THE OLD HOCKEY JERSEY, PAUL RIMSTEAD, AND A BOOK ABOUT EDDY SHACK -
THE BOOK RIMSTEAD DIDN'T FINISH, BUT ROSS BREWITT DID
IN THE FIELD OF ANTIQUES AND COLLECTIBLES, MY DEPTH OF APPRECIATION GOES MUCH DEEPER THAN SUZANNE'S. I WON'T SAY THIS TO HER FACE, AND SHE WON'T READ ANYTHING I WRITE. THAT'S NICE EH? SINCE WE MARRIED, THE ONLY TIME SUZANNE WILL READ ANYTHING I'VE COMPOSED, IS WHEN IT'S A NOTE ON THE FRIDGE , TELLING HER I'VE GONE OUT WITH THE BOYS FOR A BEER. GUESS WHAT SHE DOES WITH THAT NOTE?
AS WE ARE AN EFFERVESCENT COUPLE, ALWAYS READY TO DEBATE THE OTHER INTO GENTLE MEADOW-LIKE OBLIVION, SHE WILL ARGUE, FOR EXAMPLE, WHAT CONSTITUTES FULL FLEDGED PROVENANCE. IN REGARDS TO WHAT I WEIGH AS BEING IMPORTANT PROVENANCE, ATTACHED TO A SPECIFIC PIECE. WHILE SHE AND I DISAGREE ABOUT WHAT CASUAL PROVENANCE MIGHT MEAN……SUCH AS A BOOK MARTHA STEWART HAS SINGED, OR A COOKERY POT SHE MAY HAVE USED ON ONE OF HER SHOWS. I'LL TAKE THE BOOK OBVIOUSLY, BUT I LIKE WHAT IS ATTACHED TO THE POT. FOR ME IT'S SIGNIFICANT, THOUGH SHE CHALLENGES ME ABOUT HOW MUCH SOMETHING LIKE THAT IS WORTH. NOT A LOT, OF COURSE, UNLESS MARTHA SIGNED THAT AS WELL. BUT IF I CAN GIVE AN ACCURATE PROVENANCE FOR A PIECE, SUCH AS THE EXAMPLE GIVEN, IT WILL SELL FASTER THAN THE SAME COOKERY COLLECTIBLE WITHOUT A STORY ATTACHED. SO THIS IS THE PREAMBLE OF JUST SUCH A STORY……. ABOUT A SMELLY OLD HOCKEY COLLECTIBLE THOUGHT TO BE OF SENTIMENTAL VALUE ALONE. I DISAGREE. HERE'S HOW IT CAME DOWN, AT BIRCH HOLLOW ONE DAY.
AWHILE BACK, SUZANNE BEGAN CULLING OUR CLOTHES. KIND OF LIKE THE FEBRUARY 2ND APPEARANCE OF THE GROUNDHOG. SHE LIKES TO GET A HEAD-START ON SPRING CLEANING. THERE'S A PARALLEL GROUNDHOG-LIKE TRADITION HERE, AT BIRCH HOLLOW, WHEN SUZANNE GETS THAT GLINT IN HER EYE…….AND, LIKE A LASER BEAM, STARES AT MY CLOSET. SHE HAS SHOWN IN THE PAST, A WILLINGNESS TO GET RID OF A WARDROBE, WHILE I'M STILL CONTENTLY WEARING IT. WE ALWAYS SEND OUR GOOD QUALITY CLOTHES DONATIONS, TO THE GRAVENHURST SALVATION ARMY, AND I'M SURE EACH TIME I ARRIVE WITH DONATION BAGS, THE STAFF WINKS AT ONE ANOTHER……"MRS CURRIE'S MAKING TED CHANGE HIS CLOTHES AGAIN." IN FAIRNESS, SHE DOES THE SAME THING WITH HER OWN CLOTHING, AND LINENS, SEVERAL TIMES A YEAR. NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT UNTIL IT GETS PERSONAL. I HATE BEING TOLD, "YOU DON'T WANT THAT ANY MORE….SURELY!!!" ESPECIALLY IF I HAVE SOME