Opening Of The 30th Annual Lovable Losers Hockey Tournament, Bracebridge

The official puck drop to open the 30th annual Lovable Losers Hockey Tournament in Bracebridge.  The second picture from the top shows son Andrew wearing an original Rink Rat sweater from the 1980-81 season. Below are the longest connected and serving Rink Rats, left to right Ed Renton, Ed Kowalsky, Ted Currie and Gord Dawes. Due to a computer malfunction today I will have a follow up blog tomorrow. Andrew Currie photos

Note; My Own Youth Spent At Bracebridge Arena Inspired The Name Rink Rats When We Developed Our Senior Team. This is really the origins of the modern day Rink Rats

My Rink Rat Days at the Bracebridge Arena

My mother Merle used to tell friends that I spent more time at the arena than I did at home. Of course she was answering the question, "So where’s that son of yours?" From the winter of 1966, I was a full-fledged Rink Rat in Bracebridge. I had been a rookie Rink Rat at the Burlington Arena before that (my old hometown) and both rinks had many similarities.....the most important common-ice so to speak, was that the managers in charge of both had a kind heart for us kids having little else to do. We loved skating, we adored hockey, and we looked up to the senior leagues as if they were National Hockey Leaguers.

At both rinks, I’d show up for minor hockey, or public skating which was the best quarter investment a kid could make, and utilize every moment allotted..... and then I would sneak up into the bleachers for the afternoon hockey games. Most of us didn’t have the money to pay an admission to the games so the only choice we felt comfortable with....was, well hiding down below the seats until the paying patrons began to arrive. It worked pretty well in Burlington but the manager in Bracebridge was far more astute when it came to corralling wayward Rink Rats. It was as if he could read our minds because he knew exactly when and where to look if he needed help for any arena project. Geez, we thought we had hidden ourselves rather well.

Doug Smith was the arena manager when we arrived in Bracebridge. Doug was crusty but in a fatherly way. He would yell at you just as robustly as would your own pop, if you were doing something stupid or dangerous. At the time he was manager, the position was an all-or-nothing proposition, and one minute he’d be sharpening skates, the next taking tickets, serving up hot dogs from the snack bar, looking after some problem patrons, making sure the ice was properly cleaned, and dealing with backed-up toilets over-flowing. He had custodial staff but not really enough to keep up on all the inherent chores with running a big, big arena.

Doug knew instinctively that we were going to hide-out in the under-seat passage-ways that used to afford us a most amazing adventure, darting between dressing rooms and into the referee’s inner sanctum. Doug counted us on the way in and out, and he understood fully that those who hadn’t left at the end of minor hockey, or public skating, were in essence his available workforce. Back in those days the Rink Rats were recruited to clean off the ice in between periods and user groups, with long bladed snow shovels in preparation for the hand pushed water barrel on wheels; that used to spread a somewhat even coating of hot water on the ice surface. The rule.....we couldn’t leave any snow-clumps by sloppy shovel-work, that could be inadvertently watered by Bing with the barrel. He used to yell at us a lot to take another run with the shovel, if it looked like we cut corners. A frozen snow-ridge might have killed some unsuspecting forward on a breakaway, or have taken out a referee not expecting a frozen mound of snow to be under skate.

At intermissions, when we saw Fred "Bing" Crosby head down to the barrel on wheels, the Rink Rats dashed like mad to grab up one of the shovels to be part of the cleaning gang. I was lucky about every third dash because there were a lot of kids desirous of the honor to clean the ice.....especially at the intermission of an important, well-attended game. We thought the girls in our classes at school were watching us out there smoothing the ice. We were wrong of course but we didn’t find that out until years later. The girls were only interested in the players not the shovel brigade.

The reward for shoveling was a hot dog and the pop of choice at the snackbar. I was okay with that.....but it’s also known I would have done it without any more reward than being allowed to stay in that magnificent building a little longer. I could quite literally spend an entire day and part of the evening in that building without leaving for home. Saturdays during the winter were dedicated to arena occupation. I’d of course have to clear it with my parents but they always felt I was in good hands with an overseer like Doug Smith. Fred Crosby was also a tough guy to get around but he was still "Bing" and that meant dependable friend no matter what the circumstance. He could be yelling at you one moment to get down out of the rafters and flipping you fifty cents for some grub at the snackbar the next. Bing did not have the money to give away, and while I’m sure he was pleased to extend it as charity, he was not so well paid that it didn’t hurt his bottom line. Everybody it seemed hit-up Bing for phone money, a drink of pop, and when quite hungry, one of those wonderful arena franks.......that we topped up with an inch of ketchup and relish as vegetables of the day. The aura of the arena back then was inviting, exciting, and inspiring. We loved the whole aura of winter-time sport even as spectators.

