The Lost 10 Point Night: Searching for My Hockey Hero . . . Jim Harrison
160
The Lost 10 Point Night: Searching for My Hockey Hero . . . Jim Harrison
160eBook
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Overview
Jim Harrison grew up on the prairies, played Junior in Saskatchewan, and pro with the Bruins, Leafs, Hawks, and Oilers. Three years before a former teammate equaled the mark, Harrison set one of the most enduring and seemingly unbreakable records in professional hockey with three goals and seven helpers on January 30, 1973. And almost nobody remembers.
This is Harrison’s story: the games he played, the agent who stole from him, the woman he mourned, the fights he fought, and the friends he made — and lost — including Bobby Orr and Darryl Sittler. It’s about the injuries he suffered, the pedophiles who preyed on him and other young players, and a Players Association that, he says, “wants me to die.”
But The Lost 10 Point Night is also a response to Stephen Brunt’s Searching for Bobby Orr and Gretzky’s Tears — a book as much about Harrison as it is about author David Ward, a 50-year-old guy who went in search of his childhood hero.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781770905870 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ECW Press |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 160 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Lost 10 Point Night
Searching for My Hockey Hero ... Jim Harrison
By David Ward
ECW PRESS
Copyright © 2014 David WardAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77090-587-0
CHAPTER 1
I'm watching Leafs and Flyers, a game from February 6, 1971. I remember seeing this game as a child, live on television. I watched it from the floor of my family's modest Kitchener, Ontario, home. But today I'm viewing it on a laptop while sitting in outport Newfoundland. Thanks to the miracle of Leafs TV.
What a concept, eh? An entire television network dedicated to a terrible hockey team. Were there really folks who could have conceived of such in '71? Not that there weren't prophets who could predict the future of television and other technologies. But that fans could've imagined the next four decades would bring so little glory to their beloved blue and white, and that such pathetic play would still result in enough viewer interest to support a 24/7 TV channel.
"I'm Paul Hendrick, and welcome to this Molson Canadian Classic 'Game in an Hour,'" our host says, and right away I'm wondering why people in production insist on dumbing things down: why Leafs TV believes viewers require an abridged version of the original; how they assume that fans don't value the events that go on between goals, saves, and periods; and why they think we'd be intrigued with the idea of seeing only part of the original proceedings in one sitting — on a station that cycles the same old stuff over and over anyway.
"In the winter of 1971, the Leafs, under the guidance of general manager Jim Gregory and head coach Johnny McLellan, have themselves a formidable roster," Hendrick either informs or reminds us, "one that they hope would compete well into the following decade. However, problems would ensue a year later, as the WHA [World Hockey Association] would raid the Toronto Maple Leafs and things certainly would change, for a while." Understated? Such that Hendrick avoids articulating the arrogant role Leaf ownership played in the rival league's raid? Yes. "But in the short term, however, things were looking good ... Just the previous week the Leafs had acquired Bernie Parent in exchange for forward Mike Walton and another goaltender in Bruce Gamble ...
"To the gondola we go." From there we see black-and-white imagery of Dave Keon and Bobby Clarke awaiting a faceoff in the Flyers end. Leafs wear white, Flyers orange. Actually, almost everything is an attractive white, because there's no ugly advertising except for the gaudy graphics that Leafs TV employs. Graphics that, against 40-year-old footage, look so out of place they leave me embarrassed for whoever makes such aesthetic choices. It's like, who would put a bumper sticker on the Mona Lisa?
While play prepares to resume, we hear Bill Hewitt's nasal accent as he comments on the big trade, in which Philadelphia sent Parent and their second-round choice in the upcoming Amateur Draft — Rick Kehoe — to Toronto for Gamble, Walton, and the Leafs' first-round selection — Pierre Plante — in the same sweepstakes. The Flyers then parlayed Walton into a deal with Boston for forwards Danny Schock and Rick MacLeish. Both trades brought drama to what otherwise might have been a mundane mid-winter meeting between two mediocre clubs.
The puck is dropped and suddenly I'm 12 years old again. The Leafs of my youth are all present, exactly as I remember them: Garry Monahan and Billy MacMillan take their rightful positions alongside Keon. Jim Dorey and Bob Baun are on defence, and Jacques Plante is in goal. I find it fascinating how slender Plante is. If he played in today's game, he'd be outfitted with whatever bulk the rules would allow and then some.
Disappointed that Parent didn't start, I am pleased to see Gamble is in the Flyers' net when he flips a puck over the glass in a move that today would result in a delay-of-game penalty. I love the way neither team's coach feels compelled to change lines during the stop in play, keeping the key matchup of Keon and Clarke on the ice, in an era when shifts were much longer.
A change on the fly brings out fresh troops. Then, in a very familiar, familial way, the Leafs' Jim McKenny, behind his own net, pauses with the puck, giving teammates Paul Henderson, Norm Ullman, and Ron Ellis a chance to set up for success. Not yet three minutes old, the game has settled into an exchange of efforts to maintain puck possession when, after an uneventful shift from the Ullman line, the Harrison trio hits the ice. I readily recognize Jim Harrison not only because he is flanked by George Armstrong and Brian Spencer, but because of his clumsy skating style and Beatles hairdo.
