Tag: Royals

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…

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…