As a young player, a goaltender to be specific, stepping out onto that ice pad, and hearing the small but noisy crowd react, was a dream come true. It was our own Maple Leaf Gardens, and whether we were playing or part of the audience, just being in that building put us into the heart of hockey history in Canada. I can still sit out there in an empty arena and sense the return of every one of those important Rink Rat moments. Heck I was so impressed with my own years haunting this place, that when a fellow newspaper reporter (The Herald-Gazette) and I formed a senior hockey team, we called it with some distinction The Rink Rats circa 1981. I understand the team is still going strong after all these years. I had to quit hockey because my body parts were failing and the rental hour was simply too late at night.....recovery in the morning didn’t occur until two days later. I was okay with retirement.

While Bing and Doug were just employees of the Bracebridge arena to some.....that’s only because they didn’t know just how far staff was expected to go, above and beyond, their job description, to run the site properly. They had no choice whatsoever, in adopting kids like us because frankly they couldn’t get rid of us that easily. Out one door and in the other. They just learned how to utilize our energies and we were just glad to be able to work out a deal, to allow us a place to stay, play and learn for a lot of wonderful years.

When I write about the human side of history in my hometown, these are the first two of many hundreds of names I recall quickly, as being unsung heroes, and the true architects, whether they knew it or not, of a good quality of living for so many of us. They gave us reasons to be protectors of local heritage, and in their company, we became the most fierce defenders of the Bracebridge Memorial Community Centre......and God help the vandal who defaced our home away from home. They made us proud of what we possessed as hometowners such that it would have been impossible for us to take anything for granted......and that’s why during the whole tenure of Doug Smith, I never once heard any youngster turn down his offer of temporary employment shoveling ice. It was an honor and a sign of mutual respect to be asked. I thank you Doug and Bing for so many fond memories.

THE SUMMER WHEN HOCKEY CLUBS FROM PASADENA, CAME TO BRACEBRIDGE FOR A VISIT - AND TO KICK OUR ASSES

CALIFORNIA AND THE HOCKEY PROGRAM WE UNDERESTIMATED

     On a hot summer day like this, what finer remedy for what seems so oppressive, than a look back at local hockey. Even if you don't like hockey, this has kind of a local, national moral attached. Just read between the lines.

     I was brought up on a diet of hockey. That made me just like the rest of my mates, back then, who had also been dragged off to the arena, to be exploited, I suppose you could say, for what talent on ice, we may have possessed. Even then, we had parents who were living vicariously through us, and it was their high hope, we would make it all the way to the National Hockey League. In Bracebridge, like Billy Carson, and Irvin "Ace" Bailey, of the early years of pro hockey, and Roger Crozier, of the contemporary hockey scene, with the Detroit Red Wings. Our parents told us, that if we played hard, and never gave up, we would be professional hockey players one day. Well sir, there were a lot of parents telling porkies back then, because an overwhelming majority left hockey after only a few seasons of play. They were looking for "naturals" like Bobby Orr, the amazing talent from Parry Sound, and most of us fell way short. But this was the standard by which we were being judged. In retrospect, I liked to play, but not the part about living up to unrealistic expectations.

     The best it ever got for me, was when the starting goalie was a no show, on a trip to Bramalea, one season in the early 1970's, to play one of their Bantam "A" teams. In house league play, I was often the only goalie in the game, which meant, if I got hurt, a forward or defenceman had to become a sudden netminder. When going to Bramalea, I was scared out of my wits, that I would get pummeled, and there would be no relief from the bench. As it turned out, we won the game, and Scott Hammond and I were selected as the top players of the game; and because of this, we were treated to an NHL game that night, between the Minnesota North Stars and Toronto. I felt like a star, but that was short-lived. Hockey gradually became a part-time job instead of a recreation, and there was just too much expectation that we had to achieve what our parents wanted. I was so scared of my father's criticism, that when he asked me the score of our away games, I'd lie to him about the number of goals I let in; hoping that the local press wouldn't run the scores in the sports section, that my dad might read. Now that's not the way to enjoy what is supposed to be recreation. That's why I was so surprised, when a local reporter, asked Roger Crozier, at a press conference we were holding, how he would like to be remembered; as either an allstar hockey player, or an accomplished corporate executive. This by the way, was during the launch of the Crozier Foundation, in 1996, of which I was the new public relations co-ordinator for Muskoka. Roger answered immediately, that he wanted to be remembered as "a successful bank executive." Many of the reporters found this hard to grasp, but it was true. The best part of a game, Roger told me in casual reflection, was when the buzzer went at the end of the third period. This from a man who was often sick to his stomach before games. Hockey for him had been a damn tough job. Period.

