"The Biography", A Story About A Mentor

Note: Part three of "The Biography", A Story About A Mentor, January 2016 (archives)

MY FACE TO FACE MEETING WITH A HELL OF A GUY - THE FELLOW I KNEW BEST AS THE KINDLY MAX SUTTON, IN THE CAST OF, "WIND AT MY BACK"

JAMES CARROLL AND I, FRIENDS AND SIGNIFICANT OTHERS, HAVE A MEMORABLE GET-TOGETHER AT THE END OF THE SHOW

     The Algonquin Theatre's most recent event, "A Stage Door Thingy," produced and performed-in, by friends and colleagues of actor / broadcaster, James Carroll, of Huntsville, raised $3,100, to help offset medical costs, for his ongoing cancer treatments.

     At the conclusion of the afternoon show, Mr. Carroll, forever humble, silently bowed his head, when he received a standing ovation and thunderous round of applause, that lasted several minutes, bringing tears to the eyes of many in attendance who have known, and worked with the actor over many years. They were in attendance, on this day, to lend support, financially and in any way needed, to assist their friend on his tough journey ahead, facing the protocol of cancer treatments. It was a moving occasion, and it demonstrated that his struggle, to improve his health, wouldn't be one undertaken alone.

     I have only known James Carroll for a whisker of time, a mere smidgeon of our respective lives, in this mortal coil, yet I feel we've known each other since childhood. If we had gone that far back, I assure you, he would have taken off my toque, run like an Olympian, and given it to the neighborhood dog to gnaw on; and I would have chased him up a nearby tree, pulling off his boot, and sock on the way up. We would have boxed each other over a girl we both liked, and he would have given my nose the first of many crooks and lumps. But I would have got the girl, anyway, who liked a rugged looking chap with a "bent and bumpy beak" (now repeat that over and over). No, unfortunately, we didn't know each other in childhood, although we weren't that far apart in miles. I spent my first years in Burlington, Ontario, and he was just across the border, in Philadelphia. But I think we both felt as if we had once played British Bulldog in the school yard, or hide 'n seek in the open spaces of our home communities, and that moment of introduction, broke the ice in a rare conversation, we would both remember for a long while; as having evaded us for a seeming eternity, without eternity having a set value of hours or days. It was an unspoken, unknown familiarity, that diminished the need for conversational protocol; and where a handshake and a twinkle of the eye bridged whatever gap there might have been at the beginning. In fact, I wrote a little editorial piece to cover this social awkwardness, in the style of which, I seem to have most experience. It is sincere and heartfelt, without being overly sentimental or snobbishly stiff, as if it had been a meeting between leaders of government, instead of plumbers comparing who was offering, for public exhibition, the best and fullest butt cracks; without being intentional about it, of course.

    Let's just say, I grew up surrounded by the harder stuff of athletics, where getting a slapshot in the face was character building (or so our coach said); and hobbling off the ice after a wicked body check, was a sign of character weakness. I heard the coach yelling at one of my team-mates, in a game in which we were losing badly, who had just been cracked hard in the face with the shaft of an opponent's stick. The coach couldn't figure out why he was on his hands and knees in front of the bench, while the play went on around him. "For Christ sakes kid, get back in the play," yelled the angry coach. The kid yelled back, "I will coach, as soon as I pick up the rest of my teeth off the ice."  So forgive me for waxing athletic because it's most of what I know at this elder age of penning columns. In this case, it's an inspiring story, hockey or not, and one I wouldn't have missed for, as mother used to say, "love nor money."

     In one of the photographs published above, compliments, by the way, of Jamie Oppenheimer, (Shauna Leigh Taylor also snapped some images as well) it appears, that I'm giving signals down the third base line, for the runner to steal home plate on the next pitch. In the other, I seem to be making some profound statement about the shape of the earth, flat more so than round, while James Carroll tries to figure out what the hell I'm getting at, with all the finger pointing and behind-my-back signaling.

      If you have been reading the recent pieces I've written about James Carroll, and the special show his friends and former colleagues, put on at the Algonquin Theatre, in Huntsville, this past Saturday, (you can archive back through our facebook page posts to catch-up), you would know that I had been writing about the well known, and respected actor, without having first met the man; which is not the usual protocol before setting down to do something even remotely biographical. I had already written three pieces, that by the way, attracted a huge audience of readers, and was intending to meet-up with James at the special fundraising event, "A Stage Door Thingy," when son Andrew and I went up to support the actor, and to further the purpose of the tribute show; which was, of course, to help raise funds to offset the high cost of medical treatments he has been receiving, to abate the progress of a recent cancer diagnosis. I was really looking forward to talking to the actor, admittedly, who I knew best, as the good natured, community minded, charitable (also ran an open-air soup kitchen for the homeless, in the fictional Bedford Falls), Mr. Sutton, the physical education teacher, and part-time radio host, on the historical television drama, "Wind At My Back." His "special angels" as he calls his friends, Shauna Leigh Taylor and Jamie Oppenheimer, found a box set of the show for sale on Amazon, which as a matter of interest, ran for five seasons, and kindly purchased it for me (I have wanted to own this for years); and Suzanne and I have been watching three episodes each night since they arrived in the mail. I won't repeat all the background about the first couple of articles I wrote about Mr. Carroll, the effervescent radio host on Hunter's Bay Radio, in Huntsville, because you can find them all on our facebook page, going back to just before Christmas.

