Hockey Sticks

      I lived on Buckingham drive. The district known as Sandwich East; the east side of the city better known as Windsor Ontario. That one lane pothole street was our playground. The arena. The stadium. We were average kids with time on our hands. Instead of cell phones. 

Every kid grew up dreaming of playing hockey. They imagined playing for his or her favorite team. I was just one of many. I was Dave Keon and when I played net, of course, Jacques Plante. The Toronto Maple Leaf's was (okay still are) my team. Had I known the ribbing I was going to receive my whole life, I might have changed teams.

A new hockey stick was key to childhood hockey fantasy. A simple hockey stick. I didn't get one often, so when I did, I used it until it was almost used up. My younger brothers got my hand me down Sherwood's. Every kid had a hand me down Sherwood. It was what the pros used, so it was the only acceptable brand. By the time I was done with them, they were no longer hockey sticks, more like a long handled tooth pick, wrapped in black electrical tape that I found rummaging through my fathers stash again. Hockey tape! Who has money for that? Improvise. We did. We kept the sticks together, wrapped from butt end to blade. Good thing too, a high stick with that tooth pick could poke your eye out. Eventually those old Sherwood's went back to the forest (the wood pile) a bladeless lifeless shaft.   

When replacement blades first arrived on the scene it was literally a game changer. All those hand me down tooth pick sticks got a much needed upgrade. After all, you can replace a blade, an eye, a little trickier. Now the worst injury was the self inflicted butt end to the middle section or worse. Anyone who has jammed the stick into a driveway seam, knows what I mean. Putting the blade on wasn't easy. You had to Smash the butt of the stick on the ground, while pushing the blade on the shaft to make it fit. Once in place we had to find a screw (you know where) and you're almost there.

That magical blade was great. We soon found out we could bend the blade to look like Bobby Hull's stick. We just needed an absent mother, a stove top, time and muscle. After softening and shaping the blade into the desired curvature, we 'd sink it into snow to chill or run it under cold water. We didn't plan on the lingering scent of plastic in the air. Even with the widows open. The smell hung around like my Mom's liver and onions, only worse, if that's possible. Hey, we didn't burn down the house, it just smelt like it. Now we were ready to unleash a slap-shot and knock the peanut butter jar off grandma's cupboard or my head.

Now I have seen home made hockey nets. Heck, I was the master builder of home made hockey nets but home made hockey sticks, now that's another thing. The kids down the road were poor and like us improvised. They nailed together two pieces of wood. I wasn't sure if it was a hockey stick or a weapon. They didn't have the skills we had. How could they? But they were tough and just what our block needed to beat the other block when they came down the road to challenge us. We nailed them, okay the poor kids down the road nailed them because every time the shot the ball, projectiles flew everywhere. Speaking of balls..

If you want to play hockey you must first play ball. You can't play street hockey without it. There are many choices so choose wisely. The strike out ball was our street hockey ball. Red, white, blue and spongy. We did have other options. A hairless tennis ball or a rubber  hockey puck. The rubber puck had a secret; it wanted to be a sponge ball.  All it did was bounce around and piss me off. Then one day someone showed up with an orange ball. At first it was cool. Until, it got cool. When it got cool, things started hurting. A slap-shot caught in a thinly palmed baseball mitt. Ouch. A snap shot to the ankle or a wrist shot to the shins. Double ouch. We decided that the orange ball was a three season ball and chucked it into the shed where all the bad ideas lay, in one day land.

Oh the hours we played. That one lane road had it all. Laughter, pot holes, lamp post and the sounds of my dad whistling because we never noticed the lamppost. We all knew, when it lights up, it was lights out. Game over.

Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to comment and share. 

Denny D