CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -

ON THE ROAD WITH DAD - AN AWAY GAME - THE HOT STOVE LEAGUE - IT BURNED - WE CAME, WE PLAYED, WE CRIED

I WAS A FIEND FOR HOCKEY. I LOOKED FORWARD TO WHATEVER HOCKEY WAS ON THE SCHEDULE, POSTED AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA, AND WHAT THE LOCAL LADS WERE PLANNING FOR ROAD HOCKEY THAT HOLIDAY WEEK. WHEN WE WEREN'T PLAYING HOCKEY, ON THE ROAD, ON AN ICE PAD, OR ON AN OUTDOOR RINK, WE WERE PLAYING TABLE-TOP HOCKEY. THESE WERE THE FINAL DAYS OF THE ORIGINAL SIX NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE. AND FOR CHRISTMAS, YOU BET……A MAPLE LEAF JERSEY UNDER THE TREE. NOT MONTREAL. I WOULD NOT HAVE WORN IT IN BRACEBRIDGE THAT'S FOR SURE. THIS WAS MAPLE LEAF COUNTRY. IT WAS HOWEVER, ACCEPTABLE THEN TO WEAR A DETROIT RED WING SWEATER, AS ROGER CROZIER WAS THEIR ALL STAR NETMINDER…..AND HE WAS A HOMETOWNER WHO MADE IT TO THE BIG LEAGUES. WE WANTED TO FOLLOW HIM ALL THE WAY TO THE STANLEY CUP FINALS…..NOT JUST AS FANS, BUT AS TEAM-MATES. OR AT LEAST WE THOUGHT WE COULD MAKE THE CUT. SO WE TRIED REAL HARD TO IMPRESS OUR COACHES, AND ANY SCOUTS LURKING IN THE STANDS.

CHRISTMAS WEEK HOCKEY GAMES. BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEARS WE GOT TO TRAVEL TO SOME OF THE MORE INTERESTING ICE PALACES IN MUSKOKA, AS OUR FESTIVE HOCKEY SEASON WAS A LITERAL WINTER-JAM OF FOUR OR FIVE GAMES, INSIDE THE COLDEST PLACES ON EARTH. I MEAN THAT. MY TOES FEEL FROZEN JUST THINKING ABOUT THOSE VENUES. WE WERE SPOILED IN BRACEBRIDGE BECAUSE WE HAD ARTIFICIAL ICE. IT'S TRUE WHAT THEY SAY. THE NUMBER OF SOCKS DOESN'T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE, OTHER THAN IT TAKES LONGER TO TAKE THEM OFF TO GET WARMTH ONTO WHITE FROSTY TOES, FROM AN OLD STOVE PIPE. I LEARNED THIS THE HARD WAY.

THE AWAY GAMES? WE COULDN'T BELIEVE OUR CRAPPY FORTUNE. REALLY! IT STARTED LIKE THIS. SNOWMAGEDON! MOST MINOR HOCKEYISTS AND DOTING PARENTS HAVEN'T SEEN SNOW THE WAY WE DID, BACK IN MY VINTAGE. NOW, I'M ONLY 56, AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT SUZANNE TELLS ME……BUT I'M FEELING SO DARN OLD. MAYBE IT'S WRITING RECOLLECTIONS LIKE THIS, MAKING ME FEEL I'VE GOT ONE FOOT ON THE PROVERBIAL BANANA PEEL. WHEN A FRIEND RECENTLY ASKED HOW OLD I WAS, SUZANNE BUTTED-IN AND SUGGESTED I SHOW HER MY TEETH…….AS IF I WAS A HORSE. I'M JUST PLEASED TO STILL BE ABLE TO REMEMBER SOME OF THESE WINTRY TALES……AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF MARRIAGE. (SUZANNE IS LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER AS I WRITE THIS, AND MAKING GRUNTING NOISES OF DISAPPROVAL).

