Father Bernard Heffernan Never Missed The Opportunity To Use Sport To His Spirited Advantage

A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO FATHER BERNARD HEFFERNAN

What Father taught me about hometown values - it only hurt a bit
I didn’t have a clue what a "hometown" was until after our family moved to Bracebridge, Ontario, in the spring of 1966. On that first morning, full of fear and trembling, amidst gangly strangers and glaring eyes everywhere, my new teacher at Bracebridge Public School, asked me to stand up and tell her, and my fellow classmates, from what hometown I had haled. In a sputtering, tongue-tied half panic-stricken, dry throated response, I honked out something like.... "I don’t know what the hometown was called but I used to live in Burlington,... Mam," then looking quickly all around before sitting down again, to see who was laughing or angry. No one laughed. Not the teacher. Not a peep from the classroom. No visible anger anywhere They just looked at me, the teacher, and back at me as if waiting for some profound reaction. Maybe I had sounded sarcastic. "Great, the new kid’s a smart ass," I surmised they were thinking.
"You mean Burlington was your hometown, Teddy," she asked, looking down at a piece of lined paper sitting askew on the corner of her desk, which I’m pretty sure was my unflattering biography up to Grade Five. I nodded to Miss McCracken that Burlington had indeed been my home but I was pretty confident it was a city.....so I wasn’t really sure a city could ever be a hometown. "Well," she said with a wink and smile, "I’m sure a city-boy is going to like his new hometown,..... won’t he class?"
Well, for a few moments at least, I felt,... quite at home. Until I got beat-up at lunch by both the girls and the guys, the ones who had smiled at me earlier. I was told the shellacking was a pretty ordinary, nothing special initiation to the "home" school. When I didn’t cry or make any attempt to run away from my adversaries, even after a whole week of fun-for-them initiation, I must admit the "home-town" thing was a little disconcerting. Was this the way hometown life was going to be.....forever? By comparison, Burlington had been a less "giving" hometown because I never once found it necessary to wrestle for acceptance before and after class.
On that second Monday of my new hometown adjustment period, the recess began just about the same as all the others. Only moments in the schoolyard, I was back on the bottom of a nasty little dust-up, and between hooks, jabs and hoofs to the nether region, all of a sudden, as if heaven-sent, there was an aggressive parting of the mob.....a hand clenching my shoulder, pulling me up out of the tumbling humanity of half bullies-half buddies. "Hey guys, let’s play some football," said the tall handsome stranger in the bulky knit sweater, who had spared me another round of "hey, let’s make Teddy feel welcome!"
From the quagmire of feet and fists, this chap they all called "Father," had already picked sides by the time I had brushed the imbedded schoolyard stones from my arms and knees. "Come on son....you’re going to play on this side," he yelled at me over the din on the grid-iron. "One hand touch okay," he asked us, while clearing a little patch in the stones with his shoe, to set the football down for the opening kick-off. "Okay Father......we’re ready," the other team yelled out to the trim and athletic father of some kid. Or at least that’s what I presumed of the guy they called "Father."
Well, he could run like the wind, do pirouettes around us all, leap to make impossible catches, and hand-off to us running backs while making two or three bootlegs to confuse the attackers. If he told you to button-hook at twelve yards, he wasn’t off the mark by an inch. When he flipped out a lateral to an innocent bystander, he knew the receiver would learn by immersion that one hand touch was the protocol not the reality. It was tackle. A big one. But valuable experience
about the significance of Father choosing you to be the lead man on a huge march up field.
Every recess and lunch this nimble sportsman showed up to run another game. Even if you weren’t interested in playing, Father wouldn’t take no for an answer, and pretty soon there was a football in your rib cage and a dozen drooling opponents ready to drive your face into the gravel. You had little to no chance of survival unless your knees hit your chest in a pumping zig-zag down-field to the goal-line.
I can remember a large fight breaking out one day on the sidelines, between several of the more aggressive inmates I had learned to stay away from, and in a ballet of leaps and bounds, Father had jumped in between and wrestled the combatants apart. He had a powerful influence on the young and vigorous because by the very next down, the same still-growling gents were playing on the same team, and very much contributing to the pass and pass and pass offence he employed to keep the came exciting. He had a curious way of bringing the pacifists, the boastful, aggressors, thugs and bashful into a fun game of Canadian football suited to the school yard.
On my own first run against Father, I had a huge head start off a nice twenty yard pass from the quarterback, and the goal-line was a modest footfall away. And then I heard the train coming behind. Feet pounding that rocky turf like a racing locomotive over the ribbon rails. I made the near fatal mistake of looking back.....glancing to see what on earth was coming behind....and it was Father, awfully determined the rookie running back wasn’t going to score. Out of amazement at the unfurling rage of humanity coming behind, I lost my grip on the ball, tried to recover at the expense of knowing where my feet were headed, and the grand arse over tea-kettle spill had commenced. What I didn’t see through the dust and stones flying up, was the Cadillac bumper bullets of the parked car immediately in my future. Somehow Father had grabbed the back of my shirt just as I lost my footing, and I’m telling you honestly, by the grace of God, he stopped my head from hitting the metal. We wound up in a twisted ball of football good humor with my head still stuck awkwardly on my neck. Father also had to pick a few stones out of his elbows and knees but two lives were spared a head-on crash with a Caddy..
Miss McCracken had seen the whole ugly tumble. On the way into the school after that recess, she took me aside, dusted off my shoulders, patted down my hair and said, "so, how do you like your new hometown?" "Ah, it’s okay, I guess, Miss McCracken," I answered. "Don’t be afraid to toss the ball to one of your team-mates," she said about my down-field run. "It’s what he wants you to do." Undoubtedly with a bewildered second glance at my teacher, while passing into the school, she added, "Father Heffernan wants you to play as a team.....remember that the next time." "Father Heffernan?" I asked. I looked at one of my team-mates, who added, "Pretty fast for a Priest aint he?"
What Miss McCracken meant was that Father wasn’t interested in the heroics of the downfield romp but rather the unselfish passing back and forth between team-mates to make the touchdown. Just as he wanted to occupy bored kids with sport, he wanted us to appreciate each others strengths and capabilities. It worked. The guys who had been beating me up ten minutes earlier were now passing and then blocking for me on the grid iron.
There was a moral to the story of my introduction to this new hometown. I had met our own Father O’Malley.....he was a dear man by the name of Father Bernard Heffernan, of St. Joseph’s Church next door. He had been coming over for recess and lunch games for years, and he had very much instilled a prosperous sense of goodwill each time he arrived.
One morning about fifteen years later, I was playing shinny at the Bracebridge arena, and on a down-ice rush I could hear what sounded like a train coming behind, the blades hitting the ice like two axe blades strapped to my opponent’s feet. I got just past the opposition blue-line when, against Don Cherry’s sage advice, I looked back......it wasn’t just a train. In a hook right out of Peter Pan, a gnash of teeth, and a chin on my shoulder, we were both icing our way like a curling rock into the boards. I pulled up onto my knees and started to scream at this jerk who tripped me up.....and well, it came down to this.... "Good morning Father......I thought that was you! Nice to have you back in town.....staying long?" "What gave me away Mr. Currie?" he quipped. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe the crashing to the ice thing," I retorted, wiping the ice out of my eyes. "You should have passed the puck.....your winger was all alone in front of the net," he advised with a wee Irish grin. Talk about the Flying Father. He was a much a hometown icon as anything I ever experienced growing up in Bracebridge....the town straddling the 45th parallel of latitude.