STRANGE ATTACHMENT TO THE PIECE…..AS FOR EXAMPLE THE "WRITING SWEATER" I'M WEARING RIGHT NOW. IT'S DAMN-NEAR IMPOSSIBLE TO EXPLAIN TO MY DEAR WIFE, WHY AN OLD SWEATER HELPS ME COMPOSE. I DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND IT, BUT I AM SUPERSTITIOUS ABOUT THINGS LIKE THIS. ARE YOU? MAYBE IF I ALSO EXPLAIN THAT I WAS A LONG-SERVING GOALTENDER, WHO I'M TOLD, HAD SOME PRETTY INTERESTING HABITS IN THE GOAL CREASE. I DON'T REMEMBER THIS MYSELF, OTHER THAN THE DANCE I HAD TO DO IN ORDER TO KEEP MY FEET FROM FREEZING, IN THOSE NATURAL ICE ARENAS, IN PORT CARLING, BALA, MACTIER AND BAYSVILLE. TEAM-MATES TELL ME NOW ABOUT MY "HITTING" THE GOALPOSTS WITH MY STICK, THREE TIMES ON EACH SIDE (NOW THAT'S NOT PECULIAR. IT WAS GOAL CREASE POSITIONING), "THE BOB-UP AND DOWNS" BETWEEN A WHISTLE AND THE FACE-OFF, THE CONSTANT SIDE TO SIDE SLIDING, EVEN WHEN THE PUCK WAS IN THE OTHER END, AND THE INCESSANT "TALKING TO MYSELF," THAT ALWAYS CONFOUNDED THE DEFENSE, WHEN THEY THOUGHT I WAS TALKING TO THEM ABOUT THE INCOMING FORWARDS. HECK I WAS TALKING TO JESUS, PRAYING THAT I WOULDN'T GET ANOTHER SLAPSHOT IN THE NECK OR WORSE. AS GOALTENDERS GO, THIS ISN'T STRANGE AT ALL.
ANYWAY, I DIGRESS FROM MY WIFE'S CLOTHING CULL. WHEN SHE CAME TO ME WITH MY ORIGINAL "RINK RAT" HOCKEY SWEATER, MOTIONING THAT IT WAS "GOING IN THE BAG," I MADE A ROGER CROZIER DIVE FOR THE PUCK, AND GOT A SWEATER INSTEAD. "YOU'RE NOT DONATING THIS HOCKEY SWEATER……IT'S IMPORTANT TO ME," I SAID. "ALL THESE CLOTHES ARE IMPORTANT TO YOU, TED, BUT SOMETIMES WE JUST HAVE TO LET GO," SHE ANSWERED WITH GLAZED OVER EYES, AND DEEP FURROWS ON HER BROW. "THIS WAS THE VERY FIRST RINK RAT SWEATER EVER MADE," I RETORTED, ANGRY I HAD TO DEFEND MY SPORTS HERITAGE TO SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T EVEN LIKE HOCKEY. "IT'S JUST A RATTY OLD HOCKEY JERSEY THAT YOU NEVER WEAR," SHE CHALLENGED. "IT'S TOO SMALL FOR ME NOW," I STATED RATHER BASHFULLY AT THIS POINT, LOOKING DOWN AT MY PROTRUDING GUT. "SO THERE YOU GO, ALL THE MORE REASON TO TOSS IT IN THAT BAG," SHE POINTED OUT, ONE HAND ON MY SWEATER, THE OTHER ON THE DONATION BAG. "IT'S NOT GOING ANYWHERE," I BLURTED, AND TUCKED IT UNDER MY ARM, AND DID A NEAT DEKE AROUND HER, AND OUT THE BEDROOM DOOR. I HID IT IN MY ARCHIVES ROOM. DON'T TELL HER. ACTUALLY SHE DOESN'T LIKE THE FACT THERE ARE SPIDERS DOWN THERE, SO SHE TENDS TO STAY CLEAR.