BUT HERE'S A STORY ABOUT PERSISTENCE, COLD ARENAS, A FATHER'S COMMITMENT TO A SON, (HE THOUGHT WAS NHL BOUND) AND THE TEARS OF PLEASURE. I WROTE A LITTLE ABOUT THIS, SHORTLY AFTER MY FATHER DIED SEVERAL YEARS AGO. YOU SEE I FELT GUILTY, THAT I'D NEVER REALLY THANKED HIM FOR ALL THE TIMES HE GOT OFF WORK, AND THEN HAD TO DRIVE FOUR OR FIVE KIDS TO OUR AWAY GAMES IN PORT CARLING, MACTIER, BALA, BAYSVILLE AND GRAVENHURST. SOME OF THE SNOWSTORMS WE DROVE THROUGH WERE SPECTACULAR. TODAY IT WOULDN'T BE DONE, BUT THEN, IT WAS JUST CANADIAN WINTER DOING ITS THING. THERE WAS NO MONEY IN THE TEAM BUDGET FOR A BUS. THERE WAS NO GAS MONEY EITHER, SO ED WAS ALWAYS OUT OF POCKET IN THOSE DAYS.

I STARTED PLAYING HOCKEY IN MUSKOKA IN THE FALL OF 1966. I'D COME FROM BURLINGTON, AND PLAYED MY HOCKEY GAMES THEN, AT 2 A.M. TO POSSIBLY 4 A.M., AND THAT MIGHT INCLUDE PLAYING ON AN OUTDOOR KIWANIS RINK…..IN THE SNOW. AS DEMAND ON THE CITY'S ICE SURFACES WAS EXTREME, THE TOWN LEAGUE KIDS WEREN'T THE PRIORITY ICE USERS. WHEN MOVED TO BRACEBRIDGE, OUR ICE TIME BEGAN AT 7 A.M. ON AN AVERAGE SATURDAY MORNING, AND WENT TO ABOUT NOON. PRIME TIME AS FAR AS I WAS CONCERNED.

WHEN I JOINED THE ALLSTAR TEAMS, WE HAD TO TRAVEL THROUGHOUT THE REGION. THE BRACEBRIDGE AND HUNTSVILLE RINKS WERE PRETTY GOOD AT THE TIME, AND GRAVENHURST WAS A LITTLE ROUGH AROUND THE EDGES, AND COLD, THE OTHERS WERE ESSENTIALLY OUTDOOR RINKS WITH TIN ROOVES. WHEN YOU LET A SLAP SHOT GO AGAINST THE BOARDS, THE WHOLE PLACE RATTLED, AS IF FROZEN AS ONE LARGE CHUNK OF MUSKOKA ICE. TALK ABOUT ECHO. THAT WAS SCARY COLD.

FIRST OF ALL, TO GET THERE!!! OUR FAMILY CAR WAS, BY ANY STANDARD, BETTER LOOKING THAN THE CLAMPETT'S TRUCK, BUT NOT AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER VEHICLE ON THE ROAD. IT WAS ALL WE COULD AFFORD. IT WAS A JALOPY. THE HEATER WORKED OCCASIONALLY. VERY OCCASIONALLY, AND THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS NEVER DID A GREAT JOB, ESPECIALLY IN A HEAVY STORM. WE'D PILE INTO OUR CAR AT THE ARENA, AND MY FATHER, ED, WOULD CLEAN OFF THE WINDSHIELD BY HAND….IF THE WIPERS WEREN'T DOING IT WELL ENOUGH, AND THEN CHECK TO SEE IF WE WERE ALL SAFELY PLACED IN THE SMALL CAR. THE TRUNK WOULD JUST CLICK SHUT WITHOUT AN INCH OF BREATHING ROOM. I WAS A GOALIE, SO MUCH OF THE EQUIPMENT WAS MINE. ED ALWAYS KEPT THE WINDOW OPEN A CRACK, SO THAT WHOEVER WAS UNLUCKY TO HAVE TO SIT BEHIND HIM, GOT A FACE FULL OF SNOW FROM BRACEBRIDGE TO OUR DESTINATION. ED COULD ALSO SHOVE HIS ARM OUT OF THE WINDOW, TO CLEAN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR, AND PULL ICE FROM THE WINDSHIELD WITHOUT STOPPING THE CAR. I THINK THERE WERE TIMES HE HAD TO LOOK OUT THE OPEN WINDOW TO SEE THE EDGE OF THE ROAD. IN RETROSPECT, AND COMMON SENSE, I WOULDN'T HAVE LET MY KIDS TRAVEL IN THAT CAR, ON THE NIGHTS WE DID.

