The Pine River Pine Toppers

The Pine River Pine Toppers The Pine Toppers was the name that my good friend, David, called our hockey team whenever we actually could find at least six players to challenge a nearby town to a game. So this is a story about a Canadian kid, born on the prairies, in dirt-­‐poor times, who became enchanted with a game that was played on frozen sloughs in impossibly cold weather and who had at least one good tale to tell anyone who was polite enough to listen. It is a story that has been spun so often that it would be difficult to find a native born citizen who has not heard it. Still, it is my story, my whim, and so I insist on telling it. The cordwood that fueled the huge stove in our one-­‐room schoolhouse had just arrived and was piled in a long row some forty feet away and parallel to the back of the building. It provided an ideal arena for soccer games that were played every lunch hour from the first day of school until deep snow made running too difficult. Once, when all the older students (about fifteen of us in total) decided to participate, I left, climbed atop the cordwood pile cupped my gloved hand near my mouth and started announcing. “It’s Kennedy, down center ice, stickhandling nicely... he passes the puck to Howe, back to Kennedy who plays it Smith...to Kennedy...now to Howe...he shoots...he scores!” It was not until I started reading “The Hockey News” that I was forced to conclude that my two heroes, Teeder Kennedy and Gordie Howe, were not teammates. They were, instead, fierce antagonists. Kennedy played for the Toronto Maple Leafs and Howe played for Detroit. But when I finally did untangle my allegiances, it was Teeder who won because the first piece of hockey trappings that I bought was a blue and white sweater with a large white maple leaf adorning the chest. Like untold numbers of others, I first learned about hockey from listening to Foster Hewitt on Saturday night radio. Ours was a battery operated Westinghouse console veneered with dark mahogany. It sat in the coldest corner of the living room across from my father’s bedroom. His sleep schedule was deeply ingrained—
he arose at sunrise and went to bed at sunset and every night he sternly announced his intention. I got the message. To listen to the game, the volume was set so low the announcer was barely audible. Reducing the sound had the advantage of saving 1 the battery but the disadvantage was that I had to huddle with that machine in such a contorted fashion that at the end of the program I could scarcely walk. It was a good thing that Hockey Night in Canada started in the middle of the second period because, with a longer production, bodies of thousands of youngsters might have been permanently deformed. Our homestead was built near a small creek that ran from the Duck Mountains just a few miles to the west. In most years, water flowed during the entire summer, which meant that, at freeze-­‐up, there was a ready made skating rink. The problem was that almost none of us had skates. Pucks could be found and sticks could be fashioned, but without skates there was no hockey. I was lucky. Apparently my sister, Liz, had cajoled someone into buying her a pair but it is more likely that they were purchased at an auction as an act of kindness to a family bound for an easier life in the Okanagan. I found these skates and they were some sight! The leather had turned soft, the rear stem of the left skate rocked like a piston, they were two sizes too big and seemed never to have been sharpened. The fact that the colour was a hideous grey was the least annoying feature. But, with the right number of socks jammed into the toes and the right number of insoles, they worked. My “rink” on the creek was shaped, quite appropriately, like a hockey stick, with the blade pointing to the left. I found an old barn door that turned out to be roughly the size of a net and dragged it some fifty feet beyond the elbow of the creek. Propped straight up, it formed an ideal target for perfecting my shot. The hockey stick was built out of scrap lumber that was always easy to find. The blade was attached to the handle with shingle nails but a crosspiece was necessary to provide a solid connection. The main drawback to this contraption was that it was too heavy to develop any stickhandling skills. But, at Christmas time, I had an “aha” experience. Mandarin oranges from Japan, an indispensible holiday treat, were packed in small wooden boxes which, when dismantled, yielded at least six slats, each one no more than 3/8th of an inch thick. After properly sizing one of these and attaching it to, say, a broken hoe handle, something that looked and felt like a real stick took shape. I remember my first puck because it was rated as peewee size, cost very little and was soon lost forever when an errant shot drove it into the yet unfrozen bank of the creek. Well, you know what’s coming next. It entails a search for frozen horse droppings of just the right size. Because we still had three horses and the barn was close by, the supply was endless and, in the language of our modern times, “renewable.” That first winter was spent trying to spray a stream of ice chips with my skates just as I had seen Harry Watson do in the picture that was sponsored by BeeHive corn syrup. Being left handed, I would hug the north side of the creek, make a sharp left turn at the elbow and the rapidly turn right as I approached the “net”. I would dig down hard with the left heal to cut and spray the ice, but the result was always deeply disappointing. Eventually, I gave up on it and turned to developing an accurate shot. After endless hours of repetition, I was pleased to see how close each try had struck the intended mark. 2 Something interesting came to mind, even at that young age. I noticed that the less I concentrated on precise mechanics the more accurate the result. The words to describe that impression obviously were not yet available to me but it seemed that the more I was “as one” with the ice, the equipment, the missile and the target, the more exact was the execution. In later years, when Eastern philosophies became popular in North America, I noticed that they spoke of “a