So here's the story of the Herald-Gazette Rink Rat sweater. First of all, there was a young artist by the name of Chris Minz, I believe, and he was asked by a friend of one of the players, if he could design a logo for our newspaper hockey team……which I had named The Rink Rats. The co-founder of the team was Brant Scott, one of the newspaper's star reporters. When we got the artist's drawing to peruse, we knew it was a winner and raced to get it transferred to hockey jerseys. They were done in the blue and white color tradition of the Toronto Maple Leafs…..which even at the time, kind of destined us to last place as a matter of routine. The problem was, the guy who had them made up for us, got the sizes mixed up very badly. When I say this, there is no exaggeration on my part. We were so excited to open up the box of new…..and very expensive sweaters, holding them up for the camera before trying them on, that it was too late to issue a warning about the fact……..well, they had been ordered from a minor hockey catalogue. Now at that time, the only lightweight on the whole team was goaltender Harry Ranger, who was about three feet tall standing on ten phone books. So his sweater fit. His was the only one. For about a half hour, the big lads of the Rink Rats fought a losing battle……and we hadn't even made it to the ice yet. We were so determined to make those sweaters fit, we just pulled those suckers down hard over the gear and the guts, and got stuck…..real bad, such that a few of us couldn't even drop our arms. I thought I was going to suffocate, tangled up in this tiny hockey jersey. If you can imagine the carnage of fat guys in small sweaters; it was all quite hilarious, and this was just the dressing-room scene. You should have seen us on the ice. Now that was funny. If we fell, we needed help to get up. Over the years, before we could afford new hockey sweaters, we had stretched the fabric pretty well, to use them for practice games at least.
So here was a special game. Brant had gone to work to arrange a benefit hockey game, in support of our Rink Rat team-mate, Harold Sher, also the coach of the Bracebridge Blades Precision Skating Team. He was able to secure the CKVR No-Stars, and the battle was touted as the supreme test between the durability of the print media, over the folks who have it easy in electronic news…..print versus television. We were tougher by far, and all you had to look at, was our snug fitting attire, to know just how aggressive we were. It took about fifteen minutes of grunting and twisting, and begging God for assistance, to get those sweaters on. Only the goaltender's sweater fit, and the rest of us looked really big and mean in those tight, short sweaters. True enough. Looks can be deceiving. Anyway, Brant thought it would be neat to invite Toronto Sun Columnist Paul Rimstead, back home to his native Bracebridge, to call the play by play from the arena gondola. Geez, we were stunned when he phoned back and agreed to the do the gig. So we went nuts on publicity. Brant wrote it up in his column, and I did the same in mine, which then was called "From the Bleachers." We both had lots of readers and with CKVR doing roughly the same type of promotion, it became clear, well before the actual game, that Harold Sher was going to get lots of money to help The Blades finance their travel requirements to competitions.
When I arrived at the rink early, there was Paul standing in the lobby with Miss Hinky, soon to be his wife, well known to readers of his daily Toronto Sun column. A lot of folks then didn't recognize Paul or Miss Hinky, and that was good, because they would have been mobbed by the huge crowd that had turned out. It would be one of the largest crowds ever at the Bracebridge Arena since its construction. We had know idea this was even possible. We found out later, hundreds had come out to see Paul Rimstead…..not the game.
So we ushered Paul down to our dressing room to meet with the Rink Rats, who at this time, were performing the pre-game ritual of trying to get into the damn sweaters, which was never easy or done in a timely fashion. I don't know what was going on in my mind, but I offered Paul my sweater to put on for a photograph, Brant wanted to take, for the next issue of The Herald-Gazette. I knew it was going to happen, because Paul had a similar gut as my own, but that was the finishing-dilemma. It got stuck going over his head, and it didn't get any better after that. i though we were going to have to call for the jaws of life, or a taylor with shears to cut him out of the Rink Rat blues, before he suffocated. It took three Rink Rats to help pull the sweater down, so Brant could take a photo of Paul, in a rat-faced sweater, while wearing a white stetson. It made a great photograph. But trying to get that sweater off wasn't without adventure either. Let's just say it was a team effort to free the man. He went on to call the play by play from the gondola, and enjoy the ovation he was afforded, for his accomplishments in………of course, the print media.
