THE OPPORTUNITY THAT ALMOST WAS

OH TO PLAY FOR THE CANADIENS

By Llyod Walton

This story is abridged from the Historiography, Chasing the Muse: Canada by Lloyd Walton (the goalie shown above), multi-award-winning director/cinematographer painter and writer. Chasing the Muse: Canada is available on Amazon, Kindle, Chapters Indigo, and Barnes & Noble.

When I was growing up in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, the city operated outdoor rinks at just about every playground across the city. On cold winter days, from blocks away, you could hear the cracking sound of ricocheting pucks echoing off the boards and the sharp hiss and schussing of skates cutting into the ice during Saturday morning shinny. Shinny is generally a very democratic sport. Hockey sticks get thrown into a pile at the middle of the rink and back then, the smallest kid dealt them like cards to each

side of the imaginary centre ice red line. Every boythere, including me, dreamed of being in the NHL.

ONE FROSTY MORNING

I will never forget one sunny frosty Saturday morning at the North Street rink. I was the smallest kid on theice and still unsteady on skates. The big guys put mein goal. There was a certain master skater and puckhandler on the other team. This true wizard of puckcontrol was visiting a cousin and new to our rink. All of the players on both teams were in awe of him. He was a joy to watch. They called him Philly.

Early in the game on a breakaway, Philly whistled in on me, stick handled left-right, left-right, left-right, sending me sprawling in one direction and my stick in the other. He stopped and tapped the puck against my toe and said, “Nice save kid.” That gesture gave me the confidence to actually make some real saves later in the game. Philly was a hero to me and to all of the other players.

Every night, the North Street rink scheduled hockey from five till seven, skating till nine, hockey till 10, then lights out. On weekends I would skate with friends, then play hockey and after everyone left, I would dipsy-doodle from end to end alone in the dark, stickhandling the black puck on the white ice, then resting, laying down on the ice and looking at the stars in the crystal night air, dreaming of playing

in the big time. Around midnight I would walk homein my skates, squeaking sounds amplified in the20-below temperature. One day, I would wear the redwhite-and-blueMontreal Canadiens sweater glorifiedby the likes of Jacques Plante, Maurice Richard andBoom Boom Geoffrion.

THEY CALLED HIM PHILLY

Eleven years later Philly – Phil Esposito – was ascoring star for the Chicago Black Hawks (and, later,the Boston Bruins and New York Rangers). I, muchyounger, a goalie in the midget league, wore theCanadiens sweater with a C on the front, standingfor our team name, the Crusaders. With only a lineand a half on the bench, we became a crackerjackteam under the crafty coaching of my uncle, ArnoldRunning.

I told this same story to my friend Dennis Hull...“You quit too early,” he laughed.

On a weekend game in northern Quebec, we wereastounded by a local superstar named MichelPaquin. Coach Running arranged to have Micheljoin the Crusaders in a season-end tournament inSault Ste. Marie, Michigan, at Pullar Stadium, thesame arena where the Detroit Red Wings had theirfall training camp. At the time, the six NHL teamshad their own territories for drafting players.The province of Quebec was of course ruled bythe Canadiens. Scotty Bowman, the coach of theMontreal Junior Canadiens, was sent to Michiganto claim and shield from Red Wings scouts oursuperstar, skater, puck handler and scorer, Michel.

Late in the third period of the championship game,I thought I heard a whistle to end the play andallowed someone to come in and score. We lost byone goal. In a quiet dressing room, I was mentallyreplaying that one big mistake when all eyes turned

to the door. In walkedScotty Bowman. ScottyBowman… futuremultiple Stanley cupwinner. My team! Mon equipe!I sat upright, beaming expectantly.

THE BUSINESS CARD

Mr. Bowman walked straight towards me, reachedinto his wallet and pulled out his card. The belovedred CH image flashed as it went right under mynose. Michel Paquin, sitting on the bench beside megratefully accepted it. Scotty said to him, “I wouldlike to meet your parents.” Maybe I gave up too early,but sadly a light went on in my head. I wasn’t goingto make it.

Fast-forward 28 years. I was boarding an Air Canadaflight out of Sault Ste. Marie and to my surprise I satdown beside the fast forward, Phil Esposito. I waiteduntil we were airborne, looked at him and said, “Hey.I’ve played against you.” As he looked at me I couldsee him wracking his brain through thousands ofprofessional games. I laughed and said, “The NorthStreet outdoor rink.” He shook his head and said,“You know, playing shinny in the Sault was the mostfun I ever had playing hockey.”

MY SECRET REMORSE FOR NOT MAKING THE NHL EVAPORATED.

I told this same story to my friend Dennis Hull, aformer Chicago Black Hawk, brother of Bobby andmember of Team Canada in the 1972 Russia series.Dennis in his wisdom added that maybe the reasonI didn’t make the NHL is that he and his brotherswould play on their outdoor rink till 2 a.m., notmidnight. “You quit too early,” he laughed.

Looking back at that intense moment in the dressingroom, that glowing red CH passed right under mynose, I can say that I honestly did sniff the big time.