Well, this is awkward.  That's exactly what I wore to my last performance review.

I was twenty months old when Paul Henderson scored the goal that, as Canadian history books assure us, ended the Cold War, forever erasing the communist scourge from the face of the planet and ushering in a second Golden Age of worldwide peace and prosperity (What was that?  Ronald who??  Peristroi-what??  Berlin?  What the hell does Berlin have to do with anything?  Pffft...the Germans suck at hockey.  Get out of here with your revisionist "history" Pinko!) and while I'm quite sure I celebrated Foster Hewitt's famous call with much gratuitous tossing of the sippy cups and a spirited poop, I can't say I have much in the way of "I remember exactly where I was when..." memories.

On a glorious September evening in the fall of 1987, I was a hideously acne scarred handsome, strapping young lad of 16 standing by myself in the corner strutting confidently about one of Cornwall's only more upscale teen dance clubs, terrifying impressing many a young lass with my manner about the dance floor, a manner described by turns as both "vomit" "suave" and "epilepsy" "debonair".  And on that night, in that club, on a 21" screen bolted high in one out of the way corner of the bar, I watched Larry Murphy, Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux bust into the Soviet zone on a three-on-one with 1:30 left in the third of a 5-5 game.  What followed cemented forever my life-long love affair with the game of hockey.  It truly was THE seminal moment for those of us too young to remember '72.

Or it was, until last night.  Thanks Sidney.

Comments (1)

Name

Email

Website

Title

Comment

smaller | bigger

Subscribe via email (registered users only)

Add Comment