Golden Oldies , livre ebook

Ecw Press - Brian Mcfarlane

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

96 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Golden Oldies explores the life of Sprague Cleghorn, a pioneer tough guy who went from the bright lights of Broadway to a boondock in the Ottawa Valley to stardom before and during the first years of the NHL. It follows the trail of Patsy Guzzo and his RCAF mates in 1948, ridiculed at home but rewarded with Olympic gold in Europe. And it chronicles the career-ending injuries to Ace Bailey, the last Leafs NHL scoring leader, the shameful treatment of the Canucks' Mike Robitaille, and the horrific and near fatal injury suffered by Buffalo goalie Clint Malarchuk.

Sujets

Hockey sobre hielo

Ice hockey

Informations

Publié par	Ecw Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781770907737
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0450€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

This book is written with two of my all-time favourites in mind—softspoken Jean Beliveau and outspoken Ted Lindsay.
With thanks to all the former NHL Oldtimers who adopted me in the 1960s—a rank amateur—and allowed me to play a hundred games with them over the next two decades. From them came the genesis of this book.
With thanks to individuals who encouraged me and assisted me in this effort: Dave Batson, Bob Graham, Dan Sandford, Mike Robitaille, Clint Malarchuk, Bob Baun, Bob and Sheila McNeil, Ray Bradley, Norah Perez, Red Kelly, Len Thornson, Eddie Shack, Pat MacAdam, Scotty Bowman, Paul Patskou and my wife Joan McFarlane.
With thanks to Michael Holmes and Jack David at ECW Press for having faith in Golden Oldies .

