THE GREAT HOCKEY SAGA & HOW DAD SAVED MY LIFE (photo of D1 poised to score)

This memory comes from a time when I was about, Junior High age, the same age as D1 shown in the picture above. I did not have a picture of myself so had to use one of him. However the memory is of me and my early athletic skills. As I have said, in many of my posts from my early years, Mom was responsible for instilling a competitive spirit in all of us kids. It did not matter what it was, you competed to the death, no quarter given and none accepted. This applied to school, playground, church, sports, board games, cards, music lessons, and basically anything that could be graded or scored. It did not matter how well you competed or how well you “looked” while competing, WINNING was Mom’s only goalpost.

Each one of us kids was enrolled in every competitive sport or pastime that was available to kids in our day and age. My Mom could make a competition out of reading a book or baking a cake. So it was only natural that I played every sport available 12 months a year. When I wasn’t in an organized activity I spent my free time on the ice rink, football field, basketball court or baseball diamond. And, I might add, all with very little natural athletic talents. It seemed my buddies were always better athletes, could run faster, jump higher and shoot straighter than me. However I was always in the hunt, and still playing my guts out at the very end of each and every game, competence not withstanding.

Even in a losing cause I could always look to Mom for consolation and her assurance that “we will get the little buggars next time” or “I think those kids from North Red Deer are lying about their age” or one of her old go too’s ” the referee was definitely on their side, he should be lynched!” In later years, after she could no longer walk, she would send Dad to our games and have him report back, blow by blow, of what happened in the game. She could still, often, see evilness in anyone that ever beat us, even though not, personally, in attendance at the event. So, with the stage now set regarding how I got into these spots in the first place, I will now relate a very vivid memory of my sporting years, that took place right around the year 1960.

I was a catcher in baseball and a hockey goalie. I don’t know why but maybe, because everyone else skated better and run faster, they put me in those positions, to keep me from interfering with the action. Although, my reflexes were not particularly fine tuned, my hands were fast enough to keep most hard shots away from hitting me in places where I had no padding. Even at this young age, my friends, we’ll call them the lil’ buggars, took great delight in shooting their best and hardest shots at my head. During, pre-game, practise they would zip in as close as they could and try to ricochet a slapshot or high rising wrist shot off my head.

They thought it was hilarious to make me duck and flop around. It was starting to give me a complex. I might not have been completely puck shy, but by the time we had reached the Bantam level, and as their shots grew harder I found myself flinching away from some of their best. On one particular evening, in an outdoor rink, playing against a team from city centre, and in a rare outdoor event where my mom was also in attendance, I got hit on the top of the forehead with a frozen “horse turd” or hockey puck. This happened, early, in the first period of play. Dad picked me up, skates and all, threw me in the car and drove me to the hospital a few blocks away.

I was first in line and the nurse gave me 3 stitches and a bandaid. Hurt like hell if I remember correctly, but everyone was talking about how brave I was, so I managed to stifle a major crying jag. Now I’m with my Dad, to whom three stitches was not even worth getting a bandaid for, let alone going to a hospital, so we were back in the car and back to the rink for the end of the second period. Everyone is admiring my bandaid and the girls present are all cooing about my bravery. With my gear back on, I start the third period in goal again. Well, what could go wrong now, you might ask?

It takes about 5 minutes when another of these evil little rats from city centre, breaks in on goal and bounces another frozen puck off the other side of my head. Geezus, did that hurt! Out comes Dad, back in the car and off to the hospital again. Greeted by the same staff, one of which said “hey, weren’t you just in here?” Another adds “are you sure you should be playing goal?” Into the room I go and the same nurse sews another three stitches on the other side of my head. When I come out, I see Mom speaking seriously to Dad.

The gist of it was, that it was likely his fault that I had been hit in the first place, secondly it was, for sure, his fault that he made me go back to finish the game and that he had better make sure that it never happened to me again, or his ass would be getting a good kicking. All the while he just sat there, head down and said “yes Maa, you’re right Maa, OK Maa.” I kinda sided with her and was feeling righteously sorry for myself by then. Boy, did I suffer some teasing at school over the next few days. Seemed as if everyone was doing the slow-mo walk around me and snickering.

Now Dad gets busy in his shop. He doesn’t say much but has me in for a couple of measurements of my eye spacing and head size with a toque on. Finally, just before practise a few days later, he unveils his masterpiece. He had taken my baseball catchers mask, which had three horizontal steel bars across it and drilled a hole in two places through each bar. Into this he had inserted a 3/16″ steel dowel, vertically, then bent each one to connect with the holes on the bottom bar and tack-welded them into place. He polished up and repainted his handiwork and when presented to me, it was as if it had arrived from the store like that.

What a magnificent piece of equipment it was. I now had a goalie mask! My Dad was a genius, not rich, but a genius indeed. So armed with my new prized possession, off to practise I go. After getting dressed, I dig my mask out of my bag and put it on. The room goes silent, but lots of curious lil’ buggars were gathered around to see what I had. I guess I looked like some sort of spaceman or something. Some of the meanest were like “you’re not going to wear that out there are you, you little sissy” or “whatsamatter, you afraid” or “whatareyu, some kinda little girl”, silently I answered yes to all of them.

My coach, while trying to be positive, hurt the most when he told the lil’ buggars, “leave him alone, let him wear it, if it means he’s going to stop a few shots on goal now”! Geez talk about kids being hurtful. Out we went, me sporting my new protective equipment and the lil’ buggars lined up to see who would be first to put a dent in it. I remember such a feeling of power and confidence with my newly minted face mask. I now had another shot stopping appendage to add to my arsenal, my face! Suddenly, I no longer cared if they hit me right in the mask now. The world of hockey had changed so much for me.

Now I couldn’t wait to get to the rink, that slight itching feeling of apprehension, before each outing, was now gone. I also developed a little “trash talk” of my own which included “you shoot like a girl”, “come on do I have to do all the work on this team, score something”, or other words of payback directed at those, who had previously, demeaned my goaltending skills. My Dad had transformed me from a marginally capable hockey player into a firm fixture in goal for the rest of my hockey carrier, up to my days of Juvenile “B” where we won the Alberta provincial finals and then, later, in a couple of feeble attempts during my college days.

I never, in all of those years, tried or purchased a different goal mask. The one my Dad made remained with me for as long as I played. Mom and Dad were my two biggest fans. To close, I’m not saying that this was the first goalie mask ever used in ice hockey, but it was not far from it. Jaques Plante donned the first mask in professional hockey, right about this same time. We both took abuse for our bravery, although on a somewhat different level.

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