Knowing my affection for Paul Rimstead, and his brilliant writing career, Suzanne dropped her case against the sweater, tied up the bag, and we agreed never to re-visit this issue again. And I also hid it, far, far away, just in case she was crossing her fingers, while she made that promise.
Quite a while after Paul died, I got to know hockey writer, public speaker Ross Brewitt, who I'd written a story about for the local press, when he appeared at a local book shop to sign copies of his newest book, which I think was "Last Minute of Play." I actually helped him get his regular syndicated column published up here, and we worked on a couple of other projects, including a public speaking engagement with the Crozier Foundation, when he gave a roast for Roger, and his days playing net for the Detroit Red Wings, Buffalo Sabres and Washington Capitals. One day we were chatting, and I happened to mention that he really should talk to his friend Eddie Shack, about the possibility of finishing what Rimstead had begun many years earlier. Ed and Paul were great friends, and there is even a famous picture of Paul and Miss Hinky following their wedding at Niagara Falls, with Eddie Shack, in a "novelty" barrel (backdrop), appearing as if they are tumbling over the falls together. Brewitt was the one writer who I thought could capture Eddie as well as Rimstead, so when I heard later that the two had got together, and the project was a "go," geez, that made me feel real good. I was invited down to the book launch but I got snowed-in, at home here in Gravenhurst. I got signed copies of the books for sons Andrew and Robert.
I was just happy that Rimstead's promise to write Shack's biography came to some fruition after all. With the books, I'm giving the boys my Rink Rats sweaters. Andrew, the oldest, gets the new one that actually fits, and Robert, who shares my enthusiasm for Rimmer, will get the one he was trapped in…..for those nervous moments before facing the 1,700 fans, many who were there to congratulate the kid who made it to the big leagues……becoming one of Canada's best known and loved newspaper columnists. He lived hard and died young. And there were a million fans left to mourn his passing.
For about four years, I had my old Rink Rat Sweater hanging in our antique shop, on display-only, with a note attached, about the time Rimmer came home for a visit, called a benefit hockey game, and almost strangled in Ted Currie's hockey jersey. It's kind of a strange sports collectible but what the heck…..it's important to me. Suzanne kept trying to dust it off, subsequently knocking it to the floor, and then looking back at me as if I should apologize, for having hung it there in the first place. I should have kept the note attached when I brought the sweater back home. It might have been a deterrent to my partner, causing her to never, ever, touch that glorious hockey rat. I think she's jealous as well, of my cherished hockey certificate, framed above my desk, acknowledging my honorary status as a "Flying Father," as awarded to me, after another benefit game, by Father Les Costello. Which makes me "Holier than thou?" Just saying!!!!
So I must surely offer an apology to the Salvation Army. I will find an appropriate substitute hockey sweater to donate instead.
ANTIQUE GOALIE PADS THAT SHOULD HAVE STAYED RETIRED
IT WAS JUST LIKE MY OLD BASEBALL GLOVE, THAT I BOUGHT AT BAMFORD'S CORNER STORE, IN BRACEBRIDGE, ONE SUMMER DAY IN ABOUT 1967. IT COST ME ABOUT FIVE BUCKS, THE MONEY RAISED FROM MOWING THE LAWN FOR OUR APARTMENT LANDLORD, HILDA WEBER. SHE GAVE ME TWO BUCKS FOR EACH CUT, SO AFTER THREE MOWING JOBS, I HAD A BUCK LEFT OVER THAT I BLEW ON BLACK-BALLS AND JUJUBES. BUT THAT GLOVE. THAT GLORIOUS, WONDERFUL GLOVE THAT HAD PRACTICALLY NO PADDING IN THE PALM. BUT YOU KNOW, I PLAYED WITH THAT BEAT UP OLD HUNK OF LEATHER AND WEBBING, UNTIL THE MID 1970'S. BY THAT TIME I HAD SUCH A LAYERED CALLOUS, ON THE PALM OF MY HAND, THAT I COULD CATCH BARE-HANDED WITHOUT ANY SERIOUS PAIN. I RETIRED IT TO THE CURRIE SPORTS HALL OF FAME. THEN, LIKE MY FAVORITE FOOTBALL, I GAVE THEM TO MY BOYS, AND THEY DISAPPEARED SOMEWHERE IN THE YARD OF BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL AT RECESS.