Judging by the increased noise level in Maple Leaf Gardens, I'm not the only observer who sees there are two bangers on the ice in Harrison and Spencer. But while I wouldn't have noticed it as a child, I'm acutely aware as an adult that Armstrong, the last man to captain a Leaf team to a Stanley Cup, is playing one of the final games of his Hall of Fame career. Noticeably absent is rookie Darryl Sittler, who lost more than a third of that season to injuries.
Spencer spins. Harrison finishes a check. As Philadelphia attempts to turn up ice, a bouncing puck somehow finds its way back to the front of the Flyers' net, where Harrison stands alone. The puck skitters off his stick before he can take advantage.
"Harrison had Gamble down, but he couldn't get a shot away."
There is no way to not see the get-up-and-go this piecemeal forward line has brought to what otherwise looks like a lame game. The Flyers know they are in trouble. "Ashbee holds it against the boards." But the forechecking Harrison wants no part of his opponent's effort to postpone play. Everything about Jim's actions suggests he is saying, "Not on my watch, you won't," until he reluctantly makes his way back to the bench.
Next time the Harrison line is on the ice, it's to pick up the end of a power play. Armstrong has been replaced with Guy Trottier, a sweet little skater with a nose for the net. Trottier hits a goalpost after a nice set-up from Spencer. Then Spencer too doesn't miss by much. The Philadelphia penalty ends and, in their enthusiasm to pot a goal, all three Leaf forwards get caught up-ice, rendering it relatively easy for the Flyers to take advantage of a Plante gamble. "He scores!" Play soon resumes over the hum of public address announcer Paul Morris. "Philadelphia goal by number 21, Serge Bernier."
A homemade sign hangs in the end blues — "Against Keon's fighters, you need the Red Baron!" — an innocent attempt at inspiring the home team, representative of the heady times I grew up in.
Armstrong is back out in place of Trottier. Harrison wins the faceoff, takes a slash from Lew Morrison, and passes to Spencer. The rush is on — a dash resulting in a turnover that, during the ensuing scramble, sets up the boys for big, open-ice, high-speed hits. Harrison flattens a Frenchman. Spencer sends a message to Morrison. Even the 40-year-old Armstrong applies body along the boards.
There's 2:38 left in the first period. The camera catches a glimpse of the Harrison unit catching their breath on the bench. Then it moves to a mod sign acknowledging the fans' love for Spencer before Hewitt enunciates, "Keon, MacMillan, and Monahan facing MacLeish, Clarke, and Kelly." The latter two, as key parts of the Broad Street Bullies, will one day wreak havoc but tonight are quiet.
I watch how well Plante handles the puck. Then Hewitt crescendos to a shout: "The Leafs' Pelyk starts out, changes his mind. Over to McKenny. McKenny coming up over the blue line, closing in. Passes!" Hewitt's passion for the play fades when "MacMillan just fails to get his backhand away." It's remarkable how happy such an ordinary 40-year-old end-to-end rush resulting in nothing can make me.
The puck goes over the boards into the Leaf bench, striking Monahan hard on his helmetless head, and, in true hockey fashion, nobody notices. "Last minute to play in the period," Morris points out. Henderson, Ullman, and Ellis attempt to attack but can't quite connect before the bell sounds. Period ends, Leafs down by one. I'm in hockey heaven.
CHAPTER 2Jim's posture today reminds me of what you see on his 1977 hockey card — the one where he's leaning on his stick, which sits on his thighs. Shaggy-haired, unshaven, and wearing the classic red Black Hawks sweater, he looks to be listening to a linesman.
Now he is wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. His hair, styled shorter than it was in the '70s, is still remarkably dark, hip, and thick. His body too is thick. So is mine.
I'd heard he had a hockey school in the Okanagan Valley and, after a couple of cold calls, got his number from a Jim Harrison in Penticton who occasionally receives calls "from folks looking for the hockey guy." When I told hockey's Harrison what I had in mind — that I wanted to write about him — he generously invited me to visit.
We are sitting in the living room of the ground-level Kelowna condominium he shares with his wife, Caroline. Clean, cozy, and inconspicuous, the Harrisons' home is incredibly comfortable. Except for a tasteful photo hanging in the kitchen, of Jim with his fishing buddy Bobby Orr, you'd never know you were in a hockey player's house.
He tells me he doesn't think he's better than anybody else just because he played in the NHL. "This book idea of yours sounds good," he says. "But there are lots more famous players than me you could write about. I really can't see how this is going to work for you. I just don't think my life has been so interesting that somebody would want to read that much about it." His voice is a contradiction — a mix of manliness generously injected with innocent joy. "Or do you need me to round up some other old players so you have a chance of writing a book that people will actually want to read?"