WE WERE HALF FROZEN BY TIME WE GOT TO THE RINK. OUR FEET WERE NUMB OR AT LEAST TINGLING, AND IT WASN'T UNTIL WE HIT THE ARENA PARKING LOT, THAT THE HEATER ACTUALLY KICKED IN. EVEN PARKED RIGHT IN FRONT, YOU COULD, ON MANY OCCASIONS, JUST MAKE OUT THE ROOF LINE OF THE OLD BUILDINGS WE HAD TO PLAY IN. NOW, I MUST NOTE HERE, THAT MY DAD WAS AN EXCELLENT DRIVER, AND AS A FORMER TORONTO CABBIE, HE WAS NO STRANGER TO ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES ON THE ROAD. HE HAD ALSO DRIVEN A LAUNDRY TRUCK AND A HEARSE IN HIS YOUTH. THE POOR GUY WAS EXHAUSTED AFTER A LONG DAY AT WORK, AND FACING THIS KIND OF DRIVE BEFORE DINNER, WASN'T TOO MUCH FUN FOR HIM. NEVER HAD AN ACCIDENT, AND TO MY KNOWLEDGE, NEVER LEFT THE ROADWAY FOR MORE THAN A COUPLE OF MILES. THE PASSENGER RIDING SHOT-GUN HAD TO OCCASIONALLY PUT HIS HEAD OUT THE WINDOW TO CHECK FOR OTHER LANDMARKS, SO WE'D KNOW HOW CLOSE OR FAR AWAY, WE STILL WERE FROM THE ARENA. YOU COULD GET A NASTY CASE OF FROZEN FACE THIS WAY.

The real problem of those old arenas, was that the wicked cold inside, meant your already frozen feet were going to stay frozen. In fact, it was always argued, that these natural ice palaces were about ten degrees colder inside than out, and as I've mentioned in previous blogs on this subject, I watched pucks shatter hitting the boards. So you got cold in the car, and stayed cold until you got back home. There was a hiatus, of course, in the subject arena's dressing room. I can't remember if it was Port Carling, or Bala, but the dressing room was on the second floor of the lobby portion, and there was a stove-pipe that came through the centre of the room. By time we got there, it was almost red hot, and it was close to the wood benches. So in a small room, with at least one goalie, …..sometimes two, and twelve or more players trying to get dressed, trying to avoid that stove pipe was almost impossible. Then it was like a pinball game. You'd touch your arm or back to the pipe, and jump forward, hitting someone else, and like dominoes, there were a lot of distressed hockey players on the floor. And it's true, our skin left on the stove pipe did smell like roast chicken.

Coming down that flight of stair with skates on, was something to behold, especially for a goalie. The starting goalie had to hit the ice first. It was a hockey convention. But when there was nothing in front of me, on that trip down, geez, I hit that ice on the tumble almost every time. No way to start a hockey game. Now if there were two goalies, I was going to be the back-up. Now the problem here, and I was okay with not getting the crap beat out of me…..as our team wasn't that great….was that my feet would already be half-frozen, because the skates had been nicely chilled on the way to the game. So by about the end of the first period, there wasn't a dry eye on the bench. My feet were frozen, the others were almost frozen. As there was no intermission between the first and second periods, it was like the wailers in a funeral procession, by time the bell went to end the period. Here were these tough hockey playing kids, crying their eyes out because their toes were stinging with frost. We might have been sweating on the upper level, from end to end play, but down below, by golly, it was like wearing wooden skates with popsicles stuck inside.