WHEN I GRADUATED UNIVERSITY, AFTER PLAYING FOR A NUMBER OF TEAMS AT YORK, I CAME HOME TO BRACEBRIDGE POORER THAN THE LOCAL CHURCH-MOUSE. I PUT AN AD IN THE CLASSIFIEDS OF THE LOCAL PAPER, AND BY GOLLY, I FOUND A TAKER SHORTLY AFTER THE HERALD-GAZETTE HIT THE NEWS STAND. A FEW YEARS LATER, WHEN I STARTED PLAYING SENIOR HOCKEY, I CAME BACK AS A FORWARD BECAUSE I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE SHELLING OUT BIG BUCKS FOR NEW PADS. A GOALIE FRIEND, WHO WAS RETIRING, OFFERED TO GIVE ME HIS GOALIE PADS, THAT HAD BEEN GIVEN TO HIM SIMILARLY BY AN OLD GOALIE WHEN HE RETIRED. THEY WERE PROBABLY MORE THAN 50 YEARS OLD. THEY WEREN'T ALL THAT PROTECTIVE ANY MORE, AND I WAS STARTING TO FEEL THE SLAPSHOTS THROUGH THE PADDING, TO THE POINT I WAS GETTING BRUISED. BUT I FIGURED I DIDN'T HAVE LONG TO PLAY ANYWAY, SO WHY SPEND A LOT OF MONEY ON NEW EQUIPMENT WHEN THESE WILL GET ME THROUGH A FEW MORE YEARS.
AT ONE POINT, YOU KNOW, I DID RETIRE THEM. I FOUND AN OPEN SHELF IN MY OFFICE, AND MOUNTED THEM ON THE TOP, WITH A LITTLE NOTE……TED'S GOALIE PADS FROM THE GOLDEN ERA OF HOCKEY. ALL MY FRIENDS WHO VISITED HAD TO TRY THEM ON, AND PLAY SOME INDOOR HOCKEY WITH A GOLF BALL, OR WHATEVER WAS ROLLING ABOUT THE FLOOR.
I GOT A CALL ONE DAY, FROM A FELLOW ON A TEAM I USED TO PLAY ON, THAT THEIR GOALIE HAD INJURED HIS GROIN, AND WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO MAKE AN IMPORTANT GAME THAT EVENING IN BRACEBRIDGE. WHILE I WAS TALKING ON THE PHONE, I WAS ALSO POKING AT THE PADS ON THE SHELF, WONDERING IF THEY HAD ONE MORE GAME LEFT IN THEM. SEEMED GOOD AT THE TIME. I PROBABLY COULD HAVE PREDICTED DISASTER IF I'D BOTHERED TO LOOK MORE CLOSELY AT THE FAILING FABRIC ON THE SIDES. BUT I DIDN'T, AND IT WAS A FEW YEARS BEFORE I MARRIED THE MAJOR-GENERAL, WHO MOST CERTAINLY WOULD HAVE GONE OVER THE PADS WITH A FINE-TOOTH-COMB, BEFORE LETTING ME GO OUT TO PLAY.