I thought back to when I believed he was someone’s kindly father who just happened to have some free time. Well, he was everybody’s Father, and we loved him.

FATHER HEFFERNAN TAUGHT US A THING OR TWO ABOUT GOODWILL AND COMMUNITY - ON THE GRID IRON - THE RINK AND THE PLAYGROUND

THE CALL ON CHRISTMAS EVE

     THIS IS A TRUE STORY. A NICE SEASONAL FOLK TALE, THAT I MAY BE ACCUSED OF EMBELLISHING FOR THE SAKE OF AN AUDIENCE. THIS IS FAR FROM THE TRUTH. BUT IT IS, WITHOUT QUESTION, FOLKISH IN ITS RE-TELLING, AND OF THIS I OFFER NO APOLOGY.

     I HOPE HE DOESN'T MIND THE REFERENCE. FORGIVE ME FATHER. I'VE BEEN BORROWING THE NAMES OF HOLLYWOOD CHARACTERS, FOR YEARS AND YEARS, TO COMPARE LOCAL NOTABLES, TO THOSE WELL KNOWN ACTORS OF THE SILVER SCREEN. I HAVE BEEN HOPELESSLY BUT WILLINGLY CAPTIVATED BY OLD MOVIES AND TELEVISION, SINCE I WAS A CHILD. IT'S AN HONOR, AT LEAST IN MY MIND, WHEN I OFFER THESE COMPARISONS AND PARALLELS, IT'S ALWAYS WITH KIND INTENT. YOU HAVE TO BE CAREFUL COMPARING FICTIONAL CHARACTERS WITH THOSE OF FLESH, BONE AND SPIRIT.

     SINCE I WAS SNOTTY-NOSED STREET URCHIN, WITH THE KNEES TORN OUT OF MY PANTS, FROM ROUGH PLAY IN THE SCHOOL YARD, AND ALWAYS BLEEDING ELBOWS FROM FRICTION AGAINST LIMESTONE AND PAVEMENT, I EVEN COMPARED MYSELF TO MOVIE-LAND CHARACTERS. I WAS AS TOUGH AS ALAN LADD, WHO STARRED IN THE MOVIE "SHANE," AND AS RUGGED, YET KIND, AS HOSS CARTWRIGHT, OF THE TELEVISION SHOW, "BONANZA," PLAYED BY ACTOR DAN BLOCKER. IF I HAD OWNED A STETSON, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN A WHITE ONE, LIKE ALL THE GOOD COWBOYS WORE. FROM AN EARLY AGE, I HAD A GOOD, WORKING IDEA, WHAT A HERO LOOKED AND ACTED LIKE, VERSUS SOMEONE WHO WANTED TO BURY ME IN A SNOW BANK ON A LARK.

     AS FOR FATHER BERNARD HEFFERNAN, AND I TOLD HIM SO ONE CHRISTMAS EVE, I ALWAYS THOUGHT OF HIM AS OUR OWN "FATHER O'MALLEY," PLAYED BY BING CROSBY, IN THE ICONIC MOVIES, "BELLS OF ST. MARYS," AND "GOING MY WAY." I MET HIM ON THE GRID-IRON OF BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, IN MY FIRST YEAR AFTER ARRIVING HERE, FROM BURLINGTON, ONTARIO. HE KNOCKED ME DOWN ON A NUMBER OF OCCASIONS, EXPLAINING AT LEAST ONE RIPPED KNEE IN MY NEW PANTS, AND ANOTHER ELBOW BURN. HE PLAYED COMPETITIVELY, AND ROUGHLY, ESPECIALLY ON THE HOCKEY RINK, BUT HE WAS THE FIRST ONE TO REACH UNDER YOUR ARMS, TO PULL YOU UPRIGHT, AND BRUSH OFF THE STONES AND DIRT, OR THE ICE CHIPS, IF WE WERE PLAYING HOCKEY. HERE'S HOW I MET FATHER HEFFERNAN, AND WHAT HE CAME TO MEAN TO ME, SINCE I WAS HASTILY INTRODUCED TO HIM, ONE SCHOOL-DAY, DURING THE HEAT OF BATTLE, BACK IN ABOUT 1966 OR SO.

