To Sir with Love

It was as if something were calling him without ever the chance of his being able to refuse. Something so strong, yet ephemeral, it could neither be touched, nor held by ones hand, before slipping through the tenuous grasp that would try to contain it. To say that it exists in ones' being seems arbitrary. Shakespeare spoke of it in the quality of mercy, "It falls as the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed, it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes." In a different sense, that is the way it happened here in those days we all shared with him. The blessing, an ability to create a want in us collectively, which in most cases we didn’t even know existed; the taking, innate in our ability to accept the want in each of us individually. In the end, knowing this gift was either intended, or divine, he did accept the challenge with integrity and honesty, and did by all accounts endeavor to pass this blessing on to the next generation, with great zeal, and efficacy. That will be his legacy, beyond his friends and family.



An Administrator and School Teacher by trade, he never was able to stop giving when the final bell rang, often going right to practice for several hours, before going home for the day. Moreover, that which he was giving really has no beginning, or end. That reflection lives on in a thousand ways, in every day, in every one he touched. Those who possess such purpose, are followed with great enthusiasm, capable of accomplishing immeasurable good deeds, inspiring others to their best efforts while selflessly following its' call, often to the detriment of their own families. There are plenty of examples of such sacrifice to go around, none the least of which was the constant sense of community, which seemed to hold him above, and beyond his own affairs. Whether it is teacher, coach, league commissioner, sports writer, bus driver or friend, he never let us down. He had adopted us as his own, and would see us through till he could teach us no more. Many have known this person in our lives, some have been lucky enough to have had several, at different stages on their journey. He was my first, and as such, one of the most important developmental characters in my life.



When I was coming up, our town had quite a Minor Hockey Association. Some may look askance at one another at the very mention of such an association, but that is only because they might have had something else with which to compare it. I, being six years old, did not. The players who came before me often reached legendary status among us kids, often carrying their names in our road hockey games. Chapman, Bailey, Reid, Burnside, Donaldson, and a host of others, provided plenty of fodder for our ever growing imaginations. Many of those same players, when their eligibility had run out, but not their love, or ability to play the game at a high level, continued to play for the Intermediate squad run by the now infamous coaching tandem of Glen Nickel and Tore Ross. Glen had quite an amateur career, and even a shot at the big time, (I'm not sure what that was) Tore, well he was probably one of the most recognizable sports figures from those early days, the area had ever seen, (I can still see him in that knee length red coat, pronouncing the excellence born of Junior D Championship days, a first in this town.) An excellent Umpire, his presence, no matter the field of play, commanded respect from all combatants. I'm not sure of his hockey pedigree, but as a coach, he had a gentle touch to offset the rough edges of his partner. Sadly, they are all gone now, remaining only in old pictures on the wall of the new arena, and, of course, in the hearts and minds of all who knew them.



There were many other fine coaches and volunteers who gave of their time, and contributed to the ongoing success of hockey in our small town. One, whose commitment rose well above any at the time, often stopped to give my brother and me a ride to school each day. No matter the season or the sport, he was there from Saturday morning Hockey, to summer Baseball. We are all grateful to have the memory of such a generous man in our hearts. He taught us all, through his actions, there can be no higher calling than service to others; nor one more lasting. We were fortunate to have shared all those days together, to have been at the same place, in the same time. I will never forget it. Suffice it to say, together, we had some great teams that would contend, and sometimes win, Ontario Championships. We also had a ball along the way!



I am unable to recall exactly when I first saw him, the where, forever sewn into the fabric of my soul. The blue Chevy coupe old Mr. McCoy usually drove to work sat idling at the entrance to our driveway. Old Bob, something of a card himself, was not at the helm; today the pilot was his single boarder, the new teacher my big brother referred to as Sir. Inside, a tall, youthful looking man sat at the drivers' seat, encouraging us, my brother and me, to jump in and catch a ride to school. My first impression of him, based solely on the giant sized smile, one that seemed to involve his whole person, was the feeling of warmth that exuded his every pore. He reached across the front seat, easily carrying the distance his large frame allowed, his torso barely turning at all, to release the passenger door. Holding the seat forward allowing easy access to the back, he then turned toward our frozen faces and implored us to make haste, time was wasting, and there was none to spare if we were to make the early bell for home room. Sitting alone in the back seat, I spoke not one word while Jordan made small talk with Sir. I did not realize then that this was only the first leg on the long journey I would take with Sir. On the way past Kramps’, the ball field, and before finally reaching school, I tried to say something, anything, but couldn’t utter a peep. I did notice one thing though; his hair had an unusual flip in front, and his sideburns were way cool.





