By Gemma Tamas
Canada is not a starting point, it's a goal.
~Jean-Claude Falardeau
Hockey night in Canada. It didn't mean anything to me, except to spend my evenings away from home. The hospital where I worked as a radiology technician was across from the Forum, home of the mighty Canadiens. When they played in town, a doctor and a technician had to sit by the fiberglass and go back to the hospital when a player got injured. I gave my seat to my younger son Robert, barely eight years old, while I sat in the hospital knitting and waiting for the game to end. Once in a while, muffled cheering vibrated through the walls, breaking the silence. I smiled, knowing it meant the mighty Montréal Canadians, the Habs as they were called, were winning again.
Canada is not a starting point, it's a goal.
~Jean-Claude Falardeau
Hockey night in Canada. It didn't mean anything to me, except to spend my evenings away from home. The hospital where I worked as a radiology technician was across from the Forum, home of the mighty Canadiens. When they played in town, a doctor and a technician had to sit by the fiberglass and go back to the hospital when a player got injured. I gave my seat to my younger son Robert, barely eight years old, while I sat in the hospital knitting and waiting for the game to end. Once in a while, muffled cheering vibrated through the walls, breaking the silence. I smiled, knowing it meant the mighty Montréal Canadians, the Habs as they were called, were winning again.
In Hungary, I grew up with soccer, cheering on our national team when they won gold at the Olympics. It was the time when the names of Puskás and his teammates were held in high esteem in the world of soccer.
But the revolution changed all that.
Escaping from the communist regime that ruled my country, my husband and I and our young son became refugees. Then, Canada opened its borders and hearts to us. It took a while to assimilate into our new environment, but we had freedom and countless opportunities.
Robert was the first Canadian in our family, born and raised in Montreal. His brother was the best student in his class; Robert was the most popular one. Every Saturday night, as a true Canadian boy, Robert watched hockey, and with the many young boys in his class, he dreamt of becoming a star.
One Saturday evening, while Robert was sitting in the Forum cheering for his team, he met the Terrebonne Park's hockey coach. And that's when it all started.
When I picked up Robert, he could hardly contain his excitement. "Mother! I can join a hockey team!"
"But you don't have skates," I reminded him. "You can't even skate!"
"I can learn, Mother." Robert pushed my concern aside. "Can we buy skates on Monday? Right after school?" I couldn't refuse his shining, pleading eyes.
"Okay, we will get you a pair of skates on Monday."
Monday came, and after work we went to a sports store. Robert wandered around, looking at the pictures of his favourite players smiling down on him from every corner of the store. The shelves were packed with skates in different sizes and colors. Robert couldn't make up his mind. Finally, he said to the young salesclerk who waited on him. "I want skates like Yvan Cournoyer has."
"Good choice, young man," the salesperson smiled as he pulled down a box from a shelf. "He is the fastest on the ice. Let's see how these fit." Robert took off his shoes, and with great concentration he watched while the clerk laced up the skates.
"Okay, boy," the salesclerk tapped on the skates, "stand up."
Robert tried to stand, then looked around and a small cry slipped out of his mouth. I hurried to his side holding out my hands and Robert, on shaky legs, grabbed my arms and stood up.
"I see." The clerk shook his head. "You still need more practice before you can play in the Forum."
Then, he turned to me. "How about a hockey stick?"
Robert, forgetting his precarious situation, plunged forward, pointing to the rack holding the hockey sticks. "I want that one!" he shouted, while falling on his tummy. We left the store with a pair of skates, a brand new hockey stick endorsed by Béliveau, and with bruised hands and knees but without a scratch on Robert's spirit.
The next day, Robert, with his brand new skates dangling over his shoulder and swinging his hockey stick by his side, hurried to the local arena. The dressing room was filled with boys of all ages.
"Put your skates on!" the coach yelled while he rushed by. Robert, with clumsy fingers, started to lace up his skates. It took him a long time before he got it right. When he tried to stand up, he had to lean against the wall to hold himself up.
By the time he wobbled out to the rink, bigger boys were on the ice. One of them pushed him aside. "Go to the bench before you get hurt!" he bellowed at him. Robert sat down in a daze. He managed to find his way back to the dressing room where he took off his skates and left.
He cried all the way home.
He locked himself in his room and threw himself on his bed. When he composed himself, he turned on his back and stars twinkled at him from the ceiling. His face broke into a grin remembering the time when I, reluctantly, helped him to put them up there.
"I will be a star!" He whispered to himself. "I can't skate, but I can be a goalie; they don't have to skate that much." And without his supper, he went to sleep.
Five years later he became the first string goalie on his high school's hockey team, and they travelled to Nova Scotia to the Nationwide High School Tournament. Their first competition was against bigger and older boys, some in their late teens. It was a rough play, but by the end, the score was still a tie. That's when the shoot-out started. The crowd, with great enthusiasm cheered for the young goalie, shouting his name after each save he made.
"Robby! Robby!" His name vibrated through the arena, and although they lost, Robert became a star.