     FIRST OF ALL, AS I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT NUMEROUS TIMES, IN MY NEWSPAPER COLUMNS, DATING BACK TO THE EARLY 1980'S, I CAME TO BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, WITH "CITY KID" ARROGANCE WRITTEN ALL OVER ME. FOR THOSE FIRST FEW YEARS, I HAD A TOUGH TIME PROVING TO CLASSMATES THAT I WAS THRILLED TO BE A "TOWN" KID. I STILL CAME OFF AS ARROGANT, I SUPPOSE, BUT IF THAT WAS THE CASE, IT WAS NOT INTENTIONAL. I REALLY DID LIKE MY KNEW SCHOOL AND HOME TOWN. I JUST DIDN'T EXPECT THE SCHOOL OF HARD-KNOCKS WAS GOING TO LAST SO LONG, AND HURT SO MUCH. MY FIRST ENCOUNTER, WAS WHEN ONE OF THE MOST PROMINENT OF STUDENTS, DECIDED ONE LUNCH-HOUR, TO IMPRESS THE LADIES, BY KNOCKING-DOWN THE NEW KID. WHEN HE CALLED ME OVER TO TALK TO HIM, I THOUGHT OF IT AS A BREAKTHROUGH IN RELATIONS. AS SOON AS I GOT CLOSE, HE THREW ALL HIS WEIGHT INTO ME, WITH A POWERFUL LUNGE, AND I FELL AWKWARDLY, HURTING MY LEG AND WRIST ON THE PAVED SURFACE OF THE YARD. OF COURSE THE GIRLS LAUGHED AT MY UNFORTUNATE SITUATION, WHICH ADDED TO THE ANXIETY OF THE MOMENT. EVERY TIME I WENT TO GET UP, THE BIG GOOF WOULD KNOCK ME BACK DOWN. I LEARNED THAT AT A SMALL TOWN SCHOOL, TEACHER SUPERVISION WAS AT A MINIMUM ALL THE TIME. BY ABOUT THE FOURTH TIME, OF GETTING ROUGHLY TUMBLED BACK TO THE GROUND, SOMETHING WONDERFUL HAPPENED.

     OUT OF NOWHERE, FLEW A MORE SUBSTANTIAL YOUTH, WHO STOOD BETWEEN ME AND MY TORMENTOR. THE BULLY TRIED PUSHING HIM OUT OF THE WAY, TO GET BACK TO THE BUSINESS AT HAND; BUT THE CHAP REMAINED ANCHORED TO THE SPOT, EVENTUALLY PUSHING BACK HARD ENOUGH, THAT THE INCIDENT ENDED AS STRANGELY AS IT HAD BEGUN. MY PROTECTOR, THAT DAY, WAS A FINE FELLOW NAMED PAUL DUFF, WHO AS IT TURNED OUT, WAS ALSO MY DEFENCEMAN IN YEARS OF MINOR HOCKEY PLAY.....AND ALWAYS THE ONE WHO WOULD COME AND HIT MY PADS AFTER A SAVE OR GOAL, TO GIVE ME CREDIT WHETHER DESERVED, OR JUST AS AN ACT OF KINDNESS.

     ON THE SAME AFTERNOON, THAT I MET A BULLY, AND A LIFE-LONG FRIEND AT THE SAME TIME, WE WERE ALL BECKONED TO THE PLAYING FIELD, WHICH WAS ACTUALLY COVERED IN LIMESTONE, BY ONE OF THE STUDENT'S FATHERS. FOR MOST OF THAT FIRST YEAR, THIS IS WHAT I ASSUMED, WHEN THE LADS YELLED OUT, "COME ON EVERYBODY, FATHER IS READY TO PLAY FOOTBALL." I JUST DIDN'T KNOW WHOSE FATHER HE WAS. ONE DAY HE CAME OVER WITH HIS COLLAR VISIBLE, AND I FINALLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT "FATHER" MEANT. HE WAS CONNECTED TO ST. JOSEPH'S CATHOLIC CHURCH NEXT TO THE SCHOOL. THAT'S WHEN I STARTED THINKING OF HIM AS FATHER O'MALLEY FROM THE MOVIES. MY MOTHER LOVED BOTH THOSE MOVIES, AND SHE USED TO REFERENCE BING CROSBY AS FATHER O'MALLEY, TO COVER A THOUSAND DIFFERENT MORAL ISSUES, SHE FELT NEEDED TO BE ATTACHED TO MY PYSCHE. AS SHE NEVER FORCED ME TO ATTEND CHURCH, WHICH WAS LIBERAL OF HER, AND SOMEWHAT CONTRADICTORY FROM HER OWN BELIEFS AND UPBRINGING, SHE LIKED TO DRAW FROM THE MOVIES WHEN IT CAME TO THE "HIGH ROAD," OF OPINION. THE ONLY HERO BIGGER, IN HER MIND, THAN FATHER O'MALLEY, WAS ALAN LADD'S PORTRAYAL OF "SHANE," WHICH ALSO DEEPLY IMPRINTED ON MY APPRECIATION OF GOOD GUYS AND BAD. FATHER HEFFERNAN WAS A GOOD GUY. AND HERE'S WHY!

     SEVERAL YEARS AGO, I WAS AWARDED A SPECIAL VOLUNTEER AWARD, BY THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, FOR MY WORK WITH THE CROZIER FOUNDATION, AND THE SPORTS HALL OF FAME EXHIBIT AT THE ARENA. SUZANNE ATTENDED WITH ME, AND THE AUDITORIUM HAD A LARGE ATTENDANCE THAT EVENING. I'M NOT GREAT UNDER THESE CIRCUMSTANCES, AND I'VE BEEN KNOWN TO FREEZE AT THE MICROPHONE, EVEN OFFERING A SIMPLE "THANK YOU." EVERY AWARD RECIPIENT WHO GOT ON STAGE TO ACCEPT THEIR PLAQUE, GAVE A SHORT ACCEPTANCE SPEECH. I HADN'T EXPECTED TO GIVE ANYTHING MORE THAN A MODEST GRIN, A NOD, AND A HANDSHAKE TO THE PRESENTER. SO I STARTED TO PANIC. I ASKED SUZANNE FOR A PEN AND PAPER, SO THAT I COULD AT LEAST JOT DOWN A FEW NOTES, SO THAT I COULD OFFER A PARAGRAPH OR TWO TO ACCOMPANY THE WORD "THANK YOU." SHE FOUND A BIT OF PACKAGING, AND A DULL PENCIL, BUT I WAS ABLE TO JOT DOWN ENOUGH TO CALL IT A BRIEF ACCEPTANCE SPEECH. THEN I WAS CALLED TO THE STAGE, AND MY PREPARATIONS WERE JAMMED INTO MY POCKET WITH A SWEATY PALM, AND NEVER RETRIEVED THAT NIGHT. I DECIDED TO "WING-IT," EVEN THOUGH SUZANNE WARNED ME AGAINST DOING IT, BECAUSE OF PAST DEBACLES OF STAGE-FRIGHT. I HAD A SECRET WEAPON THAT NIGHT, AND YES, IT WAS THE LOCALIZED STORY OF FATHER HEFFERNAN.....AN UNSUNG HERO OF MY PAST.

