***They Play Hockey In Heaven available at http://immortalcounsel.com ***
Copyright © 2013 Peter Wilson
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Cover: Jason Altilia
To Dad, Mom, Tom and Jamie
“On the frozen pond of your life, skate - so that in good stride there shall be no trips or falls for yourself or for any skater. Seek the puck everywhere, and when it is found, bring it out and move it towards the opposition’s net. Place in missed shots and passes the least of value, for these things will happen and happen again. Discover in all systems and passing plays things that work. Commend and celebrate the efforts of your teammates. Ignore the obvious, for it is unworthy of the clear eye and the kindly heart. Be the best player you can, but never should any man again wear the number 99. Remember that every man is a variation of yourself. No man's skill is not yours, nor is any man's mistakes a thing apart. Despise dirty play, but not dirty players. These, understand. Have no shame in playing fair but if the time comes to slash, slash and have no regret. On the frozen pond of your life, skate - so that in this wondrous time you shall not disrespect the game, but shall smile to the infinite enjoyment and simple fun of it.”
‘In The Time of Your Life’ from The Time of Your Life by William Saroyan
amended for hockey
by Peter Wilson
“Never can tell what might come down
Never can tell how much you got
Just don't know, no you never can tell”
Chapter 7
The Canadian Dream
I hear the music on the speakers in the back seat of Dad’s old Buick. I think it is Dire Straits. I am 12 years old. My brother sits beside me and looks out the window at the snow falling outside. My brother and I were so competitive growing up that my Dad used to make us both sit in the back seat to avoid any argument about who got to sit in the front, beside him. Being the eldest, I always felt it unfair that I didn’t get the front, proving my Dad’s point. We continued to drive further and further away from the city. The buildings and homes turned to snow covered fields and mountain ranges. The snow plowed concrete of the city faded into a snow covered dirt road. The mountains in the distance attracted my attention. I know we are going there but I don’t know why. The Buick glides over the terrain, with just the crunch of fresh snow under our tires. The sun is high in the sky and gives the scenery a layer of heavenliness.
My brother rushes out of the car even before the Buick has come to a full stop. I watch him race around to the back. He knocks twice on the trunk and the hatch pops open. He reaches in and grabs his hockey bag and sticks. I still sit in the Buick dumbfounded. Where are we? We aren’t even close to the old rink. What kind of hockey could be going on out here? Before I can decide what to do next Alex appears at my window.
“Come on!”
The steam from his breath thaws a patch on the car window and I see we are parked right beside the same mountain range I had admired from a distance. I get out of the car slowly taking in the sheer size of the mountains in front of us. Walking around to the back of the car I see my hockey bag and sticks, ready for me. I grab them and chase after Alex who has found a path leading closer to the base of the mountains. My hockey equipment is weightless and my curiosity is beginning to take over. I realize I never saw exactly who was driving the Buick. Was it my Dad? I now see what Alex is racing towards. A frozen pond at the base of the mountain. A perfect patch of ice has been shoveled and two empty nets have been placed at either end of the ice. I know why I am here. I am here to play hockey.
There are two wooden benches on one side of the frozen pond. Alex is sitting on one and is already done lacing up his left skate. I think to warn Alex that the ice may not be safe but I am strangely certain it is. I get my skates on and start to tie them when I hear the unmistakable sound of skates carving into ice. I have to pause and look up at Alex flying around the ice. He takes a puck the length of the ice and buries it in the top right corner of the net. He celebrates to an imaginary crowd. The mountains are looking down on him. I let out a one syllable laugh. The kind of laugh that cannot be suppressed. My brother is smiling despite concentrating on beating the imaginary defenders and goalie. I continue tying my skates with a smile of my own.
That unmistakable crunch underneath my feet follows me around my first lap of the frozen pond. The ice is immaculate. Alex and I begin passing the puck around. We set up a few one-timers and practice our saucer passes. We are in a place where nothing matters. There are no great concerns of the world or weight on our shoulders. A place of peace rarely found in the world. Other people begin to show up and the potential for a game of shinny seems strong. I was happy to see other people. I so badly wanted to share this oasis with others. But there is one person who would really appreciate it who isn’t here. I wanted to share it with my Dad.
Sticks get thrown into the middle of the ice and sorted evenly to each side. I recognize my brother’s stick and it is on the same side as mine. I liked playing with my brother more than playing against him. We were always so competitive against each other that I enjoyed this rare opportunity to play together. There are no goalies so the scoring system is designated as ‘posts’. This makes me even happier that my brother is on my side. His shot accuracy is incredible. My accuracy is questionable. My brother shoots like a sniper. I shoot the puck hard, in the vicinity, which is often good enough. The game goes back and forth with no one finding iron. Pucks go into the snow bank behind the nets and I am surprised how easily they are found.
