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  That was the way we learned how to play the game, and you develop your skills pretty quickly in a pitched battle on that scale. After all, if you wanted to spend any amount of time with the puck on your stick, you had to learn how to stickhandle through ten opponents. That’s a great environment for kids to develop skills while at the same time having a ton of fun.

  If you could hold your own in those scrimmages, then regulation games didn’t seem so tough. In real games, you’d only have to get through five opponents, which seemed easy compared to what we were used to. We rarely had any kind of regulation goalie nets back then, so anything you could get your hands on, we would use. A pair of boots, a couple of mounds of snow, or whatever was handy. We always managed to find the materials we needed to enjoy ourselves, wherever and whenever a game broke out.

  It wasn’t just hockey, either. When winter was over, instead of going to the rink, we’d all head to a ballpark or a school playground and play baseball instead. Baseball provided me with the same kind of rush of excitement I had during the winter months playing hockey. I just loved the time spent with friends in all kinds of sports environments. Those experiences were probably shared by millions of children from coast to coast back then, because, as Canadian kids, that was something you just did.

  It’s safe to say that everyone loved to win when they played those games, and I was no different, but to me playing hockey and baseball really wasn’t just about winning. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we shouldn’t have competition. Even my harshest critics over the years couldn’t complain that I didn’t want to win badly enough. I do believe, however, that learning to handle both winning and losing is the most important part of competition. Coming to grips with the idea that the outcome doesn’t always go your way is a life lesson, not just a lesson in sport. Sometimes we kept score, sometimes we didn’t. But our games were primarily about the sheer joy of play, of being able to go outside with your buddies and simply have a good time.

  The one indoor rink in town, the Memorial Arena, was always in use and we simply had to wait our turn. More often than not, we just relied on Mother Nature to provide for us, and I must tell you, there is no finer experience for a hockey player than skating on outdoor ice. (And besides, it’s possible it was colder inside the Memorial than it was outside on the bay.)

  Just ask the professional players who get the chance to participate in the annual Winter Classic game the National Hockey League, first held in 2008. Those events are always eagerly anticipated by the players, while fans are afforded an opportunity to share in the nostalgia of a different time and place. Such events take everyone back to the roots of our game: the sensation of skate blades cutting into crisp outdoor ice, the crunching sound of ice chips flying in tidy arcs. Those are sights and sounds and feelings that are forever lodged deep in my mind. The fresh, cool air against your face followed by the glorious warmth when you got home and rubbed the feeling back into your toes. Those things were all part of the outdoor experience, and I couldn’t wait to go back out again and again.

  Those memories represent my youth better than just about anything I can recall, such was the pure joy we felt experiencing the game in that setting. I have been able to attend one of the NHL outdoor events at Fenway Park in Boston. You can see the players looking around, wide-eyed and happy to be there. When you witness firsthand how players gaze up in that ballpark to catch a glimpse of Fenway’s famous Green Monster, it can’t help but bring a smile to your face. In those instances, these highly paid professional athletes are, at least for a moment, back on a pond somewhere and experiencing the game at its absolute best.

  We probably all had the dream, back then, that one day our talent would take us to the big time, and there was nothing wrong with dreaming that dream. That’s what fuels every game of shinny or back-lot baseball in the world. Of course, as you move along in your hockey career, reality begins to set in for most people. The dream begins to slowly fade away with the understanding that you will probably never be playing under the bright lights. But that’s beside the point—that’s not what childhood games are about, anyway. The life lessons we learned about competing remained with us even into adulthood. The types of competitions you engage in as an adult might be different from those you participated in when you were a child, but the rules from childhood still apply. What you learn on the frozen bays and ball fields doesn’t become less relevant, no matter where you end up.

  Those were simpler times and, given many of the headlines of today, probably a safer time for kids as well. I’ll grant you, it might be that the memories grow a little bit sweeter with age as we look back on our youth with yearning. But those days as a kid, the times on the bay with my buddies, they truly remain my fondest memories of hockey. For me, those moments in my life represent hockey in its purest form. It was not about fame or fortune, though we all dreamed of both, and it surely wasn’t about final scores. It was sport for the sake of sport, and it was about friends.

  Parents today might be surprised to discover what kids can do if they are left to their own devices. We certainly learned to figure things out for ourselves. We had to take the initiative, because the odds were that no parent would be available to shovel off the bay or the rink or a stretch of road. If we wanted to play, we had to do the work to make it happen. We also learned how to give as well as take, because we were all in it together, and it was important to interact with everybody in the group even if they weren’t your closest friends. If there is no one there to tell you to play nice, you figure out pretty quickly that there really is a code, and kids naturally respect it.

