A Minor Hockey Story

It was etched in ink on the counter of the bathroom.
"My brother Joe is the best hockey player in the world."
At the time I was about nine years old. Even at nine I knew that statement wasn't true.
For starters, there was Davey Keon   and Henri Richard, .
Sure, they were older than me, and they both played in the NHL for the Leafs and the Canadiens, while I was in Pee Wee league in Port Alberni playing centre for the Alberni MHA Generals. And sure, we had just beaten the AMHA Aces 4-2 to take over top spot in the PeeWee league at the Christmas break, and yes, I had scored a goal on a scramble in front of the crease and assisted on the eventual winner. But still, there must be at least a hundred players in the world better than me in 1964.
I also knew that whoever wrote it would be in trouble because that was not something we were supposed to do - write on walls or counters. That ruled out Kristin; she would not have written it - even if she believed the statement to be true - because it wasn't correct to write on walls and counters. Regina was probably not the guilty party; she didn't seem to care much about hockey and so would have little knowledge of just where I would place in the rankings of the best hockey players in the world.  Besides, she was the one who showed it to me.
Tony couldn't write - he'd only very recently consented to talk. That left Pat and Bill. Pat was left-handed, the printing was not.
I am not sure what prompted Bill's glorious evaluation of my talents as a hockey player, but I knew I'd better clean up the evidence before he got in trouble. Which I did. Kindly, Regina not only showed me the writing, she helped me scrub it out, never once questioning its veracity, or complaining about the extra work.
I learned soon enough that hockey, though firmly embedded in my father's past, was not in my future.
Uncle Whit was coming to visit.
By 1966 I was playing Bantam house hockey at Queen's Park in New Westminster. The Bruins of Punch Mclean had not yet relocated from Estevan, but Queen's Park Arena already had a reputation as a rough and tough place to play,  a real hockey arena. If I could somehow get Uncle Whit to watch me play, maybe he could give me some pointers and ideas, advance my career in some incremental way.
Whit had coached in Flin Flon. Dad said he coached in Flin Flon "you know, the Bombers? Bobby Clarke, Reggie Leach, Ernie Wakely?" (Now to be fair, he didn't say Uncle Whit coached the Bombers, and to this day I can only find records of Uncle Whit coaching the Flin Flon Elks rep team.... (Over the years I have bragged to many that my Uncle coached the Bombers without ever checking on the veracity. Dad was good at helping us come to our own conclusions based partly on what he'd told us and partly on what we inferred as a result.)
In my mind, Uncle Whit was a reputable source, a hard-nosed, no-nonsense guy who would give me straight answers. He'd coached in Flin Flon.
Auntie Pearl was coming, too.
Pearl was a lovely woman who had suffered a stroke and Whit had adjusted his life to take care of her. Rumour had it that back in Flin Flon she would give each player, from the same spoon, a dollop of Beehive Golden Syrup before every period - each player except Bobby Clarke who had been diagnosed with diabetes. For Bobby, so the Ogmundson legend tells us, Pearl made two beef sandwiches on home-made bread - one for pre-game and one half between each of the next two periods.

My game was Saturday morning, 6:45 am start. I was glad it was the "late game" so maybe Uncle Whit (and Dad) might want to come watch. I didn't bring the subject up all week. I heard Dad and Whit talking about it so I really hoped they would be there.
Most days I got myself up and lugged my stinky beat up hockey gear down to the rink and got myself a 10 cent hot chocolate from the machine at the end of the game. As Tiger Williams would have said, if you want to play hockey you figure out a way to get there, you don't rely on others.
I got "mugged" earlier in the year by some guys who were hanging out in the park prior to an early 5:00 am start. They took my dime and my comb. Why they wanted my comb I will never know.
Early in the first period I spotted Dad and Whit sitting together mid level far blueline hunched over steaming styrofoam cups and talking non-stop.
Scoreless late in the first period, I'm on the forecheck just over centre. I poked the puck free from the left defenceman, cut in on an angle ahead of his partner, and crossed the blueline (yes, that blueline, right in front of uncle and dad), being chased, but one on one with the goalie. Room over the glove - I was a right-handed shot, he was a left glove goalie and he was giving me a spot to hit. From fifteen feet away I let go a wrister - Dad emphasized that slapshots were not the best alternative - and my follow through convinced the goalie I was going high. And I was. But the puck wasn't.
It slid along the ice. I'd mis-fired. My body language had convinced him that I was going high glove side. Too late, he reacted slowly to the puck sliding beneath him for the game's first goal.
"Great fake!" said one of my teammates in the ritual post-goal hockey hug. I looked up in the stands. The two men were huddled over their coffee, talking, talking.
Third period, score 2-1 for us, on the attack I slid a neat pass behind the right defenceman to a streaking left winger for nice tap-in goal. I look up. More talking, more talking, men huddled over fresh coffee.
Late in the game, up 3-2 I go to the front of the net, the "dirty zone" and fight off an opponent for a loose puck which I jammed under the goalie for what would be the final goal of the game. I look up. Men huddled, talking, still talking.
***
Breakfast. Sitting across from the Venerable Coach, Dad on my left, the two of them still sharing the endless conversation of adults. More coffee. Finally a break as Dad bent his head to his breakfast plate. I caught Uncle Whit's eye. "So what did you think of the game?" I asked, eagerly waiting to expound on my game, my two goals, my clever assist, my forechecking tenacity....
"Work on your skating," said Uncle Whit, who then turned and said, "So Barney, there was a fellow from the Pas who moved to Nipawin about the time...."
***
About a year later I was in the same New West Arena, playing in an older division where about half the boys - myself included - had not yet had any significant growth spurt. While on the boards, I was being pinned by a monster from Burnaby called "Wayne". Wayne was pushing his stick into my neck with his right hand while gripping his stick and the wire mesh (pre glass era) with his left. As he continued to grope for the mesh with his left hand, completing his decapitation manoeuvre, I realized that if I was not playing hockey I would not be here right now. That was my last year of hockey.
And Whit was right. I was a terrible skater.
Even in Bantam hockey I still could not stop quickly.  My stops relied on friction and gravity.  My whole game was perpetual motion. My opponents and many linesmen thought my endless circling prior to face off was a hot dogging psychological ploy.
I guess the only one being fooled was me.