     I ACCEPTED THE PLAQUE, SHOOK THE TOWN OFFICIAL'S HAND, AND TURNED AND WALKED TOWARD THE MICROPHONE. I LOOKED OUT AT ALL THE EYES STARING AT MY HAIRY FACE, AND I THOUGHT BACK TO THE DAY I MET "FATHER" AT BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL. I REMEMBERED HIS POWERFUL AURA, AS HE STOOD AT CENTRE FIELD, YELLING FOR ALL THE STUDENTS TO COME AND PLAY A GAME OF FOOTBALL. YES, BACK THEN, IT WAS MALE DOMINATED BUT FATHER WOULD NEVER HAVE TURNED DOWN A FEMALE COMPETITOR, HAD ANY WISHED TO PLAY. FATHER PULLED THE BULLIES, WHO USED TO STAND AGAINST THE WALLS, AND THREATEN THE REST OF US WITH ICY GLARES, INTO THE MIX WITH THE PUBLIC SCHOOL SCHOLARS AND PACIFISTS, WHO WEREN'T REALLY SPORTS INCLINED. WHAT HE DID, WAS EQUALIZE US ALL, IN RECREATIONAL PLAY. THE BULLIES WERE NO BETTER, OR WORSE THAN THE KIDS WHO WORE THICK GLASSES, AND HAD NEVER EVEN TOUCHED A FOOTBALL, BEFORE IT WAS HANDED-OFF TO THEM, BY THE QUARTERBACK OF THE DAY. SO WHEN I STOOD AT THE MICROPHONE, THINKING I MIGHT FAINT INTO THE AUDIENCE, OR ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING OF NOTE, IT WAS THIS RECOLLECTION OF SPORTSMANSHIP AND COMMUNITY, THAT GAVE ME LOTS TO TALK ABOUT. I SAID IT WAS PEOPLE LIKE FATHER HEFFERNAN, WHO TAUGHT ME ABOUT THE POWER OF INCLUSION, AND THE GOODWILL OF FRIENDLY COMPETITION. HOMETOWN VALUES. I POINTED OUT, THAT RECREATION HAD THE CAPABILITY OF OVER-RIDING BULLYISM, POLITICS, WEALTH, POVERTY, RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCES, CULTURAL DIVIDES, AND JUST ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE THAT WORKS TO KEEP PEOPLE APART....FOR NO GOOD REASON. LIKE PAUL DUFF, WHO SAVED ME FROM A SCHOOL-YEAR OF TORMENT, BY ONE BOLD INTERVENTION; FATHER HEFFERNAN INSPIRED GOOD CITIZENSHIP ON SO MANY FRONTS, FOR SO MANY STUDENTS, THAT IT IS STILL A CHERISHED MORAL, DEEP INTO OUR ADULT LIVES.

     SO I HAD LOTS TO TALK ABOUT, THAT NIGHT, AND MY BUDGET OF TIME AT THE MICROPHONE TOO SHORT.....AND IN FACT, I NEVER HAD A TIME IN MY LIFE, IN THE PUBLIC EYE AS A WRITER, THAT I RECEIVED SO MANY KIND COMMENTS AFTERWARDS.....AND AS YOU MIGHT GUESS, A LOT OF THE QUESTIONS WERE, "HOW IS FATHER HEFFERNAN THESE DAYS." OR, "I USED TO PLAY SHINNY WITH HIM OVER AT THE ARENA.....WE USED TO CALL HIM 'ELBOWS HEFFERNAN' BACK THEN." "YEA, HE USED TO WRAP HIMSELF AROUND YOU, IF YOU TRIED TO SKATE PAST HIM WITH THE PUCK,... JAM HIS STICK UNDER MY SKATE BLADE, BUT YOU KNOW, HE WAS ALWAYS THE FIRST TO HELP YOU UP OFF THE ICE.....AFTER HE KNOCKED YOU DOWN. 'ARE YOU ALL RIGHT', HE'D SAY, GRABBING YOU BY THE SWEATER TO MAKE SURE YOU WERE ABLE TO GET BACK INTO THE ACTION."

     IN THE MID 1980'S, I USED TO WRITE A COLUMN FOR THE NOW DEFUNCT, "MUSKOKA ADVANCE," ENTITLED "BRACEBRIDGE SKETCHES," WHICH WERE A COLLECTION OF NOSTALGIC STORIES FROM MY YOUTH, GROWING UP IN OUR SMALL TOWN. ONE OF MY COLUMNS, THAT PARTICULAR FALL, HAD BEEN ABOUT FATHER HEFFERNAN, AND RECOLLECTIONS OF THOSE SCHOOL-YARD FOOTBALL GAMES. IT WASN'T CHRISTMAS-THEMED IF MEMORY SERVES. AND FOLKS, I'M NOT MAKING THIS UP. I WAS CLOSING OUR ANTIQUE SHOP, LOCATED ON THE BOTTOM FLOOR OF MARTIN FRAMING, ON MANITOBA STREET, AT ABOUT FOUR O'CLOCK ON CHRISTMAS EVE. THERE WAS A HUGE STORM-FRONT MOVING OVER THE AREA, AND YOU COULD HARDLY SEE THE CARS PARKED IN THE STORE LOT, THROUGH THE DRIFTING SNOWFALL. I HAD JUST FINISHED PUTTING ALL OUR OUTSIDE DISPLAYS BACK IN THE SHOP, AND WAS PREPARING FOR THE WHITE-KNUCKLE DRIVE BACK TO GRAVENHURST. I SAID GOODBYE TO BARB MARTIN, PROPRIETOR OF THE FRAMING SHOP, BUT I DIDN'T GET TO FINISH MY CHRISTMAS GOOD WISHES, WHEN THE PHONE RANG UPSTAIRS, AND SHE HAD TO RUN TO ANSWER IT. I JUST WAVED FAREWELL AND HEADED OUT INTO THE STORM. AS I WAS CLEANING OFF THE CAR, AND SCRAPING AWAY THE ICE, SHE YELLED AT ME THROUGH THE HALF-OPENED DOOR, THAT I HAD A PHONE CALL FROM A FATHER HEFFERNAN. NO KIDDING. A LITTLE LIKE FATHER O'MALLEY OR WHAT? HERE IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE, IN A SNOWSTORM, AND I WAS ALL NOSTALGIC CLOSING UP THE NICELY DECORATED SHOP FOR THE HOLIDAYS. IT WAS LIKE A MOVIE SCRIPT, BUT THIS WAS REAL LIFE. IT WAS A PRETTY REMARKABLE WAY TO START CHRISTMAS.