     I can remember playing squirt hockey in Burlington, which was I guess, like the "tykes" division of minor hockey today. I became a rink rat at a young age, and when I shouldn't have been out and about, especially alone, or with equally young chums, I was most likely to be found in hockey season, sitting up in the bleachers watching whatever was going on, down below. I wasn't given an option, as we gave our boys, as to whether they wished to play hockey, or spend their recreation money elsewhere. I was told that I would love playing hockey, and led by the hand to the registration table each fall, until I was in my mid-teens, and could attend sign-up without parental involvement. All I know, is that my family was hockey crazy, and when it wasn't the time for regular season play, they talked hockey instead. My mother was a Toronto supporter, and my father was a die-hard Montreal fan. I didn't have an option about playing, and I suppose I should be mad at my parents, for getting me involved in something that has added some physical misery for all these years. My hands have been beaten with sticks and pucks, and my knees are both wonky, and if I removed my beard, you'd see scars from slap-shots where the mask provided little coverage. But I did come to love the game, and yet, today, not having cable television, I confess that I didn't watch even one game all this year. My boys chose music and instruments, over hockey registration and equipment. It turned out far more expensive for us, in the long-run, but the rewards have been quadruple what I ever achieved, dedicating most of my time, trying to make it to the big leagues. Roger Crozier told me, that back in the late 1960's, I had been scouted as the goalie who had potential to make it into the junior ranks. I came close, let me tell you. But I just couldn't take the injuries any more. We've lost a lot of fine hockey players this way.

    This story, today, is not a condemnation of hockey, but a casual reflection on a particular circumstance of competition, with another country, that provided some early enlightenment to Canadian coaches, who thought, that if we could ice the best of the best,  we would never been overtaken at our national sport.

     I still have a patch we were given, at the time, Bracebridge Minor Hockey, played host to touring clubs from Pasadena, California. If memory serves, and it doesn't always these days, the four team exhibition match, occurred at the time we had a hired head coach, for minor hockey, by the name of Bucko MacDonald; reportedly one of the best hip-checkers ever to play in the National Hockey League. I'll explain just how good, later in today's blog. By the way, the story is told, that it was Bucko, when he was coaching up in Parry Sound, who convinced the Orr family, and Bobby, to become a defenseman instead of a forward. So Bucko, from Sundridge, changed sports history, if this story is true. The point of bringing up Bucko's name, is that he brought a huge new prominence to Bracebridge hockey, and did increase the quality of play, with the all star teams at that point. I'm not sure what went on behind the scenes, as far as organization went, for us to play the lads from Pasadena, while they were on tour in Canada, but our lads were looking to spoil their Canadian holiday.

     As a typical hockey-playing Canadian kid, it was entrenched in our minds, that we were born to excel in hockey. Somehow I felt as a lesser citizen, when we came off an unexpected loss instead of a win. Both my parents were hockey nuts, and the parents who were in the class of "screamers," and "complainers," no one wants to sit beside in the bleachers. How bad were they? Well, I can remember in one minor hockey playoff game, I was really getting annoyed by the fans behind, who were calling me, the netminder, "sieve!" It's the number one insult to call out to a goaltender. When I finally had to look, to see who was yelling this out, every time I let a goal in, there were only two people behind me, and that was mom and pop. Jesus, they were calling their own son a "sieve." I eventually had to ask my parents not to attend my games, or I warned, I was going to quit entirely. They seemed aghast that I wouldn't want their support, but their idea of support and mine, were quite opposite. So when our team was scheduled to play Pasadena, and they asked permission to attend, I ordered them to sit way up in the bleachers, at the west end of the arena. Yup, big mistake. I could hear them as an echo, making it twice to three times as irritating, as their voices rattled around the iron girders above. They were also prohibited from calling me names. They actually kept their verbal critiques low-key for most of the game. But it was noticeable, when they started yelling at the starting goaltender on our team, Tim Morrison, calling him a sieve instead. They kind of forgot the protocol of cheering for the home side. They wanted the coach to pull Tim after the first eight goals, in favor of their son.