  Every once in a while, tempers would flare, but we figured out how to settle those disputes as well—after all, there was no referee to decide the outcome. You would stand up for yourself on some occasions if you had to. One way or another, every kid who laces up a pair of skates in a shinny game learns that backing down almost never helps. But it also doesn’t take long to figure out that if you play by the spirit of the rules, there is usually not much trouble. Actually, when I think back to those times, I can’t remember any great conflict or fight that ever erupted on the bay. I suppose we were just having too much fun.

  Sports in general, and hockey specifically, forced those lessons on us all, and they stuck with us for a lifetime. No coaches to tell you what to do. No parents to tell you how to behave. No referees to tell you what’s fair. And no linesmen to break up trouble if someone loses his temper. Yes, that’s freedom. But it’s also responsibility—we had to figure things out for ourselves or there wouldn’t have been those day-long games we loved so much.

  Unfortunately, in many respects those long-ago days are a world removed from what we see today. Where streets and parking lots and schoolyards were once filled with children at play, they’re often quiet now. Today, far too often I see baseball gloves and hockey sticks being replaced in no small measure by satellite TV and video games. Why wouldn’t kids drift in that direction if they aren’t getting enough opportunity to play and not having fun when they do?

  I’m not trying to tell anyone not to watch TV, but if you’ve ever spent a long winter afternoon playing shinny with the whole neighborhood, or a summer evening playing softball with anyone who shows up at the diamond, you will know that kids who don’t have the chance to organize themselves and solve their own problems and feel the exhilaration of sport for its own sake are missing out on something irreplaceable. In those days, we rarely waited for an adult to organize our social time or sports experiences. We took that upon ourselves. We were the ones who decided which game to play, where to play it, when to assemble, and who would be on whose team.

  Without some form of sports, kids lose something. Being a part of a team, official or otherwise, shouldn’t be just for the elite players. Those types of experiences should be enjoyed by every child.

  My first hockey games seem so distant now. So much of modern sports is scripted for our kids, and that�
��s not the way it was when I was young. That is one way that the pure joy of participating may, to my way of thinking, be diminished for some children. Today, we see entire leagues being owned by a single person or company, and elite or travel-level players often have most of the advantages when it comes to ice time, whether that is at practice or game opportunities. Yet most of the kids who want to participate aren’t elite at all—by definition, they can’t all be elite. Most kids are average. That’s what average means.

  Most kids just want to play a sport for the sake of participating. Those are the ones we should be helping as much as we can, because they make up the vast majority of the players involved. In my time, it wasn’t about being an “all-star” as much as it was about being with your pack of friends. When we eventually did take the game from the bay into our minor hockey leagues, we all knew where our loyalty should rest. It was expected that we would participate in our town league first and foremost before we could step on the ice to play for an all-star team in a tournament or other competition, and that was just fine with me.

  It brought communities closer, and no one really cared who the top players were. Rather, we cared that we were together. For most of the tournaments we participated in, we would all be billeted with a local family as opposed to staying in a hotel, because that was just too costly. Billeting usually meant we would stay at the home of a player from the host team, and it was always great fun. Besides being more affordable, billeting allowed you to get to know other players from around the region. While there is still some billeting today, it is not as common as when I was a youngster playing in Parry Sound.

  For a lot of folks now, if a son or daughter is going to play it can be a financial burden, and that isn’t right. I fear that given the costs associated with ice rental, travel, coaching, and equipment, many children aren’t able to get involved. That runs directly counter to the culture I grew up in. To this day, I am grateful for the place and era in which I was born and the framework through which I was raised. Parry Sound will always have a special place in my heart, and the memories of my youth will always draw me back there.

  There are names and faces from back then that still make me smile. They were people who took the time to make a difference, not only in my life but also in the whole community. When it came to hockey, many of these people had a dramatic impact on me, though at the time I couldn’t possibly have understood their significance. It’s interesting what you remember from your childhood. While many images start to blur with the passage of time, others remain crystal clear, as if they happened only last week. I can remember my absolute joy when I received my very first pair of new skates. Up to that point, everything had been hand-me-downs or bought secondhand. But when I turned eleven or twelve, just before the new hockey season began, my dad received a very generous gift from a friend of the family, Mr. Gene Fernier. Mr. Fernier decided it was time I had new blades, and he wanted to buy them for me. I can’t recall the model of those skates or who made them, but I have sure held on to that moment. What a thrill it was. Even now, I still remember the excitement and the gratitude I felt.

  It was an experience I shared with many young boys and girls who got to taste that thrill in their own way. It’s one of the wonderful things about sports. Regardless of your skill level or where you end up in the pecking order, everyone involved shares common feelings, common experiences, and the same exhilaration from participating. It doesn’t matter if it’s on a grand stage like the Stanley Cup finals, a Canada Cup series, or oldtimers’ hockey, or in a smaller setting like a kids’ recreation league. The simple truth is that hockey binds those who play it in ways that are almost indescribable. The experiences are ones that all of us can identify with, on any number of levels.

