standing still.  Crunch, crunch, crunch, the sound of his blades cutting into the ice; leveraging and transferring that potential energy throughout into his entire being…

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…