     A FRIEND OF FATHER HEFFERNAN, FROM BRACEBRIDGE, HAD SENT HIM A COPY OF MY COLUMN, AND HE FOUND CHRISTMAS EVE A GOOD OPPORTUNITY TO CALL, IN ORDER TO EXPRESS HIS GRATITUDE FOR MY KIND WORDS. HIS FRIEND ONLY KNEW WE HAD A SHOP ON THE LOWER LEVEL OF "MARTIN FRAMING," AND THAT CONNECTED HIM, AND THEN ME, THROUGH BARB MARTIN. BUT AS ALWAYS, HE WAS VERY HUMBLE. AS HE EXPLAINED, HE WAS JUST DOING WHAT ANYONE WOULD HAVE, UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCE. THIS IS WHERE HE WAS WRONG. THERE WAS NO ONE, EVEN THE PAID STAFF OF THE SCHOOL, WHO OFFERED TO DO ANYTHING WITH US AT RECESS, OTHER THAN OBSERVE FROM AFAR. HE WAS A CATALYST OF ADVENTURE, WHENEVER HE SHOWED UP. I WANTED HIM TO KNOW THIS, AS HUMBLE AS HE REMAINED, THAT HE HAD IMPACTED THE LIVES OF A LOT OF WAYWARD KIDS, BY BEING A SOURCE OF RECREATIONAL INSPIRATION. AT THIS POINT, HE ACCEPTED THE GENERAL ASSESSMENT, THAT HE WAS TRULY "A NICE GUY." NO HALO. JUST A FELLOW WHO TOOK TIME TO SHOW A GROUP OF STUDENTS, STANDING AROUND, HOW TO USE SPORT TO DEMONSTRATE THE POWER OF CO-OPERATIVE EFFORT.

     I STOOD AT BARB'S DESK FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES, OF PLEASANT CONVERSATION, WITH FATHER HEFFERNAN, THAT SNOWY CHRISTMAS EVE, QUITE A FEW YEARS BACK. I MUST ADMIT, TO BEING A LITTLE CHOKED-UP, BECAUSE OF THE RARE CIRCUMSTANCE, THAT HE WAS CALLING ME ON THIS DAY BEFORE CHRISMAS, WHEN FRANKLY, I WAS A LITTLE DOWN ABOUT THE ECONOMY, AND WHAT I HAD BEEN ABLE TO AFFORD FOR OUR BOYS, AS GIFTS FROM SANTA. I WASN'T SURE OUR CAR WAS EVEN GOING TO MAKE IT HOME, BECAUSE OF ITS FAULTY EVERYTHING (OR SO IT SEEMED), AND THE CALL JUST CAUGHT ME SO OFF GUARD.....I DIDN'T REALLY NO HOW TO RESPOND. SO I JUST LISTENED TO HIS GENTLE VOICE AND FELT THAT OLD TIME INSPIRATION COMING OVER ME.....AND AS CLICHED AS IT MAY READ, THAT NIGHT, AND FOR THAT CHRISTMAS SEASON, HE HAD BEEN MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. THINGS WEREN'T AS BAD AS I HAD THOUGHT. WE  A LOVELY CHRISTMAS, AS HUMBLE AS IT WAS, AND I HAD LOTS OF TIME TO COMTEMPLATE THE WORDS OF FATHER HEFFERNAN; YUP, THAT REMINDED ME OF FATHER O'MALLEY AND CHRISTMAS AT ST. MARY'S.

     IT MAY APPEAR TO SOME READERS, LIKE I'VE HAD A LOT OF BRIGHT BEACONS IN MY LIFE, BECAUSE I'M ALWAYS PAYING TRIBUTE TO ONE OR THE OTHER, FROM PAST ENCOUNTERS. ALMOST AS IF THEY WERE HUMAN CRUTCHES, ALWAYS POPPING UP AT THE MOST CRITICAL TIMES, WHEN I WAS FALTERING OR IN DEEP DISTRESS. I CAN ONLY EXPLAIN THIS, AS IT RELATES TO WRITING, AND WHAT I WANTED TO PRESENT TO THE PUBLIC, READING MY COLUMNS. THAT I WAS AS TOUGH AND ENDURING AS WERE MY MENTORS.    I HAVE NEVER ONCE CONSIDERED MYSELF A SELF-MADE MAN. I HAVE DEPENDED ON THE KINDNESSES OF STRANGERS. I HAVE HAD TIMES IN MY LIFE, WHEN I DIDN'T KNOW WHETHER TO TOSS MYSELF OFF A BRIDGE, INTO THE WHITE WATER BELOW, OR FACE-UP TO THE SEA OF GRIM REALITIES. WHEN I HAD, AT TIMES, SUFFERED FROM A LACK OF INSPIRATION, OR AN UNEXPECTED BOUT OF DEPRESSION,.... MAYBE A SUDDEN FLURRY OF ANXIETY, AND NOT BEEN ABLE TO PRODUCE EDITORIAL COPY, I HAVE RECALLED MANY, MANY TIMES, THE WARM SOULS WHO HAVE GIVEN ME REASON TO SOLDIER-ON; DESPITE ANY MISTAKEN PERCEPTION THAT THE ROAD AHEAD WAS IMPASSABLE. WHEN I TURNED TO DRINK FOR QUICK INSPIRATION, WHEN NOTHING ELSE SEEMED TO WORK, I'D WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, SICK AND DISGUSTED WITH MYSELF, BELIEVING I WOULD NEVER FIND THE MEANING OF LIFE. WHEN THERE WAS NO BOOZE LEFT, I HAD THE NECESSITY TO REKINDLE WHATEVER WAS LEFT OF FORMER MOTIVATIONS, JUST TO HAUL MYSELF BACK INTO THE NEWSROOM TO MEET YET ANOTHER DEADLINE. I SO OFTEN FOUND WHAT I NEEDED, THINKING BACK TO THE PERILESS JOURNEYS OF MY FRIENDS AND ASSOCIATES, WHO HAD SHOWN ME THE WAY IN THE PAST. WITHOUT THEM KNOWING IT, THEIR MORAL CHARACTERS, AND KINDNESSES YEARS EARLIER, DID BECOME MY BEACONS. FATHER HEFFERNAN WAS, AND REMAINS, ONE SUCH GLOWING BEACON, I NEEDED GREATLY, PARTICULARLY ON THAT STORMY CHRISTMAS EVE; WHICH BECAME ONE OF MY MOST MEMORABLE. I WROTE A LOT THAT HOLIDAY SEASON, ESPECIALLY ABOUT MY FAMILY AND THE JOYS OF A MUSKOKA CHRISTMAS.