        A lot of what happened along the way took place in an old barn situated across the street from the school, many of us staring out at her during the day, often to the detriment of that day's lesson. She wasn't much to look at from the exterior. Stretching some four stories high, her spires were probably second in height only to the Presbyterian Church, which could be seen from as far away as Moira Lake to the south. Standing outside, waiting for the doors to open, many of you will remember the poor old lady that would peer out at us from behind a curtain at her door. Usually, somebody had pelted that door with a snowball, thereby generating the icy stare from her sullen visage. Funny, nobody knew her name. When the double orange doors finally did swing open, a tiny box office area, with a window on each side, first greeted the eager fan. Moving beyond the inside swinging double doors, separating the box office from the rink, was the old girl herself. Originally wrapped in chicken wire at both ends, draped by massive  post and beam trusses in between, she had the timeless look of an old photograph you thought lost, the only one capturing that something from all the great moments inside another era. Not quite like the inside of a barn, but having grace and charm, like an old concert hall, is how I'll remember her. The voices of her past, echoing still in those very hearts who remember her now, will always hear her song. There was warmth, and strength about her, that belied the often frigid temperatures inside. Crude, yet amazingly functional, she seemed to reflect the era of her construction. At center stage, the smallish ice surface invited all to see, its' corners so steep they appeared almost square to opposing teams. Though not a good place for players to encounter body contact, I’m sure the dimensions of those corners had a great deal to do with teaching young players about the consequences of hearing footsteps. Yes, there was a slight home ice advantage here.







At the far end of the ice, opposite the entrance, was a special place for all of us kids. Situated directly above the net, accessed only by climbing up a ladder from the ice behind the cage, through a tiny trap door in the floor, was the goal judge's box. From there we became witness, and she, our mistress. Hung precariously to the right of the goal judge box, was the over sized stop watch used to control the games; its' arms so large they appeared to have once been airplane propellers. Three rows of wooden bleachers lined the length of the arena, framing the ice surface with a view almost completely unobstructed for the audience. Only from the aisle behind the last row of bleachers, where one could stand on the big nights, could catching all the action be tricky. I'm not sure when the chicken wire came out, and the Plexiglas went in, but I can still see him there at the bench imploring us all to do our best, and above all, have some fun.



The first few years were dismal. I'm not sure we even won a single game that first year.  We were young and had no depth. I can barely remember scoring from the blue line, in a game against Marmora, with a backhand, top shelf. One of the refs that day I believe was Gary Reid. I overheard him say offhand to Mr. B. that the kid, who scored the backhander from the blue line, showed some promise. Sir looked around, as if to make sure who else was listening, and responded directly while looking straight into my eyes. It was the first time anybody, other than my own immediate family, had noticed there might be some hope for us. You can't imagine what that moment meant to a young skater, and the team. He said something like, "all they need is to get a couple of wins under their belt, and the rest will come." Almost immediately we began winning, and within a year, were one of the teams to beat in our league. Simple words, great timing, especially when you consider that at the time when they were spoken, we were not exactly promising to anybody except the person who would become solely responsible for any success that we might eventually achieve. I may not have known it then, but that moment was a huge turning point, in a journey that would take us all to places we had never dreamed of before that day.





Another strange thing began to happen not too long after that game. We started to believe in ourselves as a team. Somehow, somewhere, we had forged an identity amongst ourselves that could take us wherever we wanted to go. Each person seemingly settling into a role they were comfortable in, without the sacrifice of ego, or the petty jealousy that sometimes flows from parents, allowing all of us to get what we wanted. We were winners, finally being recognized, and starting to draw a crowd. Picking up the Hastings Review one day I was surprised, excited, dumbfounded, and almost any other adjective one can think of, to see a write up of a game in which we had won against a much stronger team from Belleville. The author was none other than coach, who now had added columnist, and team statistician, to the ever growing list of teacher, coach, driver, league commissioner, and mentor. Was there no end to this mans' generosity and energy? In the months, and years that were to follow, only then could one put into perspective the overwhelmingly positive effect he would have on all of us, both individually, and collectively.





Those of us, who knew him, loved him. All tolled, , he led us on two undefeated Hockey seasons at Novice, one all Ontario championship as Pee Wee’s and one ORSA all Ontario Baseball Championship , through thousands of practice drills, helped mend our tender hearts through all our hopes and dreams, when all about us seemed lost, and about a half million miles through the Canadian wilds. I cannot think of a happier time ever in my life than the years I spent gallivanting around the small towns, and intimate barns, of southeast Ontario, in a car full of kids on their way to find out, with their favorite coach, and friend. We will be forever indebted for his time, experience, patience, and sacrifice, on our behalf. God rest his soul.