My brother fishes the puck out of the back of the net, after another failed attempt by the other team to hit a bar. I start a deep curl and pick up speed with my crossovers. Alex pulls the puck free and starts up the ice with it. He beats two defenders before sending a perfect two foot high saucer behind the two other defenders. It lands flat and springs me on a breakaway. I look at the crossbar, setting my sights on the target. I will the puck to hit it. I load up a wrist shot that hits the crossbar dead center. Another unmistakable sound of the game. The dense sound of a puck hitting iron. In most cases a close chance. In this case a goal for my team. I instinctively pump my fist. I can’t hide my joy. An old coach of mine used to say I had all the moves, especially the ones for after I scored a goal. I skate over to my brother and pat him on the head. That’s when I see my Dad.
I realize this has to be a dream. But that doesn’t stop me from being caught completely off guard. I skate slowly, deliberately, over to where my Dad is sitting on the bench. Alex doesn’t follow. He continues playing. My Dad looks up from tying his skates and smiles.
“You and your brother are looking good out there.”
Hearing his voice again reminds me of how he used to be. Calming, certain.
“I will be out there in a second to show you and Alex a few moves.”
I turn around and join the play. I am no longer 12 years old. The scenery hasn’t changed but I have. The game hasn’t changed but I have. I am older, grown up. I am still experiencing the same joy as my 12 year old self did. My Dad steps onto the ice. I admire his wooden hockey stick. A true twig. He skates around testing his edges. I am impressed with how smooth a skater he is. He is big on skates too. A presence. My Dad joins Alex and me. He is on our team. The game begins again. The mountains are laughing, the heavens are smiling. How did I get so lucky to have such an amazing dream?
Even though it is only a game of shinny I have nerves. I want to show my Dad I can still play. But the nerves exit through my smile. I never got to see my Dad play. I never got to play with him in pickup or in a men’s league. We are making up for lost time. For the longest time I never forgave my Dad for getting old. I forgive him now. Watching him fly, he had dreams, he was alive. I start out beside the net and hit Alex with a short hard pass. He skates down the left wing, gaining speed. My Dad crosses into the other team’s end with Alex. He makes sure to stay onside even though there is no blue-line or ref. My Dad always respected the game. Alex passes to my Dad who draws the last defender to the right and leaves the puck for me trailing in the high slot. The puck sits there for a second, on a tee. I think about shooting it, I have a clear lane but so does Alex. I one-touch a pass over to Alex who wastes no time before ringing the puck off the crossbar.
I hear my Dad let out a little cry of joy as he circles back up the ice. He’s having fun, not a care in the world. He’s young again, at peace. After a few more plays my Dad stops and heads over to the wooden bench. The other players including my brother join him. Is the game done? I see Alex exchange his stick for a shovel. I am, for a moment, confused. But when Alex starts shoveling the layer of snow off the ice I realize what everyone is doing. I grab a shovel and join my Dad to try and talk to him.
“We should leave the ice in good shape for the next people who come to skate on it. To make sure that the next people who come along have all the fun we did.”
It is the first time I have the courage to speak to him.
“Sort of like the old rink back home?” I say.
He stops shoveling. He stands up straight on his skates, his arm resting on the shovel. I never used to think of my Dad as that big but now, standing on skates in front of me, I’m amazed.
“It’s important to remember where hockey came from. Respect its history, remember its past, honour its tradition. It came from the land. Right here. How do you feel when you play?” he asks.
“Free.” I say.
“This game was founded in nature. It will always make you feel free. People have fought wars to preserve that freedom. To preserve this game. You can’t put a price on that kind of freedom. The little battles we have on the ice remind us of how lucky we are that competition and sport are alive and well. It makes the hockey Gods proud.”
He goes back to shoveling like he hadn’t said anything at all. I pause for a second, hoping with all my being I remember this dream. I don’t want it to ever end. The shoveling is almost done when I notice a woman waving to me by the benches. I skate over to see who it is. It’s Ma.
“Good playing out there sweetheart.”
I am happy that Ma is here to share this moment with us, our family, together.
“How long have you been out here Ma? You must be freezing,” I say.
Before the words leave my mouth I realize their stupidity. Ma isn’t freezing, she is as warm as toast. I would never dream of letting my Ma be cold watching us play hockey.
“I came to watch your father. Your Dad is quite the hockey player. I never got to see him skate.”