     IT WASN'T SO LONG AGO, THAT I READ ABOUT FATHER HEFFERNAN TAKING OVER DUTIES AT ST. PAUL'S CATHOLIC CHURCH, HERE IN GRAVENHURST. I RAN INTO HIM FIRST, AT A COMMUNITY CONCERT, HELD AT THE GRAVENHURST OPERA HOUSE. HERE HE WAS, WALKING UP AND DOWN THE OPERA HOUSE AISLES, SHAKING THE HANDS OF PATRONS, AND WAVING TO THOSE WHO WERE CALLING TO HIM. HE SEEMED TO KNOW PERSONALLY, MOST OF THE PEOPLE IN THE AUDIENCE. I HAD TO RE-INTRODUCE MYSELF, WHEN HE GOT TO MY ROW. "FATHER," I YELLED, WITH AN OUTSTRETCHED HAND. "I'M TED CURRIE....I WROTE A COLUMN ABOUT YOU....AND." I NEVER GOT TO FINISH MY SENTENCE. "TED, IT'S SO GOOD TO SEE YOU," HE SAID, REACHING FOR ANOTHER OUTSTRETCHED HAND, FROM A GENTLEMAN IN THE ROW IN FRONT. "MAYBE WE CAN GET TOGETHER SOME TIME LATER." I WAS EVER SO PLEASED HE REMEMBERED ME, AS IT HAD BEEN ALMOST TEN YEARS SINCE WE LAST TALKED. BUT YOU KNOW, WE NEVER DID GET TOGETHER, BECAUSE HE LEFT ST. PAULS SHORTLY AFTER THE CONCERT, AND I HAVEN'T TALKED TO HIM SINCE. IT WAS NICE TO SHAKE THE HAND, OF A MAN WHO GAVE ME REASON TO WRITE-ON AND THRIVE......AND IT ALL CAME FROM GAMES OF PICK-UP FOOTBALL IN THE SCHOOL YARD, OF BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, IN THE SEPIA HAZE OF THE 1960'S.

     AS I DO EVERY DAY, WRITING THESE CHRISTMAS SEASON BLOGS, I COME UP WITH A THEME AFTER I SIT DOWN AT MY KEYBOARD. NOT BEFORE. TODAY, FOR WHATEVER REASON, AND SOURCE OF INSPIRATION, IT BECAME IMPERATIVE TO WRITE ABOUT MY CASUAL BUT POIGNANT FRIENDSHIP WITH FATHER BARNARD HEFFERNAN. AND SHOULD HE FEEL, ONCE AGAIN, THAT I HAVE GIVEN HIM TOO MUCH CREDIT FOR HIS KINDNESSES, I WILL REMIND HIM, THAT WITH THE SAME GRIT AND PROWESS, HE SHOWED US, ELBOWS CONNECTING WITH JAW, AND STICK POKED BENEATH SKATES, IN HIS COMPETITIVE VIGOR, I WILL STICKHANDLE THIS MESSAGE "DOWN-ICE" REGARDLESS.....TO PRAISE HIS MODESTY....A PUCK IN THE NET FOR ME. MERRY CHRISTMAS FATHER HEFFERNAN AND THANKS FROM ALL US WEE LADS, WHO CAME TO UNDERSTAND THE TRUE BREADTH AND DEPTH OF SPORTSMANSHIP, ON YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT.

BULLIES THRIVE IN THEIR DELUDED SENSE OF ACCOMPLISHMENT - I WAS ON THE END OF THEIR FISTS

     FATHER BERNARD HEFFERNAN WAS SIMPLY KNOWN, IN MY SCHOOL-YARD DAYS, AS "FATHER." AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, AND I MEAN THAT, I THOUGHT HE WAS A FATHER IN THE PARENTAL SENSE, AND IT TOOK ME MONTHS TO FIGURE OUT IT WAS INSTEAD HIS RELIGIOUS CALLING, AND HIS ASSOCIATION WITH THE CATHOLIC CHURCH ACROSS THE ROAD. I ALWAYS WAS A SLOW LEARNER.

     FATHER HEFFERNAN HAD ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA, THAT AT THE TIME HE WAS ORGANIZING GAMES OF FOOTBALL, AT RECESS, BACK IN ABOUT 1966 OR SO, AT BRACEBRIDGE PUBLIC SCHOOL, HE WAS RECTIFYING AT LEAST TWO DEBILITATING ISSUES FOR THIS NEW, NOT-ADJUSTING STUDENT. FIRST OF ALL, I HAD JUST ARRIVED IN BRACEBRIDGE, FROM A CITY SCHOOL. AT THAT TIME, BEING A NEWCOMER TO A SMALL TOWN SCHOOL REQUIRED YEARS OF TRYING TO IMBED INTO THE MIX OF MUSKOKA-ROOTED KIDS. BEING "ONE OF THE LOCALS" WASN'T EASY…..AND SOME WOULD SAY EVEN TODAY, IT'S OUTRIGHTLY IMPOSSIBLE. UNLESS YOU MARRY INTO A LOCAL FAMILY. EVEN MY PARENTS FOUND IT NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE, TO SHAKE THE CITY-STATUS, THAT FOR SOME REASON, WAS THREATENING TO SOME LOCALS. MAYBE THEY SAW US AS THE KIND OF INTRUDERS, WHO WOULD TRY TO CHANGE THE TOWN, BASED ON OUR MISGUIDED CITY ATTITUDE. I'M NOT EMBELLISHING THIS, AND IT WASN'T UNTIL MANY YEARS LATER, AFTER MARRYING A LOCAL GIRL, WITH ROOTS BACK TO PIONEER TIMES, THAT I COULD FAIRLY CLAIM TO BEING A MUSKOKAN……BY MARRIAGE ONLY.

