I remember the first time I ever set foot (or skate) on a hockey rink.
It was in December 1972, at the outdoor rink up by the Cement Plant houses in Havelock, New Brunswick.
I was four years old.
My cousin Terry was with me.
There must have been a hundred kids on the ice.
It was snowing.
Perfect, like a snow globe.
I remember the sound of hockey sticks slapping at pucks and skate blades carving into the ice.
I remember the sound of laughter.
I remember toques and scarves.
Cold cheeks.
Snow on eyelashes.
It took me forever to make my first lap around the rink.
I started playing organized hockey in 1974 at the rink in Petitcodiac.
I was in Grade One.
I remember the smell of the concession stand grilling up burgers and dogs.
French fries.
Onion rings.
Popcorn.
Coffee.
I remember the sound of the skate sharpener grinding away.
Sparks flying.
I remember the smell of cigarette smoke in the dressing room, as every dad had an Export A hanging out of their face while they tied their kid’s skates with one eye squinted.
“Dad, my skates are too tight.”
“Well then, you tie the sons a whores yerself.”
So I did.
My entire life revolved around hockey.
All day.
Everyday.
Hockey.
Ball hockey.
Street hockey.
Knee hockey.
Air hockey.
Table hockey.
Boot hockey.
Rolled-up-sock-in-a-ball hockey.
Rolled-up-ball-of-hockey-tape hockey.
But my absolute favourite was playing hockey on a backyard rink.
If I could travel back in time for a weekend and play on those outdoor rinks around Havelock, New Brunswick, you knowI would.
Writing this story is about as close as I can get to time travel, and probably the main reason why I write these stories.
I remember perfectly groomed and maintained sheets of ice.
Shoveled, scraped, and hosed down every night.
I remember hockey sticks, brooms, and shovels poking out of snowbanks.
Every half hour or so, we’d all grab a shovel or push-broom and clear the ice.
Eventually, it would be, “NEXT GOAL WINS!”
Game over.
We’d all sit in the snowbank and slide cold feet into an even colder pair of Skidoo boots and head home.
Life was like an episode of Charlie Brown.
And like Charlie Brown, I don’t remember parents ever being around.
I guess they didn’t need to be.
They knew where we were…
Playing hockey on a backyard rink and eating snow if we got thirsty.
On Fridays, after supper (usually, Shepherd’s Pie or Pigs in a Blanket), we’d pile into our car and head into Petty for my game.
We’d get home around 9 o’clock, watch the Dukes of Hazzard, and go to bed.
It always seemed to be snowing as we drove to Petty for my Saturday morning game.
I’d run into the rink, lace up my skates, and jump onto the ice without my helmet, pretending to be Guy Lafleur.
After the game, my Mom and 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 lunchtime.
I’d have a grilled cheese sandwich, a bowl of tomato soup and then head to a backyard rink.
Everyone would be there.
We’d play until suppertime, then all head home and watch Hockey Night in Canada.
On Sunday afternoons, if I wasn’t on an outdoor rink somewhere, I’d be in our basement, with my Habs jersey on, rifling pucks at the deep freeze.
The next thing you knew, Spring was in the air, hockey was over, and the backyard rinks had melted.
I’d go back down to the basement, where the deep freeze would stop another 200 shots a day.
Then, in the middle of May each year, it seemed the Montreal Canadians would once again 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 that 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….”
“You got that right, driver.”
Every summer, in early July, I’d go to hockey camp for a week.
Sussex Valley Hockey Camp.
I remember on the last day of camp, my Dad was carrying my gear as we walked out of the rink when my coach came out of the dressing room and yelled, “Plume! You carry yer own goddamned bag. Now drop and give me 20 push-ups!”
I was seven years old, sobbing and doing push-ups in the hallway outside the dressing room.
I’ll never forget that moment.
The rest of the summer was spent pedaling around Havelock.
I remember fishing 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.
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.
Then, like flipping a switch, it was the end of August, and school was around the corner.
I remember the smell of new pencils and erasers.
New corduroy pants.
The sound of 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 red, yellow, orange, and brown.
Indian Summer.
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.