Introduction
Hockey’s fascinating history is filled with facts and stats that are familiar to most fans of the game. Who hasn’t heard the story of One-Eyed Frank McGee and the record 14 goals he scored in a Stanley Cup playoff game in 1905? Who doesn’t know that goalie Georges Vezina’s nickname was “the Chicoutimi Cucumber” or that goalie Glen Hall played in 502 consecutive games—without a mask or helmet! These stories, like Wayne Gretzky’s 92-goal season or Paul Henderson’s magical goal against the Soviets in 1972, are oft-repeated and have become part of the game’s fabulous lore.
But the thirst for more tales from hockey’s history appears to be unquenchable.
The game has been enriched by the actions of colourful stalwarts who were the best on ice 50, 75 and 100 years ago, men like King Clancy, who played every position on the ice in a Stanley Cup game; Sprague Cleghorn, the league bad man who was involved in dozens of “stretcher case” incidents and who once taught a Broadway beauty queen how to ice skate; and Ace Bailey, who was brutally attacked by Eddie Shore in a career-ending game in Boston. Others of more recent vintage, like Eddie “Clear the Track” Shack, who claims he was “better than Frank Mahovlich and Bobby Hull” as a junior star, and Mike Robitaille, who sued and won an incredible lawsuit against his own team, the Vancouver Canucks, never achieved superstardom or Hall of Fame heights like others who appear in these pages. But they grab your interest. As does little Patsy Guzzo, who reveals the story of the Laughingstock Hockey Team, a saga passed on to me by my friend Pat MacAdam of Ottawa. Ridiculed at the outset, Patsy and his pals silenced critics by winning Olympic glory in 1948. Even a glimpse at Rocket Richard’s bizarre 1956 contract, written in pencil, will fascinate readers.
Before we begin, allow me to dedicate this book to one of the greatest individuals in hockey—and Canada’s—history, Jean Beliveau. Here’s a letter written on the day of his death.
Dear Jean:
I hope I can find the right words to describe how I feel about you. It will be a challenge. And you know all about challenges.
In Toronto, even the most rabid of Leaf fans, or fans of any NHL team, will agree that, throughout your glorious career, you were above reproach and exempt from criticism, even when you and your mates were vanquishing Leaf playoff hopes and dashing Stanley Cup aspirations.
How was it possible, they wondered, for you personally to garner 10 Stanley Cups while their favourite Leafs, after 1967, won none? The answer is clear. You earned them. And I can hear you protesting: “No, no, no, not me. The team earned them.”
Point acknowledged, Jean. We all know that hockey is a team game. But you were the peerless leader of the team. In Leaf history, one may have to reach back as far as Syl Apps in the late 1930s and early ’40s to find a comparable leader.
Obviously, Leaf fans—like hockey fans everywhere—recognized class and greatness when they saw it. They may have snarled at Ferguson and hooted at Savard and Lapointe. But they never booed Beliveau. Not that I remember.
The aura, Jean— that’s what people noticed. You created the aura that surrounded you. Give your parents credit, if you wish, for a solid upbringing, and perhaps some wise old parish priest for guidance and inspiration. But you, and only you, decided early on what kind of man you would grow into, what moral compass you would adopt and follow.
You made wise choices, my friend.
And that man you moulded became one of the most beloved figures in our country’s history. I’ll bet even you have difficulty explaining how that all came about.
In those games at Maple Leaf Gardens, where you played seven times a season, Leaf fans never showed much respect for politicians who showed up for ceremonial faceoffs; they were quick to condemn a bombastic owner, quick to snipe at an over-the-hill coach, quick to vent their anger on game officials who screwed up. But Jean Beliveau? When you came to town, Jean, 15,000 heads bobbed up and down in unanimous approval. This man has our respect, those bobbing heads signalled.
And they were thinking: This man is what my son should be, my grandson. He’s a superb player, a brilliant and courageous captain. But he’s so much more than that. A hero and role model to millions of kids, a kind and considerate man, a modest and humble man, a gentle man (two words) and a gentleman (one word). Montreal was so fortunate to claim such an individual.
I remember fantasizing once—perhaps it was while watching one of those Miss Universe contests—that if there was ever a Mr. Universe event, where a hundred entrants from a hundred countries competed for “Best Man in the Universe” honours, Canadians would say, “We’re sending Jean Beliveau. He’ll win easily.”
When Ted Lindsay and I worked NBC games together, years ago, I asked him once about you. He said, “Jean Beliveau is the classiest hockey player I have ever met.” And Ted Lindsay has met them all. Ted seldom flattered a foe, but he flattened a few.
Jean, I have known you for what—over 60 years now? And we are almost exactly the same age—born a few days apart, in August 1931. I remember clearly how we first met. Your crack junior team, the Quebec Citadelles, came to Ottawa to play my team, the Inkerman Rockets, in an Eastern Canada junior playoff game. Winner of the series would go on to meet the Barrie Flyers for the Memorial Cup.
It was my bad luck to come down with a silly kid’s disease—measles—just as the series got underway, and I was confined to bed for a week. I agonized over missing the first game. You paced the Citadelles to an easy win in the brand new Quebec Colisée. Yes, the House That Jean Built.
Game two, in Ottawa. There was a frenzy for tickets, and your image was everywhere. You were the most heralded junior player of that era by far. Two of your fine teammates, Camille Henry and Marcel Paille—future NHLers—were pushed from the spotlight.
My Inkerman coach, Lloyd Laporte, told me it was my job to cover you. Was I excited! You can’t imagine. I skated out on wobbly legs—I’d pleaded with my doctor to free me from my sickbed that morning—and faced off against you. I sized you up as we went head to head. And some of my confidence began to slipslide away, like the perspiration that fell from my chin.
I have often mentioned how intimidated I was before that first puck was dropped. You were big, Jean—bigger, stronger, faster than any centreman I’d clashed with before. And yet, years later, whenever we would meet, I’d think, well, he’s not that big. Did you shrink a little over the years, Jean?
I spent the next three periods chasing you around the ice. Your stride was so effortless you soon tired me out. And your shot! You blew one past my ear, and I turned to see the puck fly like a bullet past our bare-faced goalie’s nose. If it had hit either one of us, it would have been curtains, I’m sure. While I was focussed on you, I neglected to keep an eye on your toughest defenseman, big Gordie Hudson, an Ottawa boy who caught me with my head down and knocked me silly.
When I staggered to my feet, I was angry and humiliated. I said, “Okay, Beliveau, I’m going to knock you on your butt.”
I took a run at you across the rink. You were leading a rush and you saw me coming. Reached out. Shoved me aside with one arm. Boom! Down I went again, legs flying in all directions. You brushed me aside like I was a pesky peewee player.
Perhaps it was then, Jean—at that very moment—that I realized I’d never make it to the NHL.
If I can’t check Beliveau, I thought , and there must be a number of players almost as skilled scattered across the country, then I’d better accept the college scholarship I’ve been offered to St. Lawrence University. I’d better forget about pro hockey.
Your Citadelles wrapped up the series back in Quebec, and I failed again to stop you from scoring three or four goals. Our little junior team, created by Lloyd Laporte in a town of a hundred people, with no home arena and no league to play in, had never played before such a huge crowd—all of them cheering for you and the Citadelles en fran çais .
During the second intermission, we stood around goggle-eyed while they presented you with a brand new car—a Nash Ambassador. That summer, I’d paid $75 for my first car—a ’31 Chev. And it had no brakes and bald tires.
In the third period, we realized our season was almost over. So one of our players, during a pileup in the corner of the rink, stole the puck for a souvenir. He tucked it under his jersey and skated to the bench. The game officials looked everywhere for it.
“Où est la rondelle?” they asked. The players shrugged.
Finally, they went to the scorer’s bench to seek another puck.
It wasn’t much fun playing against you, Jean, but I know I speak for all of the Inkerman Rockets when I say we were so proud to be on the same ice surface with you. One day, we knew, it would be something to tell our grandkids about—and for some of us, our great-grandkids.
Years later, you and I would work together on the Scotiabank Hockey C