The National Pastime

I am Canadian, eh.

Other than a penchant for saying “Sorry!” at the drop of a hat, Canadians are perhaps best known around the world for one thing – a passion, no national obsession, for the game of ice hockey. On just about every frozen pond you will find at least 3 or 4 Canadians of all ages and ability chasing after a 3 inch rubber disk with everything from $300 high tech sticks to those fashioned in the garage just before game time. Pads? We don’t need no steenking pads! In my youth the Eaton’s Wishbook stuffed into a pair of heavy woolen socks was good enough, and a thick toque (another Canadian invention!) could keep even the softest noggin from a trip to the ER with a concussion.

Oyster Bay, unfortunately, was not blessed with the long, cold Winters found in the rest of Canada. No sir, a cold Winter was when the temperature dropped below freezing for two days in a row, and it was rare indeed that Woodses Pond down the road would freeze hard enough to keep you from a good dunking as you skated over the blue line!

But like everything else in Oyster Bay we made do. No bugging Mom or Dad to take us to Comox to the arena (20 miles away and the closest sheet of ice). Besides we would have had to fork over hard earned cash for all the gear required to play in a real league, not to mention the entry fees!

Instead we played road hockey, or more correctly driveway hockey. Nobody was fool enough to put a net out in the middle of the Island Highway! The problem with driveway hockey was that none were paved. Or level or even closely resembling a proper arena. Most were dirt and gravel two rut laneways from the highway. But by dingles, for a moment or two you could be Yvan Cournoyer or Bobby Hull before a rut twisted your ankle or the dog ran away with the puck.

Most of us couldn’t afford proper hockey sticks, and if we did the driveway would soon render them useless; large chunks out of the blade or blade completely gone off into the trees or out on the beach. Instead we made our own out of whatever we could scrounge in the basement, toolshed or out on the beach. Sometimes they were works of art, but most of the time they were clunky, with heavy 3/4 inch plywood blades and a shaft made out of a stolen long handled shovel.

The puck was actually a ball, sometimes a tennis ball, sometimes a real road hockey ball and once, only once a croquet ball. The croquet ball was quickly retired after a slapshot nearly gave Clay a vasectomy.

Saturday morning was usually game day in my driveway. My Father had built a carport at the end of the house a couple years before and actually floated a concrete floor to park his car on. When he was off at work it was a great place to play driveway hockey, with one small caveat. Because my Father worried about black ice in the open air carport he had rough finished the concrete. So tripping your opponent would most likely remove the knees out of their jeans as well as a good quarter inch of the skin and kneecap beneath!

Saturday morning was also when my Mother washed clothes. Being somewhat behind the times clothes washing involved a number of heavy laundry baskets, two large evil smelling cement tubs in the basement and a wringer washer. My job was to carry the wet baskets of clothes up to the carport where the long clothesline waited.

On this particular Saturday it was just Clay and I playing, me at the edge of the driveway playing Bobby Hull and Clay in goal as Gerry Cheevers (they had about the same size and shape). Clay was not fond of playing goal after the croquet ball incident but the promise of fresh baked cookies after the game gave him the incentive to stand in front of my sometimes lethal shots.

“Don’t break any windows!” my Mother shouted from the basement as a chunk of gravel bounced off the window casing near where she was running the washer.

“Yeah, yeah…” I lipped back as I lined up another slapshot.

Swoosh, CRASH, the ball rocketed off my stick, cutting a smooth arc across the driveway and through the basement window to land in the laundry tubs. Clay turned pale, dropped his stick and ran off home. My Mother stood at the broken window with her hands on her hips staring at me with that Mom look that can curl your nose hairs.

“I told you not to break any windows!” she yelled at me.

“I’ll show you broken windows!” I shouted back, and in a rare lack of self control proceeded to break the other windows in the frame with my hockey stick.

I don’t think I have ever seen my Mother move as fast from the basement, around the corner and through the carport to grab me by the arm.

“Up to your room, NOW!” she thundered, “And wait for your Father to come home!”

Now you have to realize this was about 11 oclock in the morning and my Father was not due home until 5 pm. But my Mother who shall not be mocked meant business and I ended up in my room reading until my Father arrived home.

Truth be told I would much rather be punished by my Father than my Mother! My Father was exceptionally strong for a little man (5 foot 6 in his sock feet) but he was also much more philosophical than my Mother. When JL hit the gas instead of the brakes and mowed down the picnic table learning the drive, my Father did not punish him. Instead they spent Christmas Day on the beach with a sledge hammer pounding the bent fender back into shape. My Mother on the other hand was an expert with the wooden spoon and though she never used it on me, she would purchase them on an almost weekly basis while ‘educating’ JL.

From my room I could see the car drive into the driveway, then shortly thereafter the back door opened and my parents engaged in a low conversation in the kitchen. Then I could hear my Father washing his hands at the kitchen sink.

Slowly he climbed the stairs and opened my bedroom door. For a whole minute he stood there looking at me with the saddest look on his face.

“This is going to hurt me more than you!” he said quietly and then proceeded to give me the hardest single spank I could imagine!

As he headed for the door he turned. “Get washed for dinner. Tomorrow morning I am going to teach you how to replace a window and putty it.”
The pain was real, the message clear, but there was a small smile on my Father’s face as he headed for the stairs. We both knew that Sunday mornings were our time in the workshop, while Mother and the rest sat through yet another interminable sermon by Reverend Williams.