In the spring, the team toured the U.S. prep schools. As a parent I joined the many hockey parents travelling with the troupe. In Exeter, they were out-shot by 64 to 12. Robert kept his team in the game and it ended with a tie. That year, Exeter was undefeated; their coach couldn't accept a tie to blemish their record. He asked for a sudden death overtime.
"Boys," Robert's coach gathered his players around him. "You don't have to do it." He looked over his squad. "It's up to you."
A dozen tired eyes stared back at him. Suddenly Robert jumped up. "We'll do it!" and as in the past when faced with a challenge, he transferred his desire to his teammates, who jubilantly joined him. They won the game.
A year later, his unshakable determination earned him a hockey scholarship to Exeter, a prestigious prep school, and two years later a scholarship to an Ivy League university.
Thank you, Canada, for giving us the opportunity and freedom to reach for the stars. We are proud to call ourselves Canadian!
But the revolution changed all that.
Escaping from the communist regime that ruled my country, my husband and I and our young son became refugees. Then, Canada opened its borders and hearts to us. It took a while to assimilate into our new environment, but we had freedom and countless opportunities.
Robert was the first Canadian in our family, born and raised in Montreal. His brother was the best student in his class; Robert was the most popular one. Every Saturday night, as a true Canadian boy, Robert watched hockey, and with the many young boys in his class, he dreamt of becoming a star.
One Saturday evening, while Robert was sitting in the Forum cheering for his team, he met the Terrebonne Park's hockey coach. And that's when it all started.
When I picked up Robert, he could hardly contain his excitement. "Mother! I can join a hockey team!"
"But you don't have skates," I reminded him. "You can't even skate!"
"I can learn, Mother." Robert pushed my concern aside. "Can we buy skates on Monday? Right after school?" I couldn't refuse his shining, pleading eyes.
"Okay, we will get you a pair of skates on Monday."
Monday came, and after work we went to a sports store. Robert wandered around, looking at the pictures of his favourite players smiling down on him from every corner of the store. The shelves were packed with skates in different sizes and colors. Robert couldn't make up his mind. Finally, he said to the young salesclerk who waited on him. "I want skates like Yvan Cournoyer has."
"Good choice, young man," the salesperson smiled as he pulled down a box from a shelf. "He is the fastest on the ice. Let's see how these fit." Robert took off his shoes, and with great concentration he watched while the clerk laced up the skates.
"Okay, boy," the salesclerk tapped on the skates, "stand up."
Robert tried to stand, then looked around and a small cry slipped out of his mouth. I hurried to his side holding out my hands and Robert, on shaky legs, grabbed my arms and stood up.
"I see." The clerk shook his head. "You still need more practice before you can play in the Forum."
Then, he turned to me. "How about a hockey stick?"
Robert, forgetting his precarious situation, plunged forward, pointing to the rack holding the hockey sticks. "I want that one!" he shouted, while falling on his tummy. We left the store with a pair of skates, a brand new hockey stick endorsed by Béliveau, and with bruised hands and knees but without a scratch on Robert's spirit.
The next day, Robert, with his brand new skates dangling over his shoulder and swinging his hockey stick by his side, hurried to the local arena. The dressing room was filled with boys of all ages.
"Put your skates on!" the coach yelled while he rushed by. Robert, with clumsy fingers, started to lace up his skates. It took him a long time before he got it right. When he tried to stand up, he had to lean against the wall to hold himself up.
By the time he wobbled out to the rink, bigger boys were on the ice. One of them pushed him aside. "Go to the bench before you get hurt!" he bellowed at him. Robert sat down in a daze. He managed to find his way back to the dressing room where he took off his skates and left.
He cried all the way home.
He locked himself in his room and threw himself on his bed. When he composed himself, he turned on his back and stars twinkled at him from the ceiling. His face broke into a grin remembering the time when I, reluctantly, helped him to put them up there.
"I will be a star!" He whispered to himself. "I can't skate, but I can be a goalie; they don't have to skate that much." And without his supper, he went to sleep.
Five years later he became the first string goalie on his high school's hockey team, and they travelled to Nova Scotia to the Nationwide High School Tournament. Their first competition was against bigger and older boys, some in their late teens. It was a rough play, but by the end, the score was still a tie. That's when the shoot-out started. The crowd, with great enthusiasm cheered for the young goalie, shouting his name after each save he made.
"Robby! Robby!" His name vibrated through the arena, and although they lost, Robert became a star.
In the spring, the team toured the U.S. prep schools. As a parent I joined the many hockey parents travelling with the troupe. In Exeter, they were out-shot by 64 to 12. Robert kept his team in the game and it ended with a tie. That year, Exeter was undefeated; their coach couldn't accept a tie to blemish their record. He asked for a sudden death overtime.
"Boys," Robert's coach gathered his players around him. "You don't have to do it." He looked over his squad. "It's up to you."
A dozen tired eyes stared back at him. Suddenly Robert jumped up. "We'll do it!" and as in the past when faced with a challenge, he transferred his desire to his teammates, who jubilantly joined him. They won the game.
A year later, his unshakable determination earned him a hockey scholarship to Exeter, a prestigious prep school, and two years later a scholarship to an Ivy League university.
Thank you, Canada, for giving us the opportunity and freedom to reach for the stars. We are proud to call ourselves Canadian!
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