    First of all, we were told over and over, that because we were hardy Canadian lads, brought up on the frozen ponds of the frontier, we couldn't be beaten by kids from the southwest United States. It was a time in history, in the late 1960's, when there was no way, any Americans could play our national sport, with any proficiency; and when we were told, that the teams from Pasadena were very well trained, and good all round hockey players, we laughed it off, as nothing more than an attempt by our coaches, so we would take the exhibition games seriously. They knew the truth. These California kids were outstanding athletes, first of all, and from families who could afford extra coaching, and lots of ice time in the sunny south. To us, we just couldn't see this as being an issue, and so, the hubris kicked in, and we wondered instead, if there would be any "mercy" rule imposed. This meant, that once a score hit an eight to ten goal lead, the winning team would let-up, and it would just turn into a game of shinny instead. There was no need to humiliate these nicely tanned lads, who were probably surfers in the Beach Boys model of the good life, with sun, sand and music. The only ice these lads were familiar with, were the ice chunks in the sodas. This by the way, was our fundamental oversight, and as far as the mercy rule, by golly, we were the ones begging for the terrible drubbing to cease.

     When we got to the rink, we immediately, as Canadian lads did back then, began calling "hat-tricks," and "shut-outs," just like Babe Ruth would point to a place in the bleachers, where he was going to deposit the very next home run. We were so confident in ourselves, that we only gave a half effort at the pre-game warm-up. I don't even think I got a chance to have some shots against me, seeing as I was the back-up, and might not see any action at all. Then it happened. The Pasadena club, we were going to play, hit the ice for their pre-game warm-up. (There were four teams, I believe, who played in that Sunday exhibition series) We just stood there, in awe, and benefitted in a way, from the cool and refreshing breeze, their skating in a circle, in the end zone, created in the warm arena climate. There was a bit of mist in the air, and they despatched it to the rafters. They looked as if their uniforms were tailored, whereas ours were torn, sewn-up by our mothers, with blood stains on the sleeves. But honestly, it was their incredible skating prowess that amazed us the most. We had seen nice uniforms before, but not the whole hockey package. They were flying around their end-zone like we'd never seen before, except in the N.H.L. When they set themselves to warm-up the goalie, they did so with precision with great organization, such that the back-up goalie was getting some action on the side-boards, with several players taking close-in wrist shots. Compared to them, we were one up from road hockey players, or at most, a pick-up bunch for some afternoon shinny.

     Tim Morrison got the call, as usual, to start in net, and of this, I was very appreciative. I had a feeling that our cocky approach to the capabilities of our southern friends, was going to teach some lessons, and I was happy to get my lesson while at the end of the pine bench. When the game got underway, gosh, the Pasadena players figured we must be holding back, because our forwards couldn't connect on a pass, or stick handled more than a few strides, without losing the puck. They played the first five minutes, anticipating that we were trying to suck them in, to a sort of false sense of security. So they just ragged the puck, and passed it from side to side, and finally, when it appeared the charade was over, they started rushing the net with beautiful stick handling and passing, and sliding them past Tim, as if they were simply and accurately threading a needle. Now to Tim's credit, he made some big saves, but probably in the first half of the game, he would have faced fifty shots. That was a lot for any minor hockey team, and I think it was at the eight to nothing point, that the coach gave me the nod; which means I had to jump over the boards, and face the horrors of incoming shooters without much in the way of defense. One of my favorite defensemen, came back to welcome me into the game, saying, "Well Teddy, we're in deep crap now. It's all up to you!" Paul never took the game too seriously and as long as he was on the ice, he'd come back after a goal, to protect me from my team-mates, who wanted to eject me from the game themselves.

