“WHOA?!” I stammer, when shaken from a long slumber by the piercing shrill of our little-used landline, and with it, a terse message from my editor, inquiring facetiously as per my grasp of the calendar-ic measure of a month, owing presumably, to the four-score and 20 days since my last column’s submission.
That cheerful “Good Morning” is accompanied by the blast of a clock radio, blaring about a resurgent COVID.
Such communicative cacophony resurges me, seemingly from a months-long, coma-like condition, lapsed into late last spring. Truth be told, there was a little leap to said lapse, and oddly, I’ve some nagging notion that, as per this new strain of COVID, somehow, I’m complicit.
You see …
Way back in March, I had dialed-in to the underdog, Peterborough Petes’ playoff run, to and through Sudbury, Ottawa, North Bay, and London, all the way to the team’s Ontario Hockey League championship in May. Such was the intensity, it culminated with a trip to B.C. for the Memorial Cup tournament that journeyed into June.
I set out a couple of days early for Kamloops, figuring I’d get a head-start on the community service hours that were no doubt coming my way, due the fair certainty of some celebratory excess. I booked a cheap, $415 return-flight via Flair, to Abbotsford, three hours west of Kamloops, as it was one-third the cost of Air Canada direct to Kamloops, the tourney’s host city.
Unfortunately, Flair’s fabulous fares can be neutralized considerably by an outlandish carry-on policy that obsesses over the girth and the heft of one’s knapsack, entirely oblivious to the contraband within it.
At the gate, in a pre-screening panic, I quickly guzzle two “tall-boys,” while consuming three pounds of snacks, just so my knapsack “can make weight.” I’ve also stuffed all of my socks and underwear into the poster tube holding rolled placards of Petes propaganda I pretend not to be carrying.
It’s an unseasonably warm spring day, yet, here I am adorned in my winter-weight Petes jersey, over already heavily laden layers for the 12-day event. I’m pretty much gassed after climbing the ramped stairs to Flair’s tiny, winged cigar tube. When its door closes, it’s sauna-like in six seconds, and my head’s spinning on par with the propellers as I suddenly pass out.
Otherwise, the flight’s without incident, and I’m sufficiently revived when my buddy Dag, from Vancouver, pulls up in a magnificent, military-grade, Toyota Tacoma that’s a nasty, green-hornet neon. He’s here for the weekend, providing the food and beverage, plus the transportation; I’ve covered the tourney’s tickets and arranged the accommodations.
We wind our way east through the picturesque Thompson River valley, walled wonderfully with mountains from Abbotsford to Kamloops. The sun’s just setting when we pull into the pot-holed parking lot of the budget motel, whose $79 rate I had pounced on.
The view from the motel is truly stellar; of it, totally not. Upon entering the room, that’s unlocked, Dag is visibly shaken. The walls are a funky, faux-cinder-block, highlighted by a cool, coarse, grey finish, but, the bedding’s a bit rumpled, and arguably, the bathroom’s been recently used.
Admittedly, I am a tad sheepish after Dag’s just sprung for our four-course, five-star dinner at Earls, en route, so I’m quick with a hasty dissertation on tiered-branding, “Dag, … the Marriott has its Ritz-Carlton, its JW, and the Fairfield. Think of this as the Ritz-Retro.”
I open the heavy, brown, velour curtains, revealing an admirably vibrant, hippie compound in the courtyard. I hear him mutter “Ritz-Rubbish,” but, when I turn, he’s gone. The curtains that he’s drawn show a mish-mash of shopping carts, tents and tarps behind the motel, that may be a municipality.
Dag returns an hour later in rubber boots and rubber gloves, with an assortment of sprays and cleansers under one arm, and an $800 hazmat sleeping bag under the other. The following morning, we’re a might fatigued after a rotation of two-hour “watches” through the night he’d insisted on.
Fortunately, the hockey that afternoon is so spectacular, it salvages our 40-year friendship.
With each passing week of this profound Petes post-season performance, the high-calibre competition has ratcheted up, proving markedly keener, for now, there’s but four teams remaining from the CHL’s 60. The forwards’ speed is blazing, yet, the defenders are stalwart, with turn-on-a-dime skating and awesome, unseen passes that appear tape-to-tape, launching counterwaves of deadly-accurate shooters, firing pucks that are both faster and heavier.
