Brilliant Hockey, Epic Figure Skating and Beautiful Writing

What does a perfect, white sheet of ice mean to you?

It means two things to me: victory and defeat.

In my early years, we were at the rink in the winter day in and day out. Figure skating was an obscure and disciplined world. It did not capture vast numbers of fans until later. The old National Hockey League consisted of six teams, from six great cities: Toronto, Montreal, Chicago, New York Detroit and Boston.

We knew other countries played hockey, but we also knew that we were nuts about the game in Canada. It was a common thread running through all of us, coast to coast. When the games were broadcast on the radio, people across the frozen north would huddle around and listen to the impassioned, unbridled enthusiasm of a famous broadcaster named Foster Hewit. During the second world war, soldiers were able to listen from the battlefield. It became a part of our emerging identity, this love of the game. Somewhere along the line, it became our game, as synonymous with Canada as the maple leaf itself.

We knew that Sweden and Russia were passionate about it too. We knew from the Winter Olympics. When it came to Figure Skating, we were up against great competitors who studied ballet and Figure Skating in tandem. Pairs like the Protopopovs were simply breath taking and unbeatable. They challenged us and tested us daily. As far as hockey was concerned, we could not send our best players to the Olympics as they played in the National Hockey League. Yet we had to know how we would match up. We wanted a true test. An effort began to arrange a series where our best could match with theirs. It was a long and complicated effort. When hearts softened and culture exchanges were made, including bringing the sublime Bolshoi ballet to Toronto, we got our big test at last.

At first, the Russians dominated and beat us soundly. Some said it would be a joke and our humiliation would be without end. The players, all stars in their own right, had not played together as a team. The Russian team work had years in the making. We rallied and tied the series. We were up to a do or die situation with the game tied up. I could feel the pressure, and the tension build to the breaking point. Children were let out of school to go home and watch the game. We were on the edge of our seats, on our knees, and even our dogs whimpered. We could not breathe. Along came a magic moment. Paul Henderson of the Toronto Maple Leafs got the puck and tapped it in the net. The whole nation of Canada roared!

Two men, driving trucks on and ice road stopped to listen to that moment. They were each heading in opposite directions. With the final moments so nerve wracking, they could not even keep their feet on the gas. So they stopped. Along with the rest of Canada, they held their breath. With that goal, they ran out of their trucks, on to the ice and embraced each other. Total strangers and tough men, they hugged each other and cried. Then they came to their senses got back in their trucks and carried on. None of us would ever be the same.

A few years later, the United States went up against those great players and felt the same thrill known as the miracle on ice. In both instances, the countries were united in rooting for their team. Hockey is often described as a battle. It is a tough and often brutal game, but it is brilliant and magnificent too. The finest players are swift, brave and in possession of a fierce intelligence.

The athletes make their mark. The sports writers, the announcers, and the broadcasters, make the events unforgettable.Will we ever forget Dick Button? Foster Hewitt is immortal. As we go into winter, I count on the writers up in the press box to put me right in the rink. I want to share the thrills with others. I want to see who we are up against. I love to see countries with smaller populations and fewer dollars to spend, present a formidable challenge. I love to see the Russians come out in their red jackets. It brings tears to my eyes because we have a common bond. In every category, I am in awe of their artistry and effort.

Julia Lipnitskaia of Russia

I understand why people want to go south in winter. I know they get tired of shoveling their driveways. I can grasp how spirits lag in the dark days. The first blades were made of wood. We went out into the snow in sweaters. We covered up in fur robes and had fun out on the ice. Then came the silver and we learned to carve. That sound, along with puck hitting the boards goes back to my infancy. I saw Petra Burka land the first triple jump in competition. She went on to become world champion, and she was from our club where her mother taught us. How could I not be a devoted fan for life? Moms, Dads, Zamboni drivers, and people all over the world, get ready. The Olympics are coming to Sochi, and we will be hosted by masters of the ice. I wait with bated breath.

Present Yourself With Pride

When glancing through the sports page recently, I came across an amazing statistic. Patrick Chan is now in the Guinness Book of World Records.  It happened at the World Championships, 2011, where he received the highest marks ever recorded.  This news is marvelous on many counts, but it personally meaningful to me. This marks a triumph for someone else, someone no longer on this earth, a man who is gone now, but never to be forgotten.  I am recalling my old skating teacher, Osborne Coulson.

