Nov 13, 2014 | Jon Thompson | 760 views
Small Town Hockey
A Small Town Hockey Story
Every day is a great day for hockey.~Mario Lemieux
Minor hockey — those two words conjure up all sorts of images and memories for me. Allow me to take you back to hockey framed by a simpler time. A time before Tim Hortons’ commercials, composite sticks, even artificial ice. Minor hockey that came without the expensive hockey gear and its modern day trappings. Hockey the way it was meant to be played: for the pure fun of it. I loved going to the local outdoor rink, nestled behind my school, in small town Manitoba — Pinawa (1,444 residents-2011), to be precise.
The early 1970s were a simpler era. It was a time that pre-dated satellite TV, where few had cable TV and no one had video games. On a typical winter afternoon, your mother pushed you out the door to play boot-hockey with the neighbour boys, and then, two hours later, had to coax you back in for supper. Saturday nights were reserved for watching hockey on the old Sylvania TV (though it was new to us then). We sat on a couch in the den and followed the skilled play of NHLers, like Bobby Orr, Darryl Sittler and Jean Béliveau. But even better than watching hockey, I loved playing Canada’s favourite winter sport. On school days, I recall walking to my neighbourhood outdoor rink, carrying my Sher-Wood stick over my shoulder, the blade shoved through my Bauer skates, laces dangling free. Coming to the rink, I’d hurriedly shed winter boots in favour of my skates, anticipating which of my friends was already there. This was all done within the confines of an outdoor shack — no indoor changing rooms back then. Then, there was the exhilaration of being the first one to step onto newly flooded ice, of chasing the puck to the end boards, and then skating into the wind hoping to beat your best friend to the net during impromptu games of shinny. If you decided to imitate Bobby Hull by taking that risky slap shot, you hoped you hit the mark and that it didn’t fly over the steel-mesh netting behind the net, burying itself in the deep snow. But that kind of thinking is lost on a twelve-year-old boy. We fired those slap shots as hard as we could, thinking only of hitting the back of the mesh — and hoping the blade wouldn’t break. Every once in a while an errant shot would fly over the net, and three or four of us would scramble over the boards to find it in the snow. We had no choice — it was the only puck we had. The best times, though, were the Saturday morning hockey games. First up was a quick breakfast provided by my mom. Then, while my dad went out to warm the car, I would head down to the basement, collect my gear and stuff it into an old hockey bag — the one with the draw string at the end — and lug it up to the car. Huddled in the front seat beside my dad, we would drive to the local arena to meet the other dads. Four or five of us would pile into a mid-sized car or station wagon — there were no minivans back then — and in convoy style follow the lead vehicle to the host town. Sitting in the back seat, I would listen to my teammates recount an overblown story from a previous game or debate strategy for the game yet to be played, overlooking the fact that it was these same guys from the paper mill town that had beaten us so soundly three weeks ago.All talk would suddenly come to a stop as the convoy pulled into the parking lot. We’d arrive, excited to be playing a formidable rival, one of the best teams in our league. We’d scramble out and head to the back of the car, retrieving our sticks and hockey bags. Back then, many southern Manitoba towns didn’t have arenas, much less artificial ice. The smaller towns only had outdoor rinks, the dressing rooms situated outside resembling big shacks with little heating provided. I recall my father helping me lace up my skates and ensuring I was adequately dressed for the weather. Some mornings, the temperature hovered at minus twenty degrees Celsius — with the sun shining. The coach made sure everyone played every second or third shift so no one sat too long on the bench and got too cold. Between periods, off came the skates. My dad would rub my socked feet between his hands, returning a measure of warmth to my semi-frozen toes. Now that I think back, it was a special time between father and son. After the game, regardless whether we won or lost, my dad would come to the dressing room. While I was excitedly recounting a good play or a missed penalty by the referee, he would help me remove my sweaty gear. Sometimes I would look up and notice that not every boy was as fortunate as I was. Some dads didn’t come to the dressing room, preferring to smoke in the lounge and talk to their friends. Sadly, some didn’t come out to the games at all. Once I’d finished dressing, my dad would hand me a couple of dollar bills and I’d rush to the canteen to wait in line for that well-deserved hot dog and Coke. It’s funny that all these years later I can barely remember how many goals I had scored or which line I’d played on, but I can vividly recall my dad patiently listening to an excited twelve-year-old recounting a breakaway while taking bites from his lukewarm hot dog. I was in pure hockey heaven.But all too soon it was time to head home. By the time we hit the highway, each one of us would be lost in his own thoughts, interpreting the outcome of the game his own way. As we retraced our way back home, we would drift off one by one, tired from the exertion of the game. Then, after being dropped off at home, I would run in the back door and up the stairs, into the arms of my smiling mom, eager to recount the highlights once again and leaving Dad to carry my hockey bag inside. And the next week I’d be ready to do it all over again.
~Robert J. Stermscheg