The Petes are in deep, but they’ve advanced here via a well-balanced roster that has rallied relentlessly around their endearing captain, the inspiring Shawn Spearing. He’s been a Pete for four of his age-20 years, playing an “old-school” game that’s predominantly more smash than panache, with its crease-clearing, puck-banking, and, shot-blocking; the most recent of which has broken his jaw.
When he finally gets into these high-octane contests, he’s understandably a half-step behind, as his jaw’s wired shut, and there’s 25 pounds of him missing.
The southern B.C. weather proves wonderful, with long, Arizona-like stretches of bright sun and blue sky, beneath which there’s a colourful cascade of the participating teams’ sweaters, carousing good-naturedly in the packed Molson tent.
On the first Sunday of the tourney, the mood is indeed festive, for the home-team Blazers have pulverized the Petes 10-2. Dag suggests that our heretofore MVP goalie, allowed four or five, while checking his 50/50 ticket for its six-figure prize.
While the guys that have been sleeping in the back of Dag’s truck are sorry to see him go, I am not, for the Petes are 0-2, just three days in. At least I got the music trivia right, winning a fashionably bulky, prize-pack of CCM sweats for it.
On the following Thursday, the Petes and the Blazers square off again for a crucial tie-breaker game – win and we’re in; lose, and it’s a red-eye flight, Kamloops to the Kawarthas. The atmosphere in the rink, pre-game, is electric, the tension, too, is terrific. It quickly evaporates when the Blazers run up the score early. As impressively rousing as the Kamloops goal-song ( BTO’s “Takin Care of Business”) is, 10 renditions of it on Sunday, and four more now, have me seething.
Between periods, my Sharpies slash, splash, and flash furiously in an angry, size-128-font: “Takin’ Care of Business, PETES in Overtime!” And ... by God, don’t they with the swift-skating, sniper, J.R. Avon, vapourizing the Blazers in an instant. I’m beyond beside myself, celebrating apoplectically with a mayhem worthy of 10 men. Heroically, one of them waves to the rage rising in the arena, but, calamity is averted when I dash from the rink in a blink.
The next night, prior to Peterborough’s semi-final game versus the Seattle Thunderbirds, there are impolite calls of an escort for me by the local constabulary to the Kamloops city limits. Frankly, I’m rather flattered, inquiring politely, “Would westward towards Abbotsford work, after our win Sunday?”
Sadly, the Petes fall to the T-Birds that Friday, who, in turn are vanquished by the Quebec Remparts in the final.
The Mighty Maroon’s epic run has coursed through two climatic seasons, three time zones, four months, and all of my arteries. As such, I’m happy to help with the closing down of the Molson tent long into the night, though my pre-dawn, bus departure is absurdly early.
I wave goodbye to my wiry, weathered friends at the Ritz, a handful of whom are now draped in swanky CCM XXL sweats. I crawl aboard the bus to Abbotsford, three hours to the west, for my five-hour flight east.
I de-plane labouriously down the narrow steps to the tarmac in Toronto. I’m still hot, and as heavily laden in layers that are now laundry. I’m jet-lagged and jaundiced, so horrifically hungover, and confirmed, too, with COVID.
… the clock radio alarm’s been set for an appointment with my sports therapist, Dr. Wrye. Her eyes are closed and she’s shaking her head slowly, as I ramble on, “Man, that Canadian variant hits like a mulekick, one’s best to beware,” but, when I’m animated while adding, “By God, when your team’s that late in the serious stages of winning, for the sheer fun and frivolity, the heartache and the care – such definitive sports fandom – why, Rueth, one just has to be there!” there’s a hint of a grin.
It’s fleeting, however, for when I show her a picture of “Avon Calling!” etched into the Berlin Wall, she sighs wearily, “See you next month,” while pointing to her office’s door.
John Epstein is a former, 25-year Orillia business owner who left southern Ontario for the north years ago, and has never been back. He is now a freelance writer, whose column will appear monthly in OrilliaMatters. He can be reached at [email protected]