I stutter. "No, yeah, no — no need for other players." This was okay to say, I suppose, because I would have regrets if I said what I was thinking. That I too do not believe he is better than anybody else just because he had played pro. Not that I don't respect his hockey history, but because it is clear that all sorts of kooks and name- droppers are always trying to connect with past athletes. I want him to know I am not part of that crowd.
Plus I want him to know my reasons for searching him out are no longer about hero worship. I say no longer because I was once a 12-year-old Toronto Maple Leafs fan, and Jim was my favourite player. So as a boy I would have gone through the same stages of admiration for hockey stars that many other Canadian kids do. However, at 50, it is no longer like this for me. Actually, the opposite has occurred. With media scrutinizing celebrity issues like drug use and spousal abuse, I've come to conclude that athletes are unworthy of worship. My heroes today are ordinary people trying to live wholesome, hardworking lives. And I don't have to travel all the way to British Columbia to find one of those.
However, I do need to revisit my youth and a role model I adored at the time — with the belief that writing will take me into some complicated corners I desperately need to explore, with the hope that I can recapture some of the childlike joy that life has beaten out of me.
But hearing myself say I want to write a book sounds like someone declaring they have been thinking of doing a PhD. Have they any idea how much work awaits? Not that I don't recommend they pursue their goal. But to me there is something careless about commenting so casually about something requiring a huge sacrifice of time and energy. I am aware of the price that I and those closest to me must pay while I satisfy such creative wants and needs. I have seen the commitment that writing a book requires, and I have noted that expressing what amounts to a slice of somebody's life brings with it a big responsibility. And I believe that the energy spent telling someone I want to write a book is better spent writing than trying to boost my ego or fight my fears by gauging the responses of others to my dream.
Another concern I have regards writing style. I prefer a narrative approach that conveys what Jim's character means to me, and could mean to others — a style that authorities advise is badly suited for biography. Yes, I want to document the stories of an old-time player, but mostly I want to be a bridge between Jimmy David Harrison and hockey fans.
Yet my book idea is also about a middle-aged male in search of his boyhood hero and whatever waits. Because there is something to be said about the memories we collect prior to puberty. I can remember Jim centering a forward line with the dynamic rookie Darryl Sittler and the cagey veteran George Armstrong like it was yesterday. So I tell Jim about this emotional exploration that I intend to take via his story.
"Actually, my first linemates in Toronto were Army and Floyd Smith," he says. "Sittler was not there yet. Playing with George was like playing with John Bucyk in Boston. Those guys would tell me that if I just went to the front of the net they would get me the puck. Then it would suddenly happen. They're both nicknamed 'Chief' — George because he is Native but John just because he looks like an Indian. He's actually Ukrainian like me. George was always playing childish pranks on the plane. We wore blue blazers and grey slacks in those days, so if you fell asleep George would put an ice cube on your lap. Or if you were reading a newspaper he would start it on fire when you weren't looking."
When I tell Jim that in addition to recording his on- and off-ice adventures, I also want to write about the injustices he has seen and the sorrows of his personal and professional lives, I get a more heavy-hearted response.
"I just don't want to come across as a whiner or a complainer," he says. "Some writers have done stories on me without even interviewing me and their stories made me sound like a whiner. Look what happened to Carl Brewer. Carl was the greatest guy, and if not for him, the players would still be in the Stone Age. Carl might not have been the first guy to figure out the owners and the head of the Players' Association were in bed with each other, but he was the first guy who had the guts to say it in public. And guess what? Everyone called Carl a complainer. Even other old players said he should stop whining."
I find Jim's comments fascinating for two reasons. First, any reasonable person who actually listens to him should realize he is not a complainer; he's just not shy about stating his point of view. Second, what is the problem with being a complainer if you have valid reason? What is it about the game of hockey that players who protest are not respected, and they are expected to play hurt, and excuses are taboo? Why is it that those who do not subscribe to this formula get bullied and shunned?
When a young Wayne Gretzky had something to say, his critics called him a yapper. Little consideration was given to why he spoke out. Maybe he was less tolerant of inequities than his predecessors. Maybe he was trying to take the game and the business to a better place. Or perhaps he realized that because his extraordinary talent gave him security few shared, he had a responsibility to speak out.
Never was this more apparent than in 1983, when Gretzky described the New Jersey Devils as "a Mickey Mouse organization." It was a dressing-down that triggered an extreme public reaction, directed at the rudeness of Wayne's evaluation rather than what was an accurate assessment of a sad-sack operation.
Why did the focus become Gretzky's outburst instead of the fact that Devils fans had suffered through nine consecutive outrageously bad years? Why did people not rejoice in Wayne's effort to point out the obvious in hope of change for the better? And why are ownership and management not burdened by this same judgment? When an owner expresses himself in an outspoken manner, he is considered a passionate investor who wants only the best for his club. When a general manager fights for changes he deems necessary, the majority see him as a thinker. Yet a young Sidney Crosby was branded a yapper 25 years after Gretzky. Why is it that when a player expresses himself, hockey labels him as unprofessional and focuses negatively on his efforts to influence change?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Lost 10 Point Night by David Ward. Copyright © 2014 David Ward. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
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