I'll start my blog adventure with some memories that I have about our national sport. Hockey that is. I'm a Canadian, born and bred as they say (whoever they are/were) in Ottawa, our nation's capital.
Now Ottawa is a wonderful place if you like variations in seasons. Spring is mostly late in coming, with fits and starts that make one suspicious of forecasters. Hell, I've seen it snow in June and July. The first smell and sight of the earth is a day of celebration and optimism. I'm not kidding, the first splotches of mud on one's shoe is cause for much happy dancing. It means that the earth is still there under the snow/ice/slush.
Summer is cool at first then can be extremely hot with very high humidity that makes it unbearable for weeks if not months. Some of the thunderstorms I witnessed were spectacular and I still love to watch the heavens when they put on an electical show of such magnitude. In my youth the 3 rivers and multiple lakes in the area were places to cool off and prune up as I spent most of my time soaking and just messing about. Alas, pollution and shoddy sewer controls upstream and in the area eliminated most of the public beaches of my memories. In my mind this is a terrible turn of events, but more about that some other time.
Autumn, ahh autumn. School (always a fly in the ointment for me) started, closely followed by the leaves changing and falling. If you ever get a chance to be in Ottawa in late October or November you will experience the colours, smells and sounds of nature shedding it's cloak of leaves. I can still remember rolling in raked bunches of leaves and hearing that crackly sound as I demolished the piles by the side of the roads by walking through them.
But autumn was annoying and delightful in another way. Our local park where I spent so many hours playing baseball, football or anything sportlike, would be closely watched by those walking home from school. There would be one day that would both thrill me completely and annoy me terribly. That day was when the hockey boards were put up by the city for the outdoor rinks that dotted the landscape in my part of Ontario. I would venture there with my buddies after school and just drool. The annoyance was due to the unbearable length of time (about 3 months usually) before the first snow, followed by temperatures cold enough to support ice. They were plain boards comprising a roughly (sometimes rather assymetric) oval, about 35 yards long and 10 wide. To my 10 year old mind that space was a slice of heaven to come.
Ahh hockey. I'll say that again. Ahh hockey. A silly sport played in the coldest part of winter. I froze my toes so bad one -22 degress (fahrenheit not celsius) night that I missed a week of school, wearing shorts, longjohns, long socks and my mother's old gloves under mine to keep from freezing to death. In my case the basic equipment was handed down from my 2 brothers. Us little kids dotted the rink and i'm sure annoyed the bigger guys who loomed above us. The "shack" was a rundown affair where we changed if we didn't live close enough to walk to the rink in our pads and skates. It had an iron potbelly stove kept roaring by the city paid attendants who mostly smelled of booze and cigarettes (the attendants not the stove.) Some days I could literally skate to the rink on the frozen unsalted sidewalks.
I started out playing defence for part of that first year. Very badly as my skating skills literally sucked, and my wrists were too weak to put any mustard on my shots. Skating backwards was a mystery to me and my butt met the ice on a rather regular basis. I was a gamer, but that's about all you can say about my efforts guading the blue line (well, the supposed blue line as no lines could be drawn on our rinks.)
Until one fateful day that would change my perspective on the game and actually become a passion that would last me all my life. I was cajoled by my buddies on that fateful Saturday afternoon a few weeks before Christmas to put on the pads and guard the net.
There I stood, wobbly on my tube skates ( I wouldn't have proper goalie skates until many years later) with heavy leather pads on and my brother's shoulder pads and jersey. I had on a stick glove (blocker to some) and trapper (the catching glove) that was loaned by the park and kept for us to use. The stick was heavy and unwieldy, the trapper was soaked and black from melting ice and perspiration from years of rough use. Its pocket was about the size of a small orange and heavily padded. On my face was a baseball catcher's mask, that being the only thing available before the onset of commercially available goalie masks. I felt totally exposed and very unsure of myself as my buddies and others skated around in a rough approximation of a hockey game. The first shot came...I remember it clearly (or as clearly as my mythmaking brain can muster up.) It was a slap shot aimed at the left hand side of the net around shoulder level. I remember lifting my trapper hand and then looking behind me to retrieve the puck that must surely have "bulged the twine" as they say. I didn't see it. I looked around but couldn't find the damn thing. Turning to my classmate Matt, I said "where did it go?" He replied, and I will remember him for the rest of my life with some fondness, "look in your glove." I did, and there it was....all safely nestled in my posession. Mine...all mine.
I was in love!!! I was totally enthralled like I wouldn't be for at least 5 more years when certain organs would start fully chugging into gear in my small male body. I was in love. Rapturous, total love.
Well, suffice it to say my Christmas list suddenly changed and after the wrappings were all disposed of and the turkey was eaten I was on that same rink (and dozens of others in the future) wearing my brand new Canadian Tire (a ubiquitous chain of stores in Canada that sold all things sports) pads, trapper, belly pad and pants. Ready to stop any and all pucks flung at me by strangers and friends alike.
The next few weeks were spent either playing, talking about playing, or drawing pictures of me in my equipment dreaming of playing (much to my teacher's dismay as she took one of my doodles, looked at me and told me to read my math text instead of drawing, and with a small smile gave me back my precious little picture.) I babbled to my brothers, slept in my equipment on occasion, and started to watch the Hockey Night in Canada games on Saturday night, with only two players in mind...the goalies. To me the rest of the team was secondary to those gods clad in leather and guarding the net.
I became fierce in my possessiveness of that small kingdom on the ice. This, was mine. This space was all mine and if you tried to put that rubber disk in there...i would do my best to stop you. I also developed quite a tongue on me, cajoling my defencemen (necessary idiots in my mind) to not let them block my view of the oncoming shots. I was king of my crease (the small area in front of the goal) and no one, be they big kid, adult, or the freakin pope was allowed there but me. I yearned for someone to hurl that puck at me as hard as they could and let me try stop it. I relished the feel of the puck hitting my pads or going into my glove and loved the look of despair on the would be scorers' face as I showed it to them. If I missed...oh well. I don't recall those times, even though the numbers were legion.
Those memories are golden to me. They loom large sometimes in my before sleep mind, and I can clearly see some saves I made lo these 40 plus years later. I can hear the squeak of skate blades, the crack of shots being made, the voices raised in laughter and mild threats. Triumphant and despairing. It was a rich time for a little kid who learned to love the sport and love the men and in the future, the women who guarded the nets. They were kings and queens to me. Even the hated ones who were rivals to my beloved Toronto Maple Leafs.
The names of my heroes were Gump Worsely, Johnny Bower and my most beloved one of all Jacques Plante who pioneered the wearing of face masks. They were the ones I thought of as heroes. I even got a letter back from Mr. Plante with some printed tips on goaltending that I wish I still had. I slept with that letter under my pillow for a long time. Loving him for that small kindness (although I knew that it was probably sent to many like myself and not a personal note.)
Through the following years my equipment improved, as did my play, but I will always treasure those first shaky times guarding the cage. I will always admire those that take up this insane type of self abuse. I will always remember feeling tired, wet and cold, but as happy as a clam, as I carried my stuff home to watch the Leafs get hammered once again by the hated Montreal Canadiens.
I still love hockey. I still watch the goalies most. And I've infected my niece who loves the folks who stop pucks or balls in hockey or soccer.
Luckily I've married a woman who loves the sport even more than I do. And I love her for that very much.
