Havelock, New Brunswick – 1978

There is something that happens when you walk back into the rink after the summer away.

As you take that first rush of cold air into your lungs, you are hit with a combination of smells.

The smell of dressing rooms.
Hockey equipment.
Ice (who knew ice had a smell?!?).
The Zamboni.
Skate sharpeners.
Hockey tape.
Rubber flooring.
Popcorn.
Black coffee.
The smell of the Concession stands grilling up burgers and dogs.
French fries.
Onion rings.

The smell of my youth.

I remember the first time I ever set foot (or skate) on a hockey rink.

It was in December of ’72, at the outdoor rink,
up by the Cement Plant houses in Havelock, New Brunswick.

It was snowing.
Perfect.
Like a snow globe.

I was four years old.
My cousin Terry was with me.

There must have been a hundred kids on the ice.

I remember the sound of sticks slapping at pucks.
The sound of skate blades cutting.
Carving.
Gliding.
Stopping.

And the sound of laughter.
Lots of laughter.

And snow.
Tons of snow.

Toques.
Scarves.
Cold cheeks.
Snow on eyelashes.

It took me forever to make my first lap around the rink.

I’ve been trying to get back to that moment in time ever since.

I started playing organized hockey in 1974.
Grade one.
“At the rink in Petty…” as they say.

I remember the smell of cigarette smoke in the dressing room.
Every dad had a cigarette hanging out of their face as they tied their kid’s skates.
One eye squinted.

“Dad, my skates are too tight.”
“Well then, you tie the sons a whores yerself.”

So I did.

My life revolved around hockey.
All the time.
Hockey.
Ball hockey.
Street hockey.
Knee hockey.
Air hockey.
Table hockey.
Boot hockey.
Rolled-up ball of hockey tape hockey.
Rolled-up-sock-in-a ball hockey.

You name it.

But my absolute favourite was playing hockey on a backyard rink.

There was no greater feeling than playing hockey on a backyard rink all day long.

Except, for maybe, playing hockey on a backyard rink all night long.

Strung lights.
Floodlights.
Headlights.

Hot chocolate.

I remember backyard rinks at the Alward’s and the Steeves’.

Perfectly groomed and maintained.
Immaculate.
Shovelled, scraped and hosed down every night.

I remember hockey sticks, brooms and shovels poking out of snowbanks.

Again snow.
Tons of snow.
Non-stop.

Every half hour or so, we’d all grab a snow shovel and clear the ice.

Eventually, it would be,
“NEXT GOAL WINS!”
Game over.

We’d all sit in the snowbank, slide cold feet into even an even colder pair of Skidoo boots and head home.

Life was like an episode of Charlie Brown.
I don’t ever remember parents being around.
I guess they didn’t need to be.

They knew where we were.
On the rink.

It’s funny because I don’t remember how I got to and from the backyard rinks of Havelock.
I was just always there.

Eating snow if I got thirsty.

I remember Fridays, after school, we’d have “Shepherds Pie” or “Pigs in a Blanket” and then we’d head into Petitcodiac for my hockey game.

Saturday morning, we’d make our way back to Petty for my morning game.

I preferred the 7 AM game because if we got to the rink early enough, I could go on the ice before anyone else and skate around without my helmet pretending to be Guy Lafleur.

After the game, my Mom and my brother would go to the grocery store and stock up on supplies for the week.

I’d stay at the rink and watch the older kids play.

We’d get home around 11 AM, and I’d make my way to one of the backyard rinks.

We’d play until supper time.

Then everyone would head home and watch “Hockey Night in Canada.”

On Sunday afternoons, if I wasn’t on one of the backyard rinks,
I’d be in our basement, with my Habs jersey on, rifling pucks at the deep freeze.

I could live in that memory forever.

But, before you knew it, the hockey season was over and the backyard rinks had melted.

There’d be a week or two where it was too muddy to play hockey anywhere.

Those were the longest two weeks of the year.

I’d go back down to the basement, where the deep freeze would stop about 200 shots a day.

Eventually, things would dry out, and pretty soon, we’d be playing hockey in the driveway.
Or on the street.
Or at the school.
Or wherever.

At the end of May, the Montreal Canadians would raise the Stanley Cup
and all would be right with the world.

Every year, the smell of Spring brings me back to those days.

Before you knew it, Summer would be in full swing.

The sound of lawnmowers would replace the sound of snowmobiles.

Everyone rode their bikes to school.
Single speeds with banana seats.
Stingrays.
3 Speeds.
10 Speeds (with the handlebars flipped up).

Right pant leg tucked into a white tube-sock.
No helmets.

“School’s out!!!”

“Did ya grade?”
“Yeah, man!”
“Me too, but she was touch and go there for a while….”

Every summer, in early July, I’d go to hockey school for a week.

Sussex Valley Hockey Camp.

I remember the last day of my first year at camp.
My Dad and I were walking out of the rink.
He was carrying my hockey bag.

Just then, my coach walked out of the dressing room and yelled,
“Plume! You carry yer own goddamned hockey bag. Now drop and give me 20 goddamned push-ups!”

I was seven years old, sobbing and doing push-ups in the hallway outside the dressing rooms.
Nose into a puddle of melted snow on the rubber floors.

I’ll never forget that moment.

The rest of the summer was spent pedalling around Havelock.

I remember fishin’ down at the crick.

Every day there’d be a baseball game or a football game.
Or both.
Usually, both.

Most weekends we’d go camping at the lake.
Either Mohawk or Pine Cone.

There is nothing better than the smell of bacon and eggs on a Coleman stove.

I didn’t know it at the time,
but life was good.

Boy, was it good.

The next thing I knew, it was the end of August.
And school was around the corner.

The smell of new pencils and erasers.
New corduroy pants.

The sound of chainsaws replaced the sound of lawnmowers.
The smell of wood-burning stoves replaced that of fresh-cut grass.
Leaves of all shades of yellow, orange and red.

Indian Summer.

Football and soccer replaced baseball.

Pretty soon, toques replaced ball caps.
Hunting jackets and hoodies were layered over the t-shirts that I wore all summer.

Winter was on its way.
You could smell it.

Then it was back to the rink.

Because you know, something happens when you walk back into the rink after the summer away.

You take that first rush of cold air into your lungs and you are hit with that combination of smells.

The smell of dressing rooms.
Hockey equipment.
Ice (who knew ice had a smell?!?).
The Zamboni.
Skate sharpeners.
Hockey tape.
Rubber flooring.
Popcorn.
Black coffee.
The smell of the Concession stands grilling up burgers and dogs.
French fries.
Onion rings.

The smell of my youth.