state of consciousness beyond duality” to quote one writer. Also, athletes spoke of “being in a zone” when they performed extraordinary feats. When I read or heard such words, the memory of firing frozen horse chips at a decrepit barn door flared into consciousness. Spring arrived much too soon because hockey still dominated my thoughts. I dearly wanted a “C” to pin to my Maple Leaf sweater because every picture of my hero showed him wearing one. I learned that the “C” stood for Captain and I was sure that here was no loftier title in the entire world. But how could I get a single large letter? Certainly, there was no place to buy one. However, everyone knew that, if something was needed, you made it yourself. So, when I spied the treadle sewing machine that sat in the kitchen, I started to view it from an entirely new perspective. I had always thought of it as a purely decorative piece but I now saw it as a way to solve the problem. Perhaps, a “C” could be fashioned from an old tea towel and stitched to the sweater. I asked Mother if I could learn to sew. Maybe she was proud of the fact that I wanted to learn a new skill or maybe she knew that young eyes were needed to help her thread a needle, but whatever the reason, she agreed. The sole stipulation was that I take care not to break anything, especially the needle. It was not the cost that troubled her but she learned, as had all our neighbors that buying a specialized piece of anything, was a time-­‐consuming nightmare. I discovered very quickly that hitting a spot on a barn door with a frozen missile was easy compared to pumping a treadle well enough to sew properly. Also, one had to learn how to get the tension of the thread, and dozens of other details, just right before a job could be done well. But persistence won out and eventually a “C” was crafted unto an oval piece of felt. I do not recall whether the final version was stitched or whether I resorted to embroidery but I do know that the “C” never did see life as a partner to the big maple leaf on my sweater. By the time the “C” was finished, I was hooked on sewing and wondered what else could be manufactured. The idea of homemade shin guards seemed to appeal. Constructing a simple pad out of old denim overalls was no problem but pictures in catalogues showed that something rigid was needed to protect the shin. Strips of wire were the obvious answer because, as we all know, baling wire was the go-­‐to solution for most problems on a farm. The wires were placed vertically and were either stitched or woven through the denim. When I fastened those pads to my legs with carefully stretched rubber rings and found them to be suitable, my creative spell with the sewing machine came to an end. But I was troubled. Homemade shin guards and a “C” tacked with a safety pin to my sweater were acceptable for the Gardens behind the barn but I aspired to play in the big rink in Pine River and the equipment that I had devised was just not good enough. I needed to buy some real gear— like the stuff that was illustrated in 3 Eaton’s and Simpson’s catalogues. In addition to skates that fit, there were shin guards, shoulder pads, elbow guards, gloves, a protective cup, and a helmet that had to be purchased. I broke open my homemade wooden piggy bank to count the coins that had been carefully hoarded for many years. A quick assessment of costs versus assets indicated that buying the equipment by myself was out of the question. There was only one other alternative; I had to ask my parents. It was not easy. Even in the late 40s, money was still scarce and to present my parents with so large a potential bill seemed to be a pipe dream. But when wishes clashed with reticence, the former won handily. Mother was a pushover. I had been pestering her with hockey talk for so many months that she was sick of it. As I prepared my pitch I knew that I needed something more than a claim that hockey was the greatest artistic endeavor that had been invented and so I threw in the names of Barilko, Bucyk, Mosienko, and Prystai in an unabashed appeal to her ethnic sensibilities. She responded with the standard “Go talk to your father!” That threw me. Father had a simple rule. To any sentence that started with a “may” or “can”, he answered “no” before it was finished. But I screwed up my courage, approached him, and outlined the long list of necessities. Perhaps it was the sheer presumptuousness of the appeal that stifled his reflexive “no” but he lowered his bushy brows as he tried to grasp the situation and asked instead, “Why?” “Because I am going to be a hockey player!” was my proud reply. A long pause ensued as he tried, once again, to get the picture. “But that’s so foolish” he finally blurted. “Only professionals become hockey players.” This time it was I who was taken aback because I sensed that his was an irrational statement. No one ever considered my father to be a witless person but I had just heard a witless reason. It implied that there was a group of people called “professionals” out of whom another group called “hockey players” emerges. Of course, in the mind or a pre-­‐teen, such logical parsing does not occur but, because I tacitly rejected his claim, something like that must have taken place. I knew better than to argue, so I walked away dejected. But a conversation must have taken place because my wish was granted. It is difficult to know if the favour was due to subconscious guilt for giving the same disappointing gift of combs and handkerchiefs every Christmas, or whether it was a genuine awareness that this is what good parents did. Now, as I look back on their decision, I know that it was made as an act of love and not an act of duty and so it remains a most cherished memory. The list had to be culled. Whether it was a matter of principle or a matter of cost, I do not know. But very soon the shoulder pads were gone as well as the cup although I believe that the harness did arrive in the final package. Perhaps I thought that the metal insert was redundant but it is only now that I wonder about that curious decision. It seems that I was willing to risk an end to my own genetic line in exchange for an unmarred elbow. It is possible