As I turn around to admire my Dad he is gone. Alex is gone too. The ice is empty. I turn back to my Ma and she is gone. That’s the problem with dreams, they have to end. I go sit down on the wooden bench and take in the scenery one last time. The mountains gradually fade away and the snowbanks turn into boards. I am now sitting in the stands of the old rink. It is just as empty and quiet as the mountain range. This rink should be filled with people. I sit alone wondering where my dream will go next. I am not a small town kid who played on a frozen pond growing up. I am a city boy. I played my shinny on city maintained outdoor rinks or right here at the old rink. I knew I had to preserve the old rink. I wanted the next generation to be able to have “all the fun we had.” I feel that I am not alone in the old rink anymore. I see my Dad standing behind the glass at his usual spot. He is here. I stand up and wave to him. He waves back, then I wake up.
There are certain dreams you awake from and need a moment to think about. Usually by the time of contemplation the dream is gone. Lying in bed staring at the ceiling of my old room my mind desperately races to capture all the facets of my dream. Committing them to memory and not letting them get swept away. This dream cannot be dismissed. It made me feel. It meant something. I got to see my Dad. I got to skate with my Dad. He passed me the puck. Our family was back together playing the game that kept us together. My Dad’s wisdom about respecting the game stuck with me. I remember every word. Going over it in my mind, all his talk about war and freedom seemed a little misplaced, but it meant something. He was telling me something I needed to know. I wasn’t sure what it was yet but I knew I had to keep my eyes open.
I head downstairs and see that Ma is already awake and cooking breakfast. I notice she is smiling which is a change. Acknowledging her smile may risk losing it so I don’t. My dream has put me on alert. I flip through the morning newspaper looking for anything that will catch my eye or relate to my dream. All I find is the predictable article on the poor performance of the Leafs and another headline about concussions in hockey. There has recently been this black cloud over hockey. It is a storm cloud that seemed to have been brewing for quite some time. Concussions and tragic player deaths seem to be dominating discussions about hockey. For me it all started when Bob Probert died. I idolized him. He was a big guy who could score and boy could he fight. But those weren’t the main reasons I idolized him. I liked him because he would rip the door off a tank to help out a friend or teammate. You didn’t need to know him to see that. It was that kind of loyalty that I admired.
There is so much good in hockey and in what hockey does for people. I hated to see the game consistently get negative press. I didn’t know what to make of it all. Despite having a brother still in the game, I didn’t have any inside perspective to consider. The brief conversations Alex and I had about the state of the game were often punctuated by shrugs. The game is the fastest it’s ever been with guys playing it who are bigger and stronger than players of the past. What did we think was going to happen? I didn’t like that the Canadian dream was being depicted as a nightmare. But I guess it is tough to ignore when star players are side lined, all with the same cause of injury. Hockey’s international popularity could be it’s curse. The harsh truth is that there is never a shortage of players waiting to fill open spots. I had seen it first hand. Hockey is a game that benefits from pulling from a large talent pool. The quick fix everyone seems to continue to hope for isn’t coming. Concussions aren’t going anywhere. Injuries will happen as long as players continue to fight tooth and nail for a spot on the roster. When you put something like this under a microscope you better be prepared to see some ugly things. But I am confident the game will evolve. It always does, hopefully for the better.
When I heard analysts talking about the evolution of hockey and the game needing to institute some changes, I had this urge to watch footage of old time hockey. Looking at how far the game had come always amazed me. If one of the first hockey players saw a current player he would probably think he was witnessing science fiction. Something my Dad said in the dream emerged in my mind. “Respect its history, remember its past, honour its tradition.”
“I had the greatest dream last night,” Ma says.
“What?”
“I had a dream that I was watching Alex, you and your Dad all playing on a frozen pond by a mountain range. It was so beautiful.”
I dropped my fork. My Ma noticed the stunned look on my face.
“What’s the matter?”
I can’t answer.
“It’s funny, I remember telling you that it was the first time I had seen your Dad play hockey.”
“I had the same dream,” I say quietly.
“What was that dear?”
“I had the same dream.”
My Ma takes a second to think about what I just said. I don’t wait for a response. I rush upstairs to my room to get my phone. As I run upstairs I am utterly amazed by our shared dream but in a way I am not surprised. I expected it. The dream was too perfect, too vivid. It was the kind of dream that could wipe all the sadness away. That’s why when I got to my phone to call Alex about the dream I knew that the unopened text message waiting for me was from him. The message was from Alex, sent minutes earlier.
“Bro, had a crazy dream about playing puck with you and Dad.”
I put my phone back down on my desk trying to think of what to do. Beside my phone was the picture Boni Al and I had found at the old rink. The women in the photo are staring at me, trying to tell me something. I look at the faded caption again: Opening Day September 29, 1948. I open the frame and take out the picture to study it more closely. The photograph is delicate but there is writing on the back of the picture. Right in the middle, like a puck at center ice, there is a message:
“Respect its history, remember its past, honour its tradition.”