August everysummer, for a big bowl of weeds. Tobias would sit at the table, with a napkin tucked under his chin, shaking his head. It was as if the good Lord had played a number of tricks upon him — eating worms, and now, a bowlful of weeds.
“This is a new variety of creeping scalia,” he would say. “It grows better in an arid climate than here — but is still tasty.”
He would always give us some to take home. Pots of weeds. Tobias would take his weeds and head down over the bank, go into the house and set them on the table. Worse. For, as I say, it always gets worse. Bert always thought the old Colonel was making fun of her poverty, giving them five pounds of weeds. “He’s one damn big-feeling man now, ain’t he?”
The Colonel thought the greatest goalie who ever lived was Jacques Plante. He felt Plante knew everything — and this is what you needed to know — everything. And the Colonel was a stickler for knowing everything. He believed the greatest player in the last twenty years was a toss up between Richard or Howe. But they weren’t Howie Morenz.
He thought hockey had gone to the dogs when they put in a centre line, but I knew little about this, or why he was upset about it. If there was no centre line we would have much faster games, he declared and be able to move the puck much better. And we would have to learn to move the puck. The terrible truth he told us, and it was instilled like dry snow on our souls. Instilled forever and ever.
He had witnessed it at Squaw Valley, the winter before when the Americans beat Canada 1–0 after being outshotperhaps 45–11, and won the Gold Medal. As he spoke he would sit in the kitchen chair puffing on his pipe and watching us eat our weeds.
“When we lose they are the first to notice it — when we win, they simply shrug — but we will be winning less and less if we don’t fund our own league. The whole world is out to beat us and take our game. You can’t say it any differently than that. You cannot be polite about it. Our best players are tied up in the States and we travel this year, to play in Europe. If we get beaten we will be laughed at — if we win, they will call us barbarians. There is no justice so we should only rely on ourselves.”
He was the first to tell me about the European rinks being bigger than ours. He was the first to tell us that when expansion came it would go to the south. Even as far away as Florida. I didn’t — couldn’t believe this. And to me he had coined the phrase: “Hockey is life.”
So, he said, as he puffed on his pipe, “If it goes south — which it will — we will sooner or later be left out of the decisions that matter in hockey.”
It was sad to hear this from him. It might be all right to go toe to toe with my uncle and my cousin, but to go toe to toe with a man who knew more about the sport than I ever would, who loved his country, and yet still felt his country was damned as far as their national sport went, was another matter. It was sadder because I believed him.
He realized before anyone else realized it that no matterif we had bragging rights in the NHL — it was a moot point to those, who never knew who we were, and moot also in Europe where they were beating our teams for the World Championships.
I couldn’t disagree with him. Especially when he was feeding me a nice bowl of weeds.
By January of 1961 the old Colonel was listening to his radio. Of course he had been for years. The idea that the Americans had won the Olympics in 1960, rankled him. The Americans for God’s sake.
The Americans were laughing at us, “laughing up their holes” was the expression we used on starry winter nights here. The Russians too, and we still did not have anything approaching a national team. We had teams from small towns going over to play for the World Championship. And it was back in 1960–611 was first becoming aware of the disaster of it. I loved them, but it was getting more and more evident
“This is a new variety of creeping scalia,” he would say. “It grows better in an arid climate than here — but is still tasty.”
He would always give us some to take home. Pots of weeds. Tobias would take his weeds and head down over the bank, go into the house and set them on the table. Worse. For, as I say, it always gets worse. Bert always thought the old Colonel was making fun of her poverty, giving them five pounds of weeds. “He’s one damn big-feeling man now, ain’t he?”
The Colonel thought the greatest goalie who ever lived was Jacques Plante. He felt Plante knew everything — and this is what you needed to know — everything. And the Colonel was a stickler for knowing everything. He believed the greatest player in the last twenty years was a toss up between Richard or Howe. But they weren’t Howie Morenz.
He thought hockey had gone to the dogs when they put in a centre line, but I knew little about this, or why he was upset about it. If there was no centre line we would have much faster games, he declared and be able to move the puck much better. And we would have to learn to move the puck. The terrible truth he told us, and it was instilled like dry snow on our souls. Instilled forever and ever.
He had witnessed it at Squaw Valley, the winter before when the Americans beat Canada 1–0 after being outshotperhaps 45–11, and won the Gold Medal. As he spoke he would sit in the kitchen chair puffing on his pipe and watching us eat our weeds.
“When we lose they are the first to notice it — when we win, they simply shrug — but we will be winning less and less if we don’t fund our own league. The whole world is out to beat us and take our game. You can’t say it any differently than that. You cannot be polite about it. Our best players are tied up in the States and we travel this year, to play in Europe. If we get beaten we will be laughed at — if we win, they will call us barbarians. There is no justice so we should only rely on ourselves.”
He was the first to tell me about the European rinks being bigger than ours. He was the first to tell us that when expansion came it would go to the south. Even as far away as Florida. I didn’t — couldn’t believe this. And to me he had coined the phrase: “Hockey is life.”
So, he said, as he puffed on his pipe, “If it goes south — which it will — we will sooner or later be left out of the decisions that matter in hockey.”
It was sad to hear this from him. It might be all right to go toe to toe with my uncle and my cousin, but to go toe to toe with a man who knew more about the sport than I ever would, who loved his country, and yet still felt his country was damned as far as their national sport went, was another matter. It was sadder because I believed him.
He realized before anyone else realized it that no matterif we had bragging rights in the NHL — it was a moot point to those, who never knew who we were, and moot also in Europe where they were beating our teams for the World Championships.
I couldn’t disagree with him. Especially when he was feeding me a nice bowl of weeds.
By January of 1961 the old Colonel was listening to his radio. Of course he had been for years. The idea that the Americans had won the Olympics in 1960, rankled him. The Americans for God’s sake.
The Americans were laughing at us, “laughing up their holes” was the expression we used on starry winter nights here. The Russians too, and we still did not have anything approaching a national team. We had teams from small towns going over to play for the World Championship. And it was back in 1960–611 was first becoming aware of the disaster of it. I loved them, but it was getting more and more evident
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