some more intelligent entity (do they have angels that look after this sort of thing?) saved me from this flawed choice, but whatever the reason, the current existence of progeny is a gift that is even more cherished. That fall, the only news that interested me was whether the ice in Pine River was ready. I simply could not understand why it could not be prepared before 4 Christmas. Meanwhile, all I could do was lay out my novelties and marvel at their elegance. However, I did add a stick and a duffle bag to the trove. I have no idea where the bag came from but it was the last item to remain from that collection. And, in a way, it was the most interesting because the labels on it provided a mini history of my early years. First, the name “Alec” was inked on it, followed by “Alex” and “Al.” Someone had even scribbled the name “Pretzel” which is what the high school crowd called me. I tried to erase that last name from the bag when I took it to University probably because I feared that it lacked the necessary class. On a Sunday in mid January, I woke up early, made a few sandwiches, tucked them into my parka, and took off on a five-­‐mile cross-­‐country trek to town. When I arrived at the shack (it was large but still a shack), no one was there. The fire was on and I could see the janitor clearing snow but where my fellow skaters? Did they not appreciate how important opening day was? And really, how could anyone think that they should attend church instead of paying homage to hockey? I tossed the skates under the stove and stood near the fire because every inch of that building was stone cold. Shortly after, I looked down the road and saw a small figure, with stick and skates balanced on his shoulder, trudging toward the shack. It was David who arrived early which was apt because it turned out that he was more of a fanatic than I. When he entered the shack, we simply acknowledged each other because we were not yet well acquainted. Without much chatter, we busied ourselves getting dressed but in no time we both dashed outside and started passing, shooting, cutting in front of the net and trying to skate backward. Though he was quite young, David was a great skater and puck handler. Unlike me, who worshipped “Bones” Raleigh because my slender frame mimicked his, David had the physique of a typical athlete. And he had the energy to match. He won skirmishes along the boards and stood his ground near the net, skills that I had never even thought about during lonely practices on a frozen creek. I am somewhat reluctant to use the word but, in that brief period, we developed a bond that lasted for many years. Exhaustion had almost set in before others, with skates and sticks in tow, started to trickle in. The Overby boys, Melvin, Lawrence and Vernie; Ray Chernecki and his cousins, Rudy, Ron and Larry, and Sylvester Zanyk were probably all there. I mention this group because they formed the core, or possibly the entire crew, of those who were involved in the one game that was the climax of my hockey career. The Sunday gatherings to play our national sport continued over several years. Because we played pick-­‐up games, each played with everyone else in numerous combinations. But for some reason three of us formed a line that seemed to click. David played centre (always deemed the most prestigious position), Ray played right wing, and I was the left-­‐winger. David, the small dynamo, became the leader and the instigator of what we all wanted, that is, to be a real team. The first thing he did was to name our line the PAC line, which consisted of the first letter of our last names. I did ask him why he had not dubbed it the CAP line and his answer was that “cap” was just an English word. Apparently, it lacked the grandeur of a unique acronym. He also said that, if we ever played in a real competition, we should go by the name “Pine Toppers.” The reason for the first word was obvious 5 but there were two reasons for the second. First, it was in deference to the lumber trade that was a major industry in our area and, second, the word “toppers” properly implied that we were the acme of hockey talent! Tony Andreychuk, David’s dad, was both a force behind and a supporter of his son’s ambitions. He organized one of only three games that I recall we played against other towns. For me, the game was played in early January of 1955 against the Minitonas Bruins. Mr. Andreychuk arranged the transportation but how he got the six or seven of us, plus all the equipment, into one vehicle is a puzzle. It is possible that he removed seats from a van because we sat on the floor for the one-­‐
hour drive. Shortly after we started, David brought out a big brown bag, reached in, and gave each of us an orange. He declared all professionals ate an orange or some other fruit to give them a burst of energy for the game. We ate the story and the oranges without question in an almost ritualistic silence. Whether the dietary claim was true was not important. Consuming those orange pieces was a symbol of our intensity and dedication. Since each of us played the entire sixty minutes, I do not believe that anybody remembered much about the game. All that I recall is that no one got hurt and no one had to be replaced. I don’t even know whether we had brought along a replacement. The only thing that mattered was that we won, and we won handily. David was a newspaper boy for the Winnipeg Free Press and, unknown to anyone, he had sent in a report about our win. On January 12, he handed me the following clipping: PINE RIVER WINS OVER MINITONAS Pine River, Man. (Special)—The shorthanded Pine River hockey team defeated the Minitonas Bruins by a score of 5-­‐2 in an inter-­‐town game recently. Alec Prysiaz-­‐ niuk scored four while David Andreychuk netted one to complete the Pine River scoring. “Shorty” Wagner scored the only two goals for Minitonas. Six penalties highlighted the game. As I read and reread that article, it silently sparked in me an unending search for, and an addiction to, applause. Or to put it more bluntly, early in life I feasted on forbidden fruit that nurtured seeds of pride—a shortcoming that, some say, is the deadliest of the seven deadly sins. 6