So we had about fifteen minutes to whip off the skates, and warm them by the stovepipe. Can you imagine a chorus of scorched cats. We went from crying somewhat, to crying while screaming, as the return of circulation then became the most painful part of the warming-up experience. By time I undid my goalie pads, to get my skates off, I got about two minutes of warmth before it was time to suit-up again. Now while we never let on how much frozen toes hurt, such that the opposition would sense our vulnerabilities, there was no way of preventing the hollering, when a slapshot would careen off my toe…..or any of our frozen toes adhered to leather, anchoring those silver blades. Getting through that third period was tough. When you looked down our bench, there was more bobbing and weaving than at a boxing reunion. Even the coach was dancing in pain. When I mentioned to a friend, Bruce Reville, who remembered some of those old rinks, that I always wanted to do a book about the old natural ice arenas, I also had to admit that I wouldn't be able to provide much in the way of architectural recollection…..because I was always so bloody cold, and whisked in and out, on and off the ice, that I really didn't get much of a chance to study where I was playing. Now it's also true, that all the games weren't played at minus 40, and there were some games that our feet weren't seriously frozen until the halfway mark of the third period. But I never paid as much attention to the interesting attributes of each facility, as I should have…..and would have relished, as memories today.

We'd take our skates off after the game, put our ice-block feet up to the fire or stove pipe, and there would only be a slight whimper by this point. They were numb and there was a real danger burning the skin because we couldn't feel the intensity of the heat. We would find out in a wee bit, just how the thawing process, on human flesh, titillates the senses. Now folks, if you've ever suffered the horrible sting of thawing skin, well, here's what happened in our car. As the heater would fail on the way to the game, it went on overdrive during the trip home. The car would become hot, and no matter what Ed did to control it, that little heater turned the car into an oven. And with that uncontrolled heat, even with the window down, our feet began to thaw. Fast. We bit hard into our gloves, said "Jesus," over and over, as if begging for relief. So we cried all the way home, and most vowed to never, ever play hockey again…….at least until the next game.

The old natural ice arenas served a great recreational purpose, and I loved them. I just didn't like the pain associated with the Muskoka winter, and a cold bench, in a really frigid tin arena. When I tell my boys about those away games, they can't imagine the conditions, and it shows with the smirks I get in return. Poor old Ed's feet were just as cold, but he was an old sailor after all, who had been on a frigate in the North Atlantic during the winter…..and he never cried. Just drove faster to get back home. Merle would already have a shot of brandy ready for him, one foot-fall inside the door.

There are times, even today, that sitting here and listening to the snow pellets hitting the window, that my toes will all of a sudden start to tingle, as if……well, history is repeating. I loved hockey in all its forms, but the frozen toes……not so much fun.

I remember telling this story to my father-in-law, Norman Stripp, one Christmas here at Birch Hollow, and he leaned back in the chair, looked at me as if I had never known a real game of Canadian hockey in my life. That's when he bent my ear, about the times the Windermere lads braved questionable ice, and merciless blizzards, to cross Lake Rosseau, against a booming sub-zero wind, just to play the Port Carling lads, in a Christmas season grudge match, on a windswept open rink…..carved into the snowscape of a frozen Muskoka Lake. No roof, no protection from the elements, no stove or stove-pipe. Possibly a wee flask of the good stuff, just to cut the edge. I didn't doubt him. His skin was as weathered as the old goalie pads, hung up in the recreation room for posterity. I've seen pictures of their open-air games, so there would be no refuting what may have seemed a tall-tall tale. I listened, felt that familiar tingle in my toes (from the experiences hockey had provided), and paid my respects to the legends of old time hockey.

When friends ask me why I hobble-about these days, one leg having a will of its own, I tell them about the days I used to cross the frozen lake, from Windermere to Port Carling, for those old Christmas grudge matches….and the cold and hard fought games, played havoc on my body. If they are suspicious of my age, and that I might have done something right out of the annals of Canadian hockey history, in only half a century, I tell them, "Hey, it's because of the good and Christian lifestyle I've lived!!!! I wink of course, and offer a silent apology to Norman, God rest his soul, for stealing his hockey story.

Merry Christmas.