     SECONDLY, BEING FROM THE CITY, AND DISRESPECTFULLY VIEWED AS AN INTERLOPER, WHO NEEDED TO BE TAUGHT SOME COUNTRY MANNERS, I WAS THE TARGET OF THE SCHOOL BULLIES. ONE GENTLEMAN, WHO WAS FROM A WELL-OFF FAMILY OF LOCAL MOVERS AND SHAKERS, DECIDED ONE RECESS, THAT HE NEEDED TO IMPRESS THE YOUNG LADIES OF OUR CLASS. I WAS STANDING BY MYSELF, WATCHING EVERYONE ELSE ENJOYING THE SCHOOL DAY HIATUS, AND THIS CHAP WALKED RIGHT UP TO ME, AND WITH BOTH HANDS ON MY CHEST, KNOCKED ME TO THE GROUND WITHOUT WARNING. I BANGED MY HEAD AND TWISTED MY ANKLE ON THE WAY DOWN, AND I WASN'T IN ANY POSITION TO SCAMPER OFF TO SAFETY. I JUST STAYED ON THE GROUND, BECAUSE IT REDUCED THE HEIGHT TO FALL FROM AGAIN, IF ON THE OFF-CHANCE, HE PLANNED A SECOND UNPROVOKED ATTACK. HE DID EVERYTHING BUT PUT HIS FOOT ON MY CHEST, LIKE HE'D BAGGED BIG GAME, AS A SCHOOL-YARD HUNTER.

     THE GOOFY KID JUST HOVERED THERE, DARING ME TO GET UP FOR SOME MORE OF THE SAME. AS QUICKLY AS THIS KID HAD ATTACKED ME, CAME THE DEFENDER I DIDN'T KNOW I HAD. A TALL YOUTH, FLEW AT MY ATTACKER WITH MINOR FURY, AND KOCKED HIM OVER, JUST AS I HAD BEEN TUMBLED ONTO MY HEAD. PAUL DUFF HAD WITNESSED THE ORIGINAL BULLY TACTIC, AND REACTED TO DEFEND THE NEW KID. FUNNY THING THAT! PAUL WOULD BECOME A LIFE-LONG ACQUAINTANCE, AND WHENEVER WE MEET IN OUR BUSY LIVES, IT'S JUST LIKE THAT DAY IN THE SCHOOL YARD, WHEN THAT BIG HAND ARRIVED IN MINE, AS HE PULLED ME UP FROM THE GROUND. EVEN IN OUR HOCKEY PAST, HE WAS THE ONE PLAYER ON OUR TEAM, FOR MANY YEARS, THAT AFTER A GOAL WAS SCORED ON ME, HE'D ARRIVE TO WHACK MY PADS, SHOWING SUPPORT FOR A VERY BUSY NETMINDER. OTHERS ON MY SQUAD TOLD ME TO "SMARTEN UP CURRIE, YOU SEIVE," AND "YOU'RE GOING TO COST US THE GAME STUPID." EVEN IF I HAD ALLOWED TEN GOALS, PAUL WOULD NEVER HAVE REACTED DIFFERENTLY. WHEN HE WAS ON THE ICE, I PLAYED BETTER AND MORE CONFIDENTLY. NO KIDDING. THIS WAS HOW ONE KID, OUT OF HUNDREDS I INTERACTED WITH, MADE A LIFELONG IMPRESSION ON ME, BY BEING THE CHAMPION OF GOOD SPORTSMANSHIP. EVEN THE COACH COULD HAVE LEARNED SOMETHING FROM PAUL'S POSITIVE APPROACH. I KNOW PAUL GETS KIND OF SHY WHEN I WRITE ABOUT THESE INCIDENTS, BUT NONE THE LESS, WE NEED TO BE REMINDED HOW MUCH INFLUENCE "GOOD" CAN HAVE ON THE WAY WE ALL LIVE. FATHER HEFFERNAN WAS THE SAME, BUT I DON'T SUSPECT HE KNEW THE EXTENT OF WHAT WENT ON IN THE SCHOOL-YARD WHEN HE WASN'T THERE. WHEN HE DID ARRIVE, EVERYONE PERKED UP, AND GATHERED AROUND HIM.

THERE WERE MORE BULLIES - LOTS MORE

     At the time Father Heffernan was organizing the milling-about students, into games of recess football, he may have suspected there were bullying problems at the school. It wasn't hard to find a bloody nose, or a black eye amongst the upper grade kids. He would pop over, from the church, at morning recess, and sometimes the lunch break, and recruit all the wall-standers, and aimless strollers, to join with the eager athletes, already tossing the pigskin around the yard. Father wouldn't allow you to sit-it-out. Even if you didn't like football, or even hockey, he had a way of coercing even the non-athletes, to participate in the sportsmanship of pick-up competition. In that mix were pacifists, the over and under weight, the jocks, and the thugs. Even the toughest, bulging eyed, ornery thug, was subtly diminished by Father, and put into a team structure where the group counted more than the individual.

      If there was any exceptional performances, it was based on athletic capabilities, smart play, and networking with other team-mates……such as handing off the ball to a faster runner. Father was a tough player himself, and he was always one of the team-mates……side by side some of the toughest, and meanest kids I'd ever known. The tough kids, who wanted to play with their fists on my face, went from dreading the arrival of Father Heffernan, with a football under his arm, to yelling at the church, if he wasn't on time; reminding him that we needed his direction to start the game. Father was clever in this way. He did this on purpose, to show us how a pick-up game, whatever it is, can bring a schoolyard together. Bullies, non-athletes, and jocks all on an equal basis, until that football was snapped. It was surprising how quickly the bullies out performed the more athletic students, and the kids who weren't too interested in sports, became sleeper-players, who could suddenly erupt with a startling, hurtling end-to-end run for a touchdown, or catch an over-the-shoulder pass for a major gain of yards downfield. Even when Father didn't show up, we knew what to do with spare time, and some open field. He was teaching us, you see, how to channel our energy into something that made more sense, than pummeling each other before class. He gave us a template and we copied his directions. It did make a difference, especially to me. I was a pretty good footballer, as I had played in an organized league in the Mountain Gardens neighborhood of Burlington. It's amazing how my profile changed. Some things took a little longer. Let me explain.