     Well, it's like this. I hustled Andrew out of our shop on Saturday morning, because I knew it was going to take close to an hour to drive from Gravenhurst. And, once again, (as is my hallmark as a motorist) I had nothing in the gas tank except some thin vapours, enough to get us to Skyways Restaurant and Gas Bar, on Highway 11, and not one inch beyond. The idea of getting there a tad early, was to get a few minutes with James before the auditorium filled-up with patrons (which it did pretty well). We sat at the back, off to the north side, where we could get a good look at the stage, and Mr. Carroll, sitting two rows below, just to our right side. From the moment my hind-end hit the chair, there was never a single moment, until the lights dimmed and master of ceremonies, Roger Bird, began to introduce the upcoming acts, when James Carroll wasn't either sitting while hugging, or standing while hugging, or shaking hands with those who approached him from all angles, with only good wishes of course. There were even dozens of patrons turned back from approaching him, when the lights began dimming, and I watched them sit back down, to wait for the next opportunity at intermission. When intermission rolled around, it was second verse, same as the first. He was mobbed in a most friendly, loving way, but make no mistake, he was mobbed. You can therefore guess, then, that at the end of the show, after a rousing standing ovation, the mobbing session was repeated a third time, and there just wasn't any room to get my enormous frame through the crowd to talk with the star of the hour.

     I finally turned to son Andrew, and told him I was going to head to the van, but he should stick around and take his place in line, to extend our kind wishes to James, if that is, the crowd didn't carry him away on their shoulders, which at times seemed highly likely. I didn't want to be rude but I have a bad case of hockey-hip, and I can't sit for a couple of hours anywhere, comfortable seat or bleacher pine, without the need to get up and stretch my legs; and clack noisily into place, my knobby, slapshot altered knee-caps, and back, that is pissed off at me most of the time, because of indiscretions of the past. I'm not good after this, standing on a stairway, and my best bet in avoid toppling over, is to keep the body-works moving forward. It took me ten minutes to walk a single block, but I was in pretty good shape, yup, by time I opened the van door. At this point I could have run the Boston Marathon. This is the contradiction of my body at sixty years of age. It's those first two hundreds steps that beat me up. I got in, turned the ignition, and dialed-up the heater to "inferno" level, because I was cold from the walk; and I switched on Hunter's Bay Radio, the same one James Carroll works with, as an afternoon host. I was enjoying the music and getting toasted.

     I was shaking off the shivers, when Andrew came to the driver's side, pounding on the glass (a real heart starter) as if a car-jacker, opened the door, and began tugging at my arm to get out, like he used to, when we finally arrived at the beach when he was a kid. "Come on dad, James is free now, and he's waiting in the lobby to meet you." I hesitated for one reason only. Once I sit, even for a micro-second, the knees and hip resort to their old ways, and I have to untangle all the bits and bobs of tangled muscles, compromised nerves, and bone sparking off bone. I asked Andrew how long James was going to be there, and if he would be willing to wait the ten or fifteen minutes for my return to the theatre building. "He's told me he's not leaving until he meets you, so we'll get there when we get there," Andrew said, considering how he might just as easily, and for the sake of time, toss me over his shoulder, for the short haul next door. Well, I thanked him for his offer, but suggested that the sheer weight of my considerable frame, would compact him down into his shoes, and seeing as he had his whole life in front of him, declined to either jump into his arms, as I used to carry him, or climb onto his shoulders as if my personal Sherpa, to get me up the small incline to the entrance. I limped a bit, hobbled a lot, whined incessantly (I started to annoy myself), but I really did want to shake the hand of a fine actor, and exceptional mentor in the performing arts, who I knew from television and radio, but not in person. All the way into the theatre again, I thought about how I would handle my greeting and introduction, which for a socially awkward guy like me, can go askew quicker than my knee can click-out the opening notes of the national anthem. I used to be a public relations director, once upon a time, but you'd never know it today, when I get tongue tied trying to order from the restaurant drive-thru; and then make it worse trying to clear up the misconceptions. Which my the way, usually costs an extra twenty bucks for all the extras I apparently ordered by mistake.

