Winter cold and late night darkness weren’t going to stop two farm boys as they played Canada’s game on a frozen pond
It was around midnight and I felt a shake on my shoulders while I was deep in sleep and among my blankets.
It was a December evening in 1975. In the darkness and in my sleeping stupor, I could barely discern the figure of somebody slightly smaller than I, but who looked similar — my younger brother Tim.
“Get up. Let’s go,” he said.
Myself and three brothers had been playing hockey endlessly on the farm pond. It was a fever we couldn’t cure. Tim, 12, and I, at age 15 then, had caught it badly. It was worse than the soon to arrive disco fever.
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So I got up, jumped into the long underwear and winter pants, buttoned up a flannel shirt, found my parka, grabbed my skates, and headed outside. Tim beat me by two steps.
Our farm dogs, Junior and Pups, stirred in the porch and came outside. Our unusual nocturnal timing caused them consternation. They had options:
- Greet us with a whimper and a walk-by rub.
- Bark out a warning cry.
- Sink their chompers into our legs as fresh available protein.
They chose the first option, then retreated to their warm old blankets.
I remember that it was cold, but not unbearable, which actually describes Manitoba for most of the winter. The pond was about 250 metres from our yard, just a good walk for the skating to come.
We ducked into Dad’s shop garage and plugged in a power cord. It was our great innovation for the hockey rink — lights.
In autumn, our older brother Dave obtained a long power cable, threaded it through tree branches, and rigged it from bank to bank on our farm dugout. Our youngest brother Ron had helped.
Dave wired two light sockets to the power cord, held it up by a rope strung high across the rink, and magically, we had night-time hockey capability.
Our rink bordered a country road. Occasionally, we’d hear a horn honk from passing neighbours. Or fans?
We had cleared the ice and played earlier that day. With hurried fingers, we got our skates on, grabbed our stashed sticks, and began to skate warm-up circles. Another hockey session began.
We took shots with a softer puck-size rubber ball. It rolled along the less-than-perfect ice and it was quite forgiving to the goalie.
I did fashion goalie pads once, making a pad “sandwich” out of cardboard, a burlap grain bag and an old army blanket cut in foot-wide strips. I sewed them together with used skate shoelaces, but alas, they did not work well. When damp, they became heavy and almost pulled down my pants.
Our rink was neither big nor fancy. The cleared snow served as foot-high edges. The area was about 30 feet by 50 feet. At the one end, which had the most light, we had our chicken wire goal net, engineered to National Hockey League standards. We would not have to re-learn dimensions once we made it to the big leagues.
The script with Tim and I was always the same: I played goal with him as the shooter. Let me correct that. I was Tony Esposito and he was Guy Lafleur. I did have a goalie stick and my well-worn baseball mitt snagged Tim’s shots. He regularly shot high to my glove side because that’s what Mr. Lafleur did. I caught some. The “save” always felt good.
A few years later, I caught a Blackhawks game in Chicago. Afterward, my Chicago college buddy said we should go to the player’s entrance. We had hardly walked over when Mr. Esposito walked out.
I fumbled for my program, my buddy grabbed a pen and I blurted out that I played on the farm ponds and that I used his name and his style.
“You must be Canadian,” he said smiling, and signed “Tony O.” I was thrilled. I carelessly lost his autograph.
After a good hour, occasionally changing roles, Tim and I put the boots back on and we began the trudge home. The stars were bright, the snow glistened, and the world was silent. The exercise had kept us warm, and for many years, slim. Our hockey fever had mildly subsided.
Soon after, the school Christmas break arrived. Is there a better time of year? Often, all four of us brothers were out on our humble rink (two teams of two) and we’d play for hours. We’d zip to the house for food, then go back and play more. We couldn’t shake the fever.
Tim now says we were certifiably hockey crazy. The NHL matches against the touring Soviet teams those years made hockey even more interesting.
A decade ago, I attended a banquet in Calgary for the late Harley Hotchkiss, then a Calgary Flames owner. Before the ceremony, I spotted Gary Bettman, the NHL president, standing off to the side. I introduced myself and we chatted. I told him of those pond hockey glory days. He was cordial and asked if I was a good goalie.
“Of course I was,” I answered brashly. “However, the Buffalo Sabres never phoned me.” They were my favourite team.
“Well, with all due respect, the Sabres did well with Tom Barasso,” Mr. Bettman said. I couldn’t argue.
Most pro players mark their best times and their career peak with a Stanley Cup win. For Tim and I, our best hockey times were played out on the farm pond of long ago. And that midnight escapade may have been the peak of those.
