Tag: youth

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…

Secret Caramel Consignment

…Of we went: me chattering away at nothing and Gerard becoming increasingly irritated and impatient with my bantering.  Finally, for what seemed an interminable amount of time, we reached his street.  Gerard’s family also lived in one of those two story, really one and a half storied, houses that they built in the years following World War Two. The long slanted roof in the front with a dormer hanging off the back. Basement? Yes, but unlike today’s show homes these basements were designed for utility and functionality, not showiness or pretentiousness.

Finally, I thought.  Get the caramels and get the hell out of here and get home. It was getting colder and the afternoon sunlight growing weaker with every passing minute.

“Okay Gerard, what now?” I stammered

“Don’t worry, it’s coming all right.” he said  “The caramels are here but before I can show you where they are I have to get the driveway clear of snow.  My dad will not let us in until that job is done.”

What? I just about cried to myself. What is this all about? Here I walked home from school with Gerard, miles out of my way carrying his school stuff and now this. Okay, let us get the shovels and get this done.  “Are you sure about the caramels Gerard?” 

With shovel in hand I began clearing the drive.  From his garage back to the street we shovelled.  Gerard then proceeded to tell me that he had to go inside to talk with his pop about my share of the caramels.  “Just carry on with your work and I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Is there is a problem,” I asked nervously, “with my share of the caramels?”

“Well, Gilly, you see, these are very special caramels. Not just for anyone.  These caramels were made and delivered for the O’Neill family.  So, you see, I cannot just give you a box or two without permission.  But don’t worry, it will be fine. You’ll see. 

I was somewhat perplexed by all of this. Secret caramels? Special delivery. Marked for the “O’Neill’s Mouth’s Only.”  What on earth gives here?  Have I been taken for a fool?  Don’t answer that I thought to myself. Okay, let’s get on with clearing this driveway. At least they had proper shovels here at the O’Neill’s abode.

I say this because at my house my Dad, in his wisdom, thought it would build character if I shovelled our driveway with a garden spade.  I am not kidding.  Our driveway was very long with a double wide width as one approached our double garage. Interestingly, but we were the only house in the area with a two car garage. Of course we were.

On I went. That shovel was in perpetual motion, snow flying everywhere as if I was blowing it off to the sides. I could feel my whole frame loosen up with sweat beginning to brew from every pore of my body.  And before one could say “Frosty” I was nearing the end of the driveway by the roadway. Yet no sign of Gerard.  What gives I thought. Just then a truck pulled up and dumped off what appeared to me to be a mountain of newspapers. Hundreds it seemed.  No thousands. The city’s afternoon edition, no doubt. For what it’s worth, at least the way I was feeling right about now, it appeared to me that there was one for every soul on the planet.

Just as I was throwing, pushing the last bit of snow into the drainage ditch, Gerard came out of the house, very, very excited.

“You’ll never guess what happened?” he reported

Before I could get an answer out of my feebleness mouth he continued. 

“It’s in the bag Gilly, no, sorry, box.  A special consignment of caramels just came in last night from my uncle. Turns out, there were too many boxes and we were told that we could do what we wanted with the extra lot.”  As he said this, his eyes seem to bulge out somewhat, Feldman like, with, what seemed to me a wicked smile from ear to ear, not unlike the “Joker,” open though, showing a mouth full of caramel coloured teeth.

“You know what that means Gilly?” He shook my arm enthusiastically.

“No what?” I didn’t know what, or squat, for that matter.

“More for you.  All you can carry.  But first and foremost and before I can let you into the house to get your full share I have to get these papers delivered.”

“WHAT?”…

Big Kahuna

…It was cold.  I shivered somewhat, got my bearings and proceeded into the playground. Gerard was already outside, leaning against the white wooden picket fence that led out to freedom.

“Hey Gilly, over here.”

I gave up.

“Hey Gerard” 

“Ready to go,” he asked assuredly.

“You bet”

“Here take these will ya.”  He then handed me off a bunch of notepads. “I cannot carry them because my right arm hurts.”

What about your left arm I thought, but did not dare to ask. I did not want to jeopardize my upcoming windfall.  I took the notepads. 

We got on our way.  Gerard lived at northern border of our school district. It was the polar opposite to where I lived. No matter. The payoff will be worth the trouble.  On we went. I didn’t talk too much, just listened to Gerard’s ramblings.  And what about the caramels I interrupted? Where did you get them? How did you get them? Are there enough there for both of us? Are they old? New? Fresh? Stale? Packaged? In ones? Two’s? Or three’s? What Gerard? Tell me. Are they in boxes? Big boxes? Small boxes? Wrapped up? In singles? What? How many? Enough for both of us? Your family? Your brother Art?  The others? Nooo, you don’t really have any caramels do ya?

Yes, yes, don’t worry, of course, yes, yes, sure are, and more yeses.  I was beginning to sound a bit weird.  My bubba-like questions were beginning to become ingratiating and pedantic. I stopped with my stupid interrogation. Perhaps I was growing suspicious. I needed reassurance. Of course he ranted about how important his uncle is in the Kraft hierarchy. Chief Caramel Kahuna, he bragged. The big Caramel Kahuna, or the Big Cheese. The Big Cheese I queried.  Er, No, no, no, no, my mistake Gerard said.  Make that the big caramel. Kraft also made cheese.  Cheddar I think: slices and Cheese Whiz. And of course that famous staple known to all single, male, intellectually challenged young men the world over – Kraft Dinner or KD for short.  No matter. Vice President of caramel production, his uncle was good enough for me…