  Thinking of those skates reminds me that as a young boy I would always try to save a good portion of whatever money I made from doing odd jobs. After all, there were eventually five Orr children, and we couldn’t all expect to receive everything we wanted, because the money simply wasn’t there. One of my great thrills was walking into a sporting goods store with my savings in my pocket and asking to see a Hespeler Green Flash. It was the only stick I wanted, and to me it was definitely the hottest ticket on the market. It was something I had waited patiently to purchase. The modern equivalent would be when those fancy composite sticks first became available—every player on every team had to have one, regardless of the cost. But there was one big difference between my Green Flash and most modern twigs. While I can’t recall what I paid for that stick, I can guarantee you it didn’t cost what the modern ones do. And it seems to me it lasted a lot longer as well. (I might as well add that there is something about the feel of a wooden stick in your hands that can never be totally duplicated in carbon fiber.)

  I realize I’ve been celebrating all the things we kids did on our own back then, but the fact is we were surrounded by people who cared about us and helped us along. I thought of them only as “coach” or “sir” or “ma’am.” I couldn’t have realized then just how important they would be in my development, both on and off the ice. I can’t name them all, of course—so many of them come in and out of a kid’s life, maybe helping out in small ways, maybe doing bigger things. There must have been many I wasn’t even aware of. Neighbors, volunteers, family members—these people are always contributing in ways kids just take for granted. But there are some who do stand out in my mind, and one whose decision would set the table for the rest of my hockey career. His name is Royce Tennant.

  • • •

  The year was 1956, and I was signed up to play that season for a house league squirt team. I was all of eight years of age, and strange as it seems to me now, only ten years later I would be making my debut in the National Hockey League. But that was a long way off in the future and something that an eight-year-old could only dream about. It was Royce Tennant who would give those dreams distinct shape.

  That year, Royce found himself appointed head coach for the squirt all-star hockey team, the Parry Sound Shamrocks. The local minor hockey group was in its infancy, and this was perhaps the first true “rep” team ever assembled at that level. As the season progressed, I was given the opportunity just after Christmas to move up from house league to Coach Tennant’s Shamrock rep squad. That was my first time representing my hometown, and to say it was exciting would be an understatement. To go on a road trip to play in another town’s rink, even if some of those towns weren’t too far away, was a huge thrill for an eight-year-old.

  Still, my invitation to join the all-star team didn’t necessarily mean I was the greatest player Coach had ever seen. The fact was, he had only twelve players on the team and he needed to fill out the roster. Even with me in the lineup, he was still short-staffed. Perhaps my career would have turned out differently if there had been a couple more eligible kids in Parry Sound that winter. Coach Tennant had to look for ways to double-shift some kids to fill out the lines. As a result, he made the decision that the kid with the brush cut would play one shift as a forward then go back and play another shift as a defenseman.

  I’ve been given a lot of credit over the years for being one of the first true rushing defensemen. But the truth is that the credit should be given to the man who coached me when I was in the squirt division, and to the coaches in my life who would follow. I was told years later by my old coach that what sold him on the idea of moving me back was my ability to skate. That may not make a lot of sense to people outside the game—after all, every hockey player can skate. But even at the highest level of the game, we talk about guys who can skate.

  Some players just have effortless acceleration, a sort of fluidity that helps them maneuver out of trouble or get back into position when it seems impossible. There have been some great players who weren’t noted for their skating—some of the greatest ever. And there have been some beautiful skaters whose hands never caught up to their feet. Still, it was a huge compliment to be told I could skate. It’s
a part of the game that hasn’t changed to this day, because skating has been and always will be the main ingredient for any hockey player’s success.

  Royce decided way back then that I had the skating mobility to move up ice in a hurry and get back to the defensive zone to cover up when the inevitable mistakes occurred. I was supposed to be resting up after a shift on the wing, but I was thinking the same way I did out on Georgian Bay. When I got the puck, I wanted to go.

  When you are just an eight-year-old kid, you don’t spend a lot of time analyzing different aspects of the game, you simply go out and play. I just knew that as soon as I got my first taste of the game playing defense, I liked it. I was too young to realize that from back of the blue line you could see the play develop in front of you better than if you played as a forward. But I would learn soon enough that as a defenseman the opportunities to get the puck and use my skating skills in open ice were there on every shift. And even at that early age, I got all the freedom from Coach Tennant I needed to rush the puck. He never asked me to stay back—he just let me play to my strengths.