Remembering Johnny Bower

Johnny and Nancy Bower

He was a fixture of my childhood and the recipient of my evening prayers. Kneeling beside the bed, after reciting, “Now I lay me down to sleep,” I was tasked with asking for God’s help with two teams: The Toronto Maple Leafs and The Toronto Marlboroughs. I used to ask God for an extra wish, to watch over our beloved goalie, Johnny Bower.
When children are exposed to their first games, they feel the burden of wins and losses falls exclusively on the shoulders of the goalie. My family was quick to disabuse me of this notion saying a loss was everyone’s fault just as victory belonged to all, even the lowliest of fans like me. I never did stop fearing that it was too much for him to bear. It seemed to me to be the hardest job in the whole wide world. To know the man was to see him deflect my concerns with a humility I never could fathom.
We were in the thick of things in the sixties as hockey was our family business. We were a fiercely competitive bunch who hated losing. We were lucky enough to bear witness to victory, not once but four times over. We were fortunate beyond reason, beyond all measure, to have the best goalie probably of all time. Shots bounced off him right and left. At the games in Maple Leaf Gardens, I kept my eyes fixed on him year after year, suffering when I saw a puck hit him on his bare face. He was tough; he was magnificent, and he was unfailingly kind. Athletes have a duty to children to be a role model and to be worthy of their worship. No one ever exemplified this better than Johnny. He did it with such joy, with such modesty, and with a flair for deflecting flattery.
We held victory parties for those Stanley Cups. We would line up by the front door to receive our beloved Leafs. Friends would admonish my father, and fear for my mother’s carpets, saying, “Why not do this at a hotel?” We packed our house to the rafters. As President of the Toronto Maple Leafs, my father insisted that only our home would do. As the youngest daughter, my place was at the end of the line. We couldn’t wait to shake the hands of our Leafs and tell them how grateful we were. The lion’s share of praise belonged to Johnny. He would shrug when I gushed away. He would pretend he had nothing to do with anything or no idea how it happened. It just did, that’s all.
Over the years, when our paths crossed, he was the same. After my mother died, in 2004, I was out walking one day and saw a sign in front of a sporting goods store saying the 1967 Leafs would be present on Saturday morning. My brother, the late Tom Smythe came with me, and as we stood outside in the line, I was worried about him as he was ill with cancer at the time. One of the employees came out to fetch us saying that the Leafs had requested we be brought inside with them. They were in a small basement signing posters. Johnny came up to say hi to us, as did Red Kelly, Bobby Baun, and Ron Ellis. We sat on the stairs, and as I examined them all, I noticed something about Johnny.
“You don’t have a single scar on your face,” I said.
“That’s because I ducked,” he joked.
“I remember plenty of times when you didn’t. How is it that you have no scars? What is your beauty secret?”
“Cocoa butter. Always after shaving. A coach told me that in Juniors.”
You couldn’t make the man take any credit for anything. I remember him going out of his way to keep engaging my brother in the conversation. I didn’t know a lot of the Leafs that came before the sixties, I didn’t know them personally, but I can’t imagine anyone was a better ambassador for the team than our Johnny. He was the most steadfast, honest, and humble man I have ever had the privilege to know. He will be revered, not just for his full-tilt splits, for all those glove saves, for facing Gordie Howe and all the others greats, night after night, but for who he was most of all. It simply is unfathomable how he could achieve so much without ever becoming proud. Courage paired with sweetness, and the kindest heart the city has known. Oh, how he will be missed.
Johnny, we hardly knew ye.

Cut the Clutter

                                                  Maple Leaf Gardens, Toronto

My novel in progress has received a great shot in the arm. Hiring an editor to help with the finishing process has been an enlightening and rewarding experience.  Some pages of the manuscript have few needed changes, and some have more, but each and every suggestion is thrilling. Is that an odd word choice? No. The suggestions give me goose bumps. My editor is a really good writer, and every line her pencil has drawn is an improvement. So many sentences slated for change, are ones that I struggled with and re-wrote time and time again. In some cases, I have eliminated them, making short work of the problem.

Four Stanley Cups and a Funeral, is a novel about a quest for identity, set  in a very male arena.  In a family torn apart by conflict, defined by winning and losing, a starstruck dreamer comes of age, seeking redemption. Lessons have been learned and grief has run its course. I would recommend the memoir form, or as in my case, an autobiographical novel, to anyone who wants to make sense of their life and times. While I would not venture to say the process has left me older and wiser, I can say it has left me older. The countless hours I have spent recalling snippets of dialog from loved ones who no longer walk upon this earth has left me with greater gratitude and affection than ever before.

Reading my work with the editor's marks has taught me more about myself than I imagined it would. The editor's skill with the language has filled me with awe. She has added better words! She told me to be judicious with exclamation points! Who could ask for more? She has also reigned in my overblown enthusiasm, my too often repeated phrases, and spiffed up idioms passed along incorrectly through the generations. Writers tend to speak of editors in glowing terms. They thank them profusely when the work reaches the published form.

You can only do so much by yourself. No matter how well you did in school, or how praised your writing has been, you may have developed appalling habits over time. I know I did. Like golfers, tennis pros, or professionals of all kinds, we can all benefit from an unjaundiced eye. Yes, a friend can proofread the manuscript, but an editor can do so much more. Don't hesitate to seek help. If your work is accepted and another editor comes on board, so much the better. It is the editors who choose to take on the work of getting a manuscript to publications. Spare them the tedious, obvious line editing, and let them get to what they do best. I, for one, am hooked on the process.

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.