It’s my first visit toThe Hockey Hall of Fame. The little hockey fan inside of me is jumping up and down at the entrance where there are anciently bruised, brightly painted goalie masks paired with photographs of their wearers in action. I don’t need the photos. Pointing and erupting in recognition I call out to my friend, “Cheevers…Parent…”. “Oh”, I snap my fingers, “I know that one.” I glance at the photo, “Giacomin, right.”
We linger at the display cases showcasing oversized pictures of individual players as backdrop to their shirts, skates and sticks. Lanny Mcdonald, something inside me goes soft. Borje Salming, I feel joy.
My excitement ebbs as we enter a replica of the Habs dressing room. The Montreal Canadiens, who once won 17 games in a row to start a season. I heard about it linked to the phrase, ‘your loser Leafs’.
The dressing room is mildly interesting. It is all red-painted wood, Toe Blake’s hat is nailed to a shelf, there are inspirational phrases, and a slew of well-known names on the backs of Montreal shirts. A small t.v. at the corner of the ceiling is tuned to Dick Irvin calling great Canadien goals. I had to get out.
The next display is of defunct team-shirts. The ice rink and hockey stick logo. I clasp my hands to my chest and breathe, “Vancouver”.
My friend leads me upstairs to a string of booths, each with a video screen. You select a play, perhaps the ‘72 Canada-Russia Henderson goal, or the Bobby Baun broken ankle goal, listen to Foster Hewitt’s call and then try it yourself. I can hear French-Canadian teens in the next booth calling plays. They are way better than me. I flash back to my first French words, ‘numéro dix-neuf Larry Robinson’, ‘première étoile’, and ‘deux minutes pour rudesse’.
My friend shouts, “Interactive displays! Wanna try?”
Game 1 is to take five shots with an orange plastic puck at a screen projecting an image of a Leaf goaltender. Why not a Boston goalie, I grumble. I wrist it, top left corner, feeling elated and disloyal. The machine boos me and the attendant points out that the game hasn’t started yet.
Game 2 is a chance to play goal. The attendant asks me which hand I catch with. I’m flattered he thinks I catch. I put on the blocker. It feels wrong, which surprises me. We switch it to my right hand. Ah yes, now it feels right.
I face twenty shots and save four. My results, along with my picture, appear on screen so subsequent players can accurately assign humiliation.
During one shot my right foot accidentally flies out from under me and I fall heavily on my left hand. A cheer lifts from those in line behind me who appreciate my commitment to the save. My hand hurts, but not for long, the trophy room is next and our requisite photo with the Stanley Cup.
After lunch at Gretzky’s and a visit to the CBC I am washing my hands when I notice a redness at my wrist. Soon, I can’t open my hand. My fall was four hours ago, could this be related?
By the time we reach the GO Train I am in agony. No position affords relief. The walk-in clinic doctor is sure it is broken, he gives me a prescription and sends me to Emergency. We stop first for the Percocet. My crying persuades the pharmacist to bring me a cup of water.
I greet the admitting nurse with a big smile. ”I FEEL GREAT. MY WRIST WAS JUST AWFUL A WHILE AGO, BUT I FEEL GREAT NOW. ASK ME HOW I DID IT…I WAS GOALTENDING!” My friend adds, “It’s a virtual injury.”
The doctor arrives and asks the room who is the one with the hockey injury. I beam. Turns out it isn’t broken. I’m disappointed. The following week I tell everyone about my upper body injury and flash my splint-encased wrist. Ah, memories.
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