     It was frightening, and unrelenting, as one rush after another, cruised without even a tender ruffling, through our defensemen, and each shot on net was both accurate, and hard enough to take the glove right off my hand. We couldn't clear the puck, and even when we did, there would be an icing call, and the face-off would be to my right or left, and typically, the centre would get it back to the point, and there would be this wicked shot to my right or left. I had sticks in my face, of forwards looking to make deflections, but no dirty plays, like jabbing me in the crotch, or trying to trip me in the crease. They played clean and we didn't. So imagine then how hard it was to play this precision squad, with men in the penalty box. We were getting clobbered playing five a side. Now, I'm not writing this to highlight my stellar play between the pipes, but holy mackeral, did I ever get the job done. For me, the best time to go into the nets, was when the score was lopsided. There was a lot less pressure, and as a rule, I always played better. Now the score of the game, finished at 11-0, and I'm pretty sure they imposed their own mercy rule. I think they could have scored more on me, if they had played as hard as they might have, if the score had been closer. So I caught a break, and only let in four goals over a period and a half. The fact that we lost by eleven goals, at our own national sport, didn't enter into it, until much later that week, while we were licking our wounds, and wondering how we would ever get over the humiliation of being beaten by Americans; and ones from California. By the way, all our teams lost on that day. Some teams played better than others, but we all lost by considerable margins.

     The American teams were gentlemanly, good sports, beginning to end, and refrained from taking penalties. They didn't smash us around, and for all intents and purposes, they played closer to International Rules, as they were then, without the heavy body checking. They played with finness and it meant an exciting game for the spectators to watch. The fact it was lopsided, was one thing, but it was quite another, to have to admit, like my parents had to, that day, Californians had an exceptional hockey program, much better funded and operated than our own. This is what hurt the most I think. We had good coaches, but California had the whole physical fitness program, on side, which was becoming part of the hockey program, even for the teams of the National Hockey League. I remember a story about Bracebridge born hockey star, Roger Crozier, being overwhelmed, in the early 1970's, when he played for the Buffalo Sabres, when new head coach, Floyd Smith, insisted on a higher level of physical fitness for his players, commencing a new exercise protocol during training camp. Roger was used to stopping pucks, and the sit-ups he did, were after making key saves against NHL sharpshooters. To be told he would have to doing running and gymnasium exercises, like sit-ups, made life in sport a lot less comfortable. A lot of the old NHL'ers would have felt somewhat the same, suggesting they were hired to play hockey to the best of their abilities, not become body-builders. So the Pasadena experience, showed us NHL loving youth, that there was a new order coming, and we should prepare for what it would mean, to become a true allstar performer.

     I do think the Pasadena exhibition series taught us a lesson, about the upper limits of play, we could expect from training and commitment. We were playing hockey because we loved the game, and even at our practices, we still preferred to play shinny instead of skating drills that made the game boring and a lot less enticing. After our friendly drubbing, our coaches became a little bit more demanding on us, and our practices were a lot more intense. I can't say that it marked the point where my interest in hockey decreased, but there seemed to be a lot more pressure on us, to win back our reputation. The word got around, that we had lost big-time to the American squads, and if you had been at the games, you would have understood why it happened. Unfortunately, our critics weren't at the game, and so the only thing they knew, was that we had been beaten by teams from the beaches of California. Of course, we were to be taught a lot more about hockey, as NHL expansion had moved into Oakland and Los Angeles. Of course, what was factored in then, in our defence, was that most of the players on these teams were Canadian. Like Wayne Rutledge, of Barrie and Gravenhurst, who was the starting goalie, that first year of expansion, for the Los Angeles Kings, with Terry Sawchuck as back-up. But we've also learned since, that the United States, and a lot of countries around the world, are producing exceptional hockey players, male and female. I don't think that our brief Pasadena experience changed hockey attitudes, except in Bracebridge itself. We were cocky, and suddenly we were humbled.

     Now as promised, here is a little anecdote about Bucko MacDonald. For the Toronto Maple Leafs, back in the war-time, and post war era, Bucko was one of the most exciting defenceman in the six team National Hockey League. His fame was, of all things, his ass. I didn't know much about his hockey prowess, other than what he did for us as a senior coach. And he was most definitely senior by the time he was coaching Bracebridge Minor Hockey. I wasn't really fond of him, in the way my team-mates were, because he made me "ride the pine," way more than I thought was fair play. I often didn't get to play a single minute of a game, when I played in the all-star division. If I complained, he would tell me I was lucky to get this opportunity, to elevate from the roll of house league players. I actually played on two teams, but I got more ice time in the house league. Obviously, though, it was the best case scenario to be invited to play on an all star team. I got double the practice time. But I don't think Bucko liked to be questioned in this regard, and I'm not saying he had it in for me, but on one occasion in particular, it did cross my mind that I had pissed him off generally; and he was going to remind me of my place on the team. Back bencher!

