Pure Joy

In the long, cold, blustery, winters of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula ice hockey was all the rage.  Back in my early days the outdoor rinks were the training ground for the roughness and skating skill necessary to survive the worlds fastest sport.   Many kids lost front teeth, scarred their faces, or needed splints or casts on one or more limbs.

All ages played in these pickup games as teams were chosen by the two oldest kids from the rag tag lot that showed up.  On many days the games were interrupted mid day so the ice could be scraped clean of the falling snow.  A foot of the white stuff was not uncommon in one afternoon.  We played until dark and twice a week we took over the rink with the dim lights provided.

All this adversity, hardship, and grit readied me for organized hockey on the huge indoor rink where the semi pro teams played every Saturday night.  I couldn’t wait for the games to start.  The burden of  carrying a heavy bag of shin guards, elbow pads, skates, pucks, gloves and the number 3 lie left handed CCM hockey stick ten blocks home was worth the fun of the games.  I was the center man on the famed Murphy’s Bantams and the team was in a tie for first place with the team sponsored by Public Chevrolet, the local G.M. dealer.  I say “famed” because the team photo was later prominently displayed in the window of the Merchants and Miners Bank for over 30 years.

We were in the last game of the season that would decide the league championship.  Our team fell behind 1-0 early in the first period.  Frustration seemed to be overrunning confidence as the game wore on.  Then despite relentless cajoling from the coach Jimmy Rost we fell behind 2-0.  Despair ran through the team at the second intermission.  But we gamely hit the ice for the final stanza.  Win or lose I was set to give my all.

Soon after the puck dropped I was fed a fine pass from my cousin Bobby Joe Primeau and was able to sneak the puck past Bobby Erikkla, the stout goalie, to narrow the deficit to just one goal.  Then my left-wingman David Pechawer, who was born the same day  as I was and in the same hospital as me carried the puck towards the net.  A mad scramble lead to shoving, checking, slashing but I jammed at it again and again and now the score was tied 2-2.  Two goals in five minutes in the championship game.  It doesn’t get any better than this.  But I was wrong.  It does get better.

Exhausted and tired beyond any other time in my 11 years, the coach kept me on the ice.  I knew what that meant.  He believed that I would finish what I started.  After an up and down battle all over the ice I gathered in an errant pass by the overconfident star of the Chevrolet team.  I headed up the ice never looking for help, selfish indeed, but there was no time to be cute.  Only time to score.  And score I did.  A hat trick.  In one period.  The winning goal. The championship.  Pure unadulterated joy.

I had noticed during the game that my dad was watching from behind a line  of other fathers.   He often did that but never stood out nor did he ever make any loud cheers.  He left before I was able to find him after the game.  I even had to walk home with all my gear.  On arriving home I dumped my bag in the porch and I was about to tell my mom about the big night I had.  Before I could do that my dad blurted out, “didn’t they cancel the game tonight?”  But even he could not keep a straight face.  His smile showed how proud and happy he was for me.  But it was more pure joy to talk to him and mom about it.  Over sixty years have since passed but I still feel that joy today.