     When Andrew and I arrived back at the theatre lobby, James Carroll was indeed waiting for me, with friends Jeff Carter, manager of Hunter's Bay Radio, a close friend and colleague of the host, and both Shauna Leigh Taylor, seen in the photograph above, and her partner, Jamie Oppenheimer (not seen obviously). After brisk handshakes with the group, a hug from Shauna, and a warm clasp of my hand, from James Carroll, what do you think I offered him in return, as an introductory anecdote? Obviously I've been reading far too many Paul Rimstead sports columns, from his book "Cocktails and Jockstraps," because I immediately tried to show how out-of-place I had felt, during the tribute show, by offering the preamble apology, headed, "I'm not used to such a calm, respectful, warm display of affection," as was in ample evidence earlier in the auditorium. At this point I hadn't detected the twinkle in his eyes yet, which usually means for me, the person I'm talking with, has picked up on the anecdote and is tweaked for the full circle of the short story. "I mean, I usually attend sports related socials, and award events, where, hockey cronies put each other in headlocks as a tribute greeting, or robustly smack each other on the backs so hard, the beer blows out their nostrils like a short fire hose. You know, where they give each other wedgies and call each other names, coined in fun, back in their glory days, like 'Crusher' 'Funnel' (that was mine as a goalie), and 'Moose'." Honestly, and in my defense, I've spent a hundred times more writing time, profiling sports and sport personalities, than covering theatre, the entertainment scene, or interviewing actors; although I did cover shows at Deerhurst Inn during the 1980's, when we got free tickets and dinner to attend for our newspaper, and I covered a lot of plays put on by Muskoka Festival at the Gravenhurst Opera House, in an around the same period. Point is, I was out of my element, and having a wee bit of trouble finding words that didn't have a hockey or sports connotation, and that wouldn't, in any way, insult this fine chap who had waited for me to come back to meet him, at last.

     Whether it was his quick wit as an improv master, or his years of social gad-abouting as an actor with a considerable fanship, he knew I was having difficulty wordsmithing in my mind, and he looked at me for a moment, as if removing unnecessary reverence on my part, and with only a few words, and that magic twinkle of the eye, said he knew exactly what I meant, as he had grown up in a family with multiple siblings, and all the rivalry that can entail in earnest; a family that enjoyed sports, aggressively-so, in backyard competitions, and in the schoolyard; and he seemed to appreciate that he was talking to a long-time sports writer, and not a reporter overly familiar with the performing arts. In only a few words, and an endearing look, this humble, but determined gentleman, had set me at ease, by countering with other anecdotes, general, and about the event he had so capably officiated for most of that afternoon. In only a few moments, I felt as if I had known James Carroll for years, and not merely a matter of moments, in the cavernous lobby of the Algonquin venue. I told him that I was very honored to meet him, and he retorted, in a quiet, assuring way, telling me, it was an honor to finally meet me. I was in a mild state of shock, because no one has ever said that to me before. Andrew pointed out that I was blushing, and he was right about that; I've always been a journeyman writer, like I was a backup goalie, (a rider of the pine), a football centre (to hup the ball) and a left fielder in my sporting days, seldom if ever to get singled out, for any special honor or duty, unless I was being asked to carry out some equipment to the waiting bus.

     I wasn't there to interview James Carroll. Maybe that will come another day, if he desires. I was in attendance, and in his company, to pay tribute, because I respect the man, his accomplishments on stage and in film, and most of all, in the contemporary sense, his mentorship as a radio host, to so many up-and-coming regional musicians, who he supports so thoughtfully, and aggressively, on his Hunter's Bay Radio Show. In essence, it was the reason for our meeting, because of our introduction, through a live-performance at the radio station, prior to Christmas, when my sons Andrew and Robert played with Bet Smith, a group he has promoted on air for months. All I was concerned about, at that moment, was that he would think of me as a rough hewn Muskokan, who was not used to such tender, heartfelt moments; that didn't involve a hockey stick, puck or net to shoot it into.

     I enjoyed our brief but poignant meeting, and expressed to him, as much as I could, being tongue-tied and in-awe, that I was truly delighted to finally meet the actor, who had characterized "Wind At My Back's" Mr. Sutton, so craftfully, and believably, such that I wished I could have attended his phys. ed. classes at the Bedford Falls public school, or topped the human pyramid at the young olympics he organized. In the fictional sense, of course.

     James shook my hand again, with the vigor of a phys ed teacher, and the sense of commitment, that come hell or high water, we'd meet-up again, and I think we both left feeling we had completed unfinished business, and anointed a new friendship between sports writer and actor; that you know, has seemed to me ever since Saturday, to be a pretty narrow divide, when it comes down to it, in the grand scheme of what veterans of both professions can talk about without getting bored of each others company.

    Truthfully, I'm a much more interesting person, to take note of (if I'm noticed at all), when I'm in company of someone like James Carroll, a compelling story spinner, a witty responder, and enthusiastic companion of the arts. It's what years spent staring at a keyboard and white screen, and hockey ice rink, can compromise of personality and social elegance; that being me of course, and not him. I had a blast at the show, and a fine meeting with the man of the hour, James Carroll. We all wish him the best, of course, in the latest round of medical treatments, and trust he knows for sure now, just how many fans he has out there, who are pulling for him in this latest, greatest challenge. Thanks once again to all those who helped organize the fundraising event, and facilitate a short, but wonderful meeting with James at the end of the show. I also wish to acknowledge Jeff Carter, an unsung hero, representing Hunter's Bay Radio, for his enthusiastic support of the performing arts, and the generous promotion of local musicians, of which our own family has benefitted greatly. I'm sure James Carroll would agree with me, that this fellow deserves a lot of credit for building a well accepted, dynamic community radio station, with a largely volunteer contingent, and a lot of good will.

     Bless you all. Let's keep in touch!

     And in the words of my hero, Red Green, "Keep your stick on the ice!"

To be Continued…………