SO I MADE IT ONTO THE ICE WITHOUT HURTING MYSELF, AND ACTUALLY HAD LET IN ONLY A COUPLE OF GOALS AT THE END OF TWO PERIODS OF PLAY. I THINK, IF MEMORY SERVES, WE WERE AHEAD AT THAT POINT BY ONE GOAL. THE THIRD PERIOD WAS PRETTY INTENSE, AS OUR SIDE SEEMED TO HAVE A PLAYER IN THE PENALTY BOX CONSTANTLY. TOWARD THE END OF THE PERIOD, WE WERE DOWN BY ONE GOAL. BUT IT WAS A GOOD GAME, AND OUR LADS WERE POUNDING THEIR NET. SOON HOWEVER, WE WOUND UP IN THE PENALTY BOX AGAIN, AND IT WAS THE BEGINNING OF THE END FOR ME…..WELL, MY PADS.
IT WAS LIKE A MARX BROTHERS SKIT…..A LITTLE BIT OF THE THREE STOOGES. A PASS WOULD GO BACK TO THE POINT, AND THE DEFENSEMAN WOULD TAKE A SHOT, SPRAWL OVER THE ICE; THEN OUR FORWARD, ON HIS ARSE, THEIR CENTER LOOKING TO SHOOT, DOWN, WITH OUR FORWARDS, UP AND DOWN. GEEZ, NO ONE COULD STAY ON THEIR FEET. IT WAS HILARIOUS. THE RIGHT WINGER WOULD SKATE UP ALONG THE BOARDS, GET READY TO PASS, AND FALL ON HIS FACE. THE GUY GETTING THE PUCK WAS DOWN. EVEN THE REFEREE HAD FALLEN ONCE, TWICE, ABOUT THREE TIMES, BEFORE A LINESMAN BLEW THE WHISTLE. THE GUYS WERE STILL LAYING ON THE ICE CURSING THE GUY THAT TRIPPED THEM.
SO THEN THE REFEREE CAME UP TO ME WITH A HANDFUL OF STRAW AND SAID, "HEY CURRIE, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" "WHAT DO YOU MEAN REF?" I ANSWERED, STILL LAUGHING ABOUT THE PLAYERS GETTING UP OFF THE ICE, ONLY TO FALL BACK DOWN. "IT'S STRAW," HE YELLED INTO MY MASK. "WHERE'S IT COMING FROM," I ASKED. "YOUR PADS……IT'S COMING OUT OF YOUR GOALIE PADS." BY GOLLY, THE MAN IN STRIPES WAS RIGHT. BOTH PADS HAD EXPLODED. THERE WAS STRAW AND WHAT LOOKED LIKE HORSE HAIR EVERYWHERE ON THE ICE. THERE DIDN'T SEEM TO BE A BIT OF CLEAR ICE IN MY END. PLAYERS COULDN'T EVEN GET OFF THE ICE WITHOUT GOING ARSE OVER TEA-KETTLE. "CURRIE YOU BASTARD…..I THINK I BROKE MY ASS," ONE GUY YELLED AT ME, MAKING THE TRADITIONAL KNIFE-CUT MOTION ACROSS HIS THROAT, TO LET ME KNOW I WAS A MARKED MAN. YOU KNOW WHAT. IT WAS A GOOD THING THE GUYS COULDN'T STAND UP LONG ENOUGH TO TAKE A SHOT, BECAUSE THERE WASN'T AN INCH OF PADDING LEFT AFTER THE FATEFUL EXPLOSION, OF MY RELIC GOAL PADS.
I SHOULD HAVE LEFT WELL ENOUGH ALONE. THE PADS SHOULD HAVE STAYED ON THAT SHELF, FOR INDOOR PLAY ONLY. THAT'S PROBABLY WHAT STRESSED THE FABRIC IN THE FIRST PLACE. SO I GUESS THE MORAL OF THE STORY, SOME ANTIQUES JUST CAN'T BE UN-RETIRED, FOR THE SAFETY OF ONE AND ALL.
THANKS FOR JOINING TODAY'S BLOG.
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