     He was running drills down the ice, where players had to stick handle from the end of the rink, to the red line, where Bucko was waiting, to knock the puck off your stick. We went through about twenty players, when he yelled out, that he wanted Tim Morrison and I to do the same thing, and try to stick handle past him on the fly. We both looked at each other, wondering why we had to do this drill, as stick handlers, but what Bucko wanted, he usually got. Bucko poke-checked the puck of Tim's stick without much fuss, and when it came to me, I thought it would be neat if I could be the one player on the team, who was able to fool the old fart with a clever deke. So I gave it everything I had, to whip down that ice, with goalie pads, mask, gloves and stick pushing ahead the puck. I was planning to deke him to the right, and I had a good speed built-up by time he started skating backwards, from our red line meeting. By time we reached the blueline, I was ready to execute a brilliantly evasive shift, with the puck going through his skates to meet me on the other side. And then it happened.

     I had no provenance on the man, other than I knew he once played in the NHL. I knew what a hip check was, but I had never administered one, and had, in fact, never received one either. As I was preparing to go around Bucko, he all of a sudden, with considerable momentum backwards, bent forward, tucked, and shot his ass right across my path, hitting deeply into my rib cage, while flipping me into a cartwheel over top of him. Bucko was a big man, with big arms, and massive legs, and his behind was big and bad. I actually watched the whole spectacular ride, with eyes wide open, and the roof of the arena and the ice changing positions during my summersault through the air. Keep in mind, that I was also wearing about seventy pounds of wet goalie pads. Thank God I was wearing a mask and helmet, because when I finally hit the ice, my head connected hard, and nearly knocked me out. I was winded that's for sure. And I saw stars that I'd never seen before. Bucko stood above me, and yelled back to my team-mates, asking if any one else wanted to take a second run down the ice. He certainly didn't fear for my health in any way, and it did take me a few minutes to regain my hockey wits. This stuff is supposed to happen in hockey, right? Well, this is how I grew up in the game, and you didn't cry when you got hurt, because it was a sign of weakness. I wouldn't have let Bucko see me cry anyway, because of the way I felt. I actually told him this to his face, one season, as I quit the allstar team; because he refused to give me any time during games. I got tired of being a practice goalie, and one he could hip check as a demonstration, of how to knock an opponent to the ice in one smooth, nasty shift of the big old arse. In the NHL he could do what he wanted. But not in minor hockey. It's the first time, I ever wanted to two hand anyone. It would have meant my suspension from hockey forever, because Bucko was like a god to coaches and parents.

     I gave up competitive play, when I tried out for junior one year, and found out, by chit-chat with other players, that the coach had given his sharpshooters, the mission of testing me, to see if I was puck shy. Being puck shy meant that, when an incoming player, wound up to unleash a wrist or slapshot, the goalie would raise his head in a defensive way, signaling a fear of imminent injury. But it kind of comes with the territory, because earlier that year, I had taken a slap-shot in the throat, during a game of shinny, that nearly killed me. So yes, I was a tad puck-shy.

    So after getting some pucks in the face, and mostly the groin, and being injured on just about every shot taken, that particular practice, I went to the boards, took my mask off, found a dint had been made in my heavy-duty jock, and decided at that moment, that life was too short to endure this kind of physical abuse. The coach came over to the boards, and yelled an insult at me for leaving the net. He asked why I was leaning over the boards, and didn't seem to be at all interested in my injuries. "Are you puck shy Currie," he asked, and it sure sounded then, that he had made me a project; and had been testing my tolerance for hard shots to the most vulnerable places. I answered that I was now, most definitely puck shy. I didn't wait for his overview of this admission. I just limped my way to the dressing room, and ended my minor hockey experience with the contenting resolve, that I was indeed, "a lover, not a fighter." Outside of playing at university and in recreational leagues for years after, I never again accepted that being pummeled into submission, was going to make me a good hockey player.

    In many ways, I did learn from that Pasadena experience, that you could be good at hockey, and win regularly, without the necessity of beating the crap out of each other. They played brilliantly without any requirement of being rough, or dirty in their play. I liked that. I respect that!