     I had made a mistake one day, in my early relationship with the school, and the town generally. It's not that I did anything wrong, and I don't have any regrets about my involvement, but it did change my life and opinion about school in perpetuity. I don't like going in schools. Yup, I've got some bad memories. Of this, I do have regrets, as I married a teacher, and I get asked to attend school events frequently.

     A chum of mine, from my neighborhood, was getting beat-up regularly by a band of thugs. They waited for the kid after school, and they were such craven cowards, that they travelled together as a pack. The ringleader didn't participate in the "hunt and detain" mission. He had henchmen for this operation. My friend would get separated from his other mates, who were also scared they would be drawn into the mob beatings, by defending the victim. I was walking across Memorial Park one afternoon, with this poor chap, and all of a sudden, we were swarmed by these toadies, who didn't want me…..but they most certainly intended on thrashing my mate. Now I may be scrappy with words, but I wasn't a great fighter. If I was given a chance to prepare, I could box my way out of a corner, but nothing that could parallel "Shane," and his ability to whip five or six guys in a saloon brawl. But the beating they administered on these kids at our school was always severe, at least in my opinion as a reluctant witness.

     As I stood back and watched in horror, as they gave the kid a savage barrage of fist and kicks to the stomach, I yelled at them, probably mentioning "a-holes" or something similar, and that they should stop hitting my friend. It was heartfelt, and held every value in my human condition, but it meant that the gang had its newest victim. They stopped beating my chum, and tore off across the park, in pursuit of the new kid to town…..who had dared insult the little irish gang leader, who thought he had a God-given right to terrorize students he didn't like. My outburst cost me weeks and weeks of beatings. In the school yard most of the time! He worked in a group of three but most often there were five in the party….which wasn't very festive for me. Two held me by the arms, usually against a wall, (out of sight of the teacher on duty), and the mobster would start punching me in the face. He was very precise about where he hit me. It was always on the jaw. Two shots to the left and two on the right side. He never asked for money, my lunch, or for me to do any favors. He wanted a human punching bag, and I was his until he got bored. He was a sick puppy, let me tell you, and it brought up a whole bunch of family issues, at a time when I could hardly open my mouth to eat or talk. My parents were old school. They strangely believed it was survival of the fittest, and I had to learn how to defend myself. I always resented this, by the way, and it is not how I raised my own boys.

     My mother and father were tough cookies, without a doubt. Merle was short but fearless. She came from a well off family in Toronto, but she had lots of siblings to wrestle with, and she grew up somewhat of a tom-boy, unafraid of using her dukes to prevail upon a bully…..often her sisters and chubby brother. My father was of Irish ancestry, and had survived the mean streets of Cabbagetown during the Depression, and then as a sailor in the famed North Atlantic Squadron of the Second World War, he was by immersion, and survival skills, a tough son of a bitch. My mother had no idea how many times my father's nose had been broken, even after they began dating, but I think once, he remarked, in conversation with a house guest, about the dozen shots to the beak, he had sustained over the years. Which by the way made it look like a golf ball on the end of a thumb. The problem was that they believed their only son had to be almost brutally tough to survive. So tough, that they kept telling me, when I came hope with a face black and blue, that I needed to defend myself, and raise my dukes against the school bullies. I didn't have much opportunity to explain, how it wasn't a one on one situation. I wasn't Shane. I was just a big eared kid, at a new school, scared out of my mind, that the next beating was going to kill me. Now in case you're wondering…., the only reason it continued was that Paul Duff was unaware what was going on. My attackers were clever to stay out of the main play area of the school. I can still see their rat faces, lusting after the visible fear the victims showed, before and during the assaults.

     There came a day, when my mother Merle had no choice but to talk with the principal, Neil Haight (now Father Haight), about the problems with the gang. He said he was unaware of the problem, but he wasn't surprised the boys named, would be involved. He told my mother to have me come to his office, on the very next occasion there was an assault. Well, it didn't take long. That next morning, I was grabbed, thrust against the wall, and the only difference with this attack, was that it was one of the toadies that got to hit me in the face……which I suppose was a reward for loyalty. This bloke made one mistake. It was hitting me on the end of the nose. It really hurt. So I did what my mother would have done. I let go a field-goal weighted boot to his privates, dropping him like an anchor onto the tarmac. Guess what? Of all the blows that had been administered by the gang, the only one witnessed by a teacher, was my kick to his groin. I was physically hauled into the office to get the strap. At least that's what I assumed happened in there. But going through my mind at that time, was that I had earned the strap, fair and square. I was so mad I wouldn't feel a thing. The good news is that Mr. Haight was aware that I was going to be fighting back against my assailants. Merle had told him as much. The short version of this story, is that the gang was punished, my mates and I were set free at last, to play and walk home without being beaten up.

     It was at this time, that Father Heffernan was bringing us all together, for games of football. The newly disciplined gang was brought into the school yard games, and imagine this…….we were playing on the same team, and handing off to one another, in order to get a touchdown for the good guys. What a transition from adversaries to team-mates. Father Heffernan knew it would work. He was clearly aware of the problems of the school yard bullies, and he also knew how positive it could be, to expend all this surplus energy as recreation. He took away the pent-up frustration and anger, that gave these bullies the reason and power to be asses. He showed all of us, what it would mean on a grid-iron, when the bad guys and the pacifists, were on the same squad, with the same mission; to put points on the scoreboard. What Neil Haight had accomplished by administrative protocol, with what Father Heffernan set straight outside, on the playing field, meant an end to bullying for the rest of my public school days. God bless those men. I have to tell you, I was at the end of my tether, and I was ready to ditch school altogether, if the beatings had continued. When I hear this issues today, well, I take them seriously. When my kids were bullied, at the same school as I attended, I made an exception about my dislike for schools, and marched into the principles office, to nip it in the bud. It's a proactive solution that's needed, and unfortunately, even in our town, there are too few Shanes to go around……and Father Heffernan isn't organizing recess football anymore.

     If you suspect there is bullying going on…..with your kids or grandkids or the kid next door, then step up to the plate, and get them some help. Someone getting involved, saved my life.