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“Beyond the headlines, the real story is yet to be written.”
As a young man—when my ambitions in my birth home were shattered by my own fears and failings, I followed my Marina half-way across Canada for a fresh start.
That place we stopped—her birth home—is a place that at first glance would seem to be a good place not to be. It’s so flat you can watch your dog run away for three days. The winter is six months of snow and cold howling winds where temperatures fall to minus 40. Summers are hot—too hot, and the best view is the same view every year—just wheat fields for as far as the eye can see.
But there are some places the eyes should not be trusted to tell you about. And Saskatchewan is one of them. This place, this beautiful place saved me.
I have been many places since that place. Now, I am on the other side of the planet it would seem far removed. But these past few days as I read stories from home about the terrible bus crash that claimed the lives of young men and a young woman from a hockey team in Humboldt Saskatchewan, I was suddenly there again.
This place, this beautiful place saved me.
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A lifetime ago in 1986 as a young reporter, I covered another bus crash—with another team from another small town in Saskatchewan—Swift Current. The similarities are obvious, and at first, I thought like a journalist does, looking for reasons why and seeking someone to blame.
But then I stopped looking for blame, and I looked again—this time at pictures from home at mourners and families, friends and hockey foes and I realized I knew I knew these people crying in unison. Maybe not by name, but I know their kind, which is kind. This place the place that saved me is a good place, a great place.
Each town has a team, and the boys lace ’em up and go to battle against the next town. In the games, the gloves drop, and fists fly, and you would think the hate is real. But it isn’t.
Because these same boys that beat each other are the same boys that will hop in the truck and drive hundreds of miles to help those boys they just fought when those boys need help. It’s the way it has always been here.
Boys come from all over Canada to play hockey in this place. It is a right of passage I think, which doesn’t just mold their skills, but also their humanity.
I was saved here because they didn’t care who I used to be; they only cared who I was. This place gave me a chance to do it again and try to get it right.
I remember those days following 1986 like it was yesterday. I remember hearing of injured young men from the Swift Current crash who tried desperately to save their dying friends. I have never forgotten those accounts of bravery, despair and love.
Today I read about Ryan Straschnitzki, paralyzed from the chest down lying on the road, his only instinct was to try and save his friends not save himself—and I remembered—they make them good here.
I have never forgotten those accounts of bravery, despair and love.
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There will be a lot of discussion as to how to stop this from happening again, and commentators and politicians will postulate with well-crafted words, but the real discussion will not take place in the chambers of justice, the pages of newspapers or on screens that try to emulate real life. Here in this great place, the discussion will be real.
Jerseys will be hung from high rafters in rinks where all the boys played, and that will help people remember. Not that these boys died, but that these boys lived, lived great big dreams of big games and bigger trophies. And we lived those dreams with them, in our hearts; we saw them come home carrying large Silver Cups bearing the names of our towns. It wasn’t just pride that filled us, it was the fact that one of our own did what we only dared to dream, and for a moment we were big, too.
Those hanging Jerseys, numbers and names on rafters will not be forgotten, not in this place. In years to come at small rinks, people will still talk. There will be Geena with trays of sticky cinnamon buns for the parents and kids at practice. Donna will be bringing the big pot of coffee, and Sue has the cut up oranges for kids. And then there is Liz with her twins, Dustin and Dee Dee already in gear and practice jerseys that hang down below their knees. Dee Dee wears an old Humboldt Jersey #20 with the name Schatz on the back—for Logan, the captain of the team that died that day.
Dee Dee is too young to remember seeing him, but she knows people still talk about him, not in hushed tones, but in reverence. He was a good player and a great man people will say often. The jersey is old and worn out now. Her mom says she just won’t take it off.
Practice starts and moms drink coffee and talk, and always one manages to mention one of the Humboldt boys, tears are shed and laughter, too, as funny stories about funny, talented, good young men are shared again over and over.
On a farm across the province, a father is home early again. It used to be Gord worked late every night. But Humboldt changed him—life is too short to be just about money and career he’s realized. His young son waits at the door bouncing with skates on. Gord laces his skates up, and it’s out to the dugout to skate, shoot and play. Gord wears an old hoodie to keep warm. “Humboldt Strong” is written across it.
Somewhere above, a place where we go when we leave this place four young men wait while the Humboldt players and helpers wander up, carrying duffel bags and sticks. The four are Trent Kresse, Scott Kruger, Chris Mantyka, and Brent Ruff—the four Swift Current Broncos who went this way decades ago.
It used to be Gord worked late every night. But Humboldt changed him.
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Words aren’t said, just knowing nods and sticks are tapped on the ice they stand waiting on for the game to begin.
The Humboldt players lace up and jump on ice so perfect it’s like the Zamboni has never left. Jaxon Joseph of Humboldt skates up to Scott Kruger and asks who is the old guy also on the ice today. There a few yards away is an elegant man, who skates like an Eagle flies with long strides like wings in the sky.
“That’s Gordie,” says Kruger.
“Gordie Howe,” replies Jaxon in awe. “Is he…God?”
“God of the corners maybe,” replies Scott. “Keep your mouth guard in if you go into the corner with him, or you’ll lose some teeth,” he laughs.
And as he does Gordie turns his head and the beautiful smile breaks across his face, and he winks at the fellow players.
As they skate to the middle of the ice to toss their sticks in to chose sides, Logan Hunter skates beside Gordie Howe and asks, “Mr. Howe, is this heaven?”
Gordie turns and says “I can’t really say, son. I don’t know, but it sure reminds me of Saskatchewan.”
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Original post appeared at Jonathan Gravenor’s FB. Reprinted with permission.
Photo credit: Getty Images