To part the mists of time, I return in my mind's eye to Silver Blades skating club, nestled as it was in the borough of Etobicoke, in the west end of Toronto. The rink was absolutely as ordinary as any in existence at the time. The smell of hot dogs, and popcorn would hit full force when we entered the door. The drinks were limited to boiler plate coffee for the Moms and strange tasting soft drinks, with very little ice. The last thing we needed was more cold.

We took to the ice wearing skirts knit by our mothers and grandmothers. In my case, we were lucky enough to have a great aunt who contributed to this effort. Out I went with sweater, skirt, hat and mittens, all fashioned by loving hands. My first coach, in keeping with all efforts to put me on the road to championship, was the best to be had in the entire world. Ellen Burka by name, she had coached her own daughter into landing a perfect triple jump in competition. Petra Burka was the first to accomplish this amazing feat, beating the men and everyone else to the punch, and not only did she do it, she nailed it. Mrs Burka went on to coach many champions, but not yours truly here. At the age of eight, I was quite overcome by a fit of creativity. At center ice, waiting for my music to start, I suddenly got the daft notion to invent my own program. The judges, my parents, and my coach were all horrified with the latter refusing to teach me ever again. In the process of being disciplined for making such a crazy decision, I was told that without Mrs. Burka, I could forget, just abandon, any hope of becoming a Figure Skating Champion in Canada. I had to go down a notch in the coaching field. Due to my odd move, with a championship now out of the running, I had to figure out another way in which to distinguish myself. Without music, or dance lessons, it became a tall order, and the insurmountable problem of my young life. 

Into this sea of trouble skated Ozzie Coulson. I was in the process of working on my school figures, in silence, when he glided over and told me he would be my new coach. He was smoking a cigarette at the time, housed in an elegant gold tipped extender. His hat, a fedora, was enhanced by an extravagant feather sweeping skyward on the side of his head. A cashmere scarf around his neck over a white shirt and tie, an elegant overcoat, and crisp wool pants, he was just unlike most men I knew in my youth. I thought he was great! 

After telling him right off that he was to consider me soft in the head, and stupid on all accounts, he nudged me with his elbow. “You know what” he whispered. “I liked your program!”

I could not believe my ears. Someone was on my side for once? This was too good to be true. That is how my relationship with him began.  At this point in time, I cherish every lesson I had with him, not only for what he taught me about the sport, but what he gave me about life.

“I want you to present yourself to the world with pride,” he said. He would lift his head, smile with a twinkle in his eye, and put his chin up. Sometimes people would make fun of him, or say in their polite way, that he, "certainly was different." Flamboyant was the term most often given to him, but he persisted in walking tall, beautifully and colorfully dressed. He brought a smile to the face of everyone in his midst. He was artistic, creative, and loved that quality in his pupils. He used to laugh his head off at my scathing imitations of others, or of the silly things I said and did.

When I saw him in later years, his eyes filled up with tears as I hugged him. He told me straight away that he was currently coaching a really, really good skater. He referred to Patrick Chan.

When Ozzie lay on his deathbed, Patrick held his hand. A clip shown in the last Olympics featured Ozzie telling Patrick, “I want you to show your pride.”

Any writer attempting to find an agent, or publisher and facing rejection. will be knocked sideways, more than once. It is not uncommon for a young scribe to have a drawer full of verbal assaults and they may start to doubt whether they should pursue this crazy life at all. Bless the people in our midst, the teachers who gave us encouragement, because we can never fully gauge the degree of influence. The meanest letters I ever had to read regarding my work, did not destroy my pride. Just as all those falls, where gravity overcame any efforts to defy it, over and over, and sent me smashing down to the ice, hurting and discouraged, did not stop me from skating. To this day, I still love it, and watching a skater like Patrick Chan who can land not one, but two quadruple jumps, in a short program, one who can make the toughest judges agree that they just saw the best ever, well, that is just as good as it gets. Watching Patrick's record breaking, perfect short program brought me unmistakeably back to the dramatic and jazzy moves, Ozzie taught me as a child. 

Patrick, I congratulate you. Ozzy, I love you and thank you. You had the heart of a champion.