Bower by Dan Robson

Author:Dan Robson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2018-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

13

“Everybody Welcome”

ALL EYES WERE ON MR. HOCKEY IN THE FINAL MINUTE. WITH the Red Wings up 3–2, the Leafs pulled Bower from the net, hoping to tie it up with an extra attacker. Howe grabbed the puck and fired it down the ice into the empty net. The Olympia went wild. Mr. Hockey had just scored his 544th career goal, tying the all-time record set by Maurice Richard. But the referee, Frank Udvari, skated into an assault of arena debris by calling off the goal, on account of an illegal hand pass from Alex Delvecchio before Howe got the puck. Ever courteous, the Red Wings fans littered the ice with eggs and garbage, delaying the final 30 seconds of the game for an extra five minutes. When the final horn blew that evening, on October 20, 1963, there seemed little reason to note the game for posterity. But as the players headed to the dressing rooms and the fans continued to hurl their disgust at Udvari, Bower skated off the Leafs bench and collected the game puck.

Perhaps distracted by the halting of history, no one seemed to notice. In fact, Johnny appeared to be the only person in the Olympia who knew that he’d just played his 1,000th professional hockey game. Sports scribes missed the occasion; Johnny certainly hadn’t pointed it out. Given that he’d played only six NHL seasons, it was difficult to fully recognize just how long Johnny’s journey had been. About to turn 39, Johnny was one of the oldest players in NHL history.

A generation had passed while he played. His first professional game was a month after the Second World War had ended with the surrender of Japan, nearly two decades earlier. Now, in 1963, the American children of World War II were being shipped to Vietnam, while others marched for civil rights at home. From the steps of the Lincoln Memorial that summer, Reverend Martin Luther King declared, “I have a dream.” And in another month, President John F. Kennedy would be shot dead in Dallas.

That Halloween, Johnny knelt in front of the house in Weston, handing out candy to a large pack of costumed kids from the neighbourhood. He wore a beige zip-up jacket, white shirt and skinny tie. It wasn’t much of a costume. But the scars around his mouth, marking his cheeks and lining his receding hair, were perfect for the occasion. His face was creased by wrinkles too, with crow’s feet at the eyes. He looked much closer to 50 than 40, which of course helped fuel the near-constant speculation in the press that, indeed, he was. But Johnny’s kind eyes and apple cheeks helped mute the battle wounds.

“What are you supposed to be, little darling?” he asked a small girl wearing a curly yellow wig and a large white cardigan, pinned with a large brooch.

“An old lady,” she said shyly.

“Oh! An old lady,” Johnny replied. “Gee whiz! Isn’t that cute.”

He flashed his perfect store-bought teeth in a kind smile, sounding

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