Leslie Spitz-Edson's Blog, page 6

A hockey-centric weekend in Toronto

Last weekend I attended the fall meeting of the Society for International Hockey Research, which was held at the above iconic location - Maple Leaf Gardens. They don't make 'em like this anymore! Maple Leaf Gardens was the home of the Toronto Maple Leafs from 1931 until 1999, and during that time played host to no fewer than nineteen Stanley Cup Finals. It has since been renovated and is now a multi-use facility, with a beautiful ice rink that hosted a stick and puck session, a public session, and a women's college hockey game on Saturday afternoon.

The Ryerson University women's hockey team plays a game in what used to be Maple Leaf Gardens. It is now called the Mattamy Athletic Centre.

The meeting featured a number of speakers from the world of men's professional hockey and related topics. Most notable to me was Richard Scott, a man who is committed to creating a league history for the CWHL, the ten-year old Canadian women's professional league, through his book Who's Who in Women's Hockey. He believes that tracking player stats, creating game timelines, designating 1st and 2nd All-Star Teams, awarding trophies for MVP and various positions, and the like, will enhance the allure and the legitimacy of women's professional hockey. He also noted parallels between the early years of men's pro hockey a century ago and these more recent early years of the women's leagues - parallels that are cause to be bullish on the future of the women's game. I made sure to thank him for his work and presented him with a copy of Seeking the Center.

In Toronto there's hockey everywhere you look - even in the subway!

In the evening I got to see the CWHL in action. My friend Benoît and I took the subway to the end of the line, and then got on the 44 Kipling Ave. South bus to the Mastercard Centre, a 4-rink facility which, aside from being home to the Toronto Furies of the CWHL, is also the Maple Leafs' practice facility and home to Hockey Canada. Along with several knots of Furies gear-clad girls and a number of families we watched the Toronto Furies take on the Brampton Thunder. The home team lost, but a good time was had by all.

Defenceman (yes, that's how you spell it in Canadian!) Jessica Platt up against the glass.

And there she is defending!

Sonja van der Bliek in goal.

Brampton attacking.

Ensconced in cases at the Mastercard Centre were memorabilia relating to many well-known Canadian athletes, including this amazing mask worn by goalie and 3-time Olympian Sami Jo Small.

Do the little things

A week ago tonight I celebrated the release of Seeking the Center with friends and family here in the town where I live. When I was thinking about the evening ahead of time, I wanted to be sure to thank my guests properly for all the support they've given me over the years. 

There's the support that came in the form of encouragement, and questions about my progress as I made my way through the process of researching, writing, editing and publishing. But there's also been support on a deeper level.

In hockey, there's a stock phrase - one of those hockey cliches - that is often applied to players who aren't necessarily flashy, but who are consistent, reliable, and conscientious. They are said to "do the little things." Implied in that is a type of faith - faith that those "little things" will add up to success for the team in the long run.

I'm lucky to live in a community where we're not only privileged to begin with - we are, and we can't forget that - but also, where so many are committed to "doing the little things": volunteering in the community, in the schools, and with our kids' sports teams; taking an interest in each other and looking out for each other. It's worth noting that many of us are also, in this Washington, DC, suburb, career government servants who work hard every day for the people of our country and the world.

We don't expect some savior to come in and score the winning goal off some flashy play. But we have faith that, if we all try to do the little things, it'll mean success for all of us.

In life as in hockey, true awesomeness resides in those who get up every morning, for years and years, and try to make things better, one little thing at a time. Many thanks to everyone who has helped to make this a place where we can enjoy the peace of mind to do what we're inspired to do. And let's keep trying to make things better, both within our little community and beyond.

Multiple drafts

These are my drafts of Seeking the Center, teetering high atop my bookshelf. The spiral notebooks are where I took notes (when I wasn't using the computer) and worked out ideas. They date back to 2010. The manuscripts pictured here only date back to about 2013. Earlier fragments have ended up in the recycling bin or hidden among endless directories of disorganized computer files.

Now the manuscript has been finalized, published, and released. For better or for worse, it's complete. The characters who have been a part of my life for six or seven years, whose thoughts and feelings became as real as my own, are no longer my daily companions, and I truly miss them. I only hope that you will enjoy them as much as I have!

Launch party!!!

Last night was the "official" Seeking the Center book launch with friends and family! Yay!

I was truly humbled that so many folks made it out on a "school night" to support me -- and to find out just what it is I've been doing all these years!

I offered a few words about the book, a short reading, and then, surprise! Three theater students from our local high school made a special appearance as Agnes, Owen and Jo in a short scene from the book. They were awesome! They made my night!

Many thanks to everyone! The reason a writer writes is that she wants to share her ideas and stories. I so much appreciated the chance to share mine!

Wearing Our Identity: an exhibit of Native clothing at the McCord Museum

Seeking the Center's Agnes Demers is hockey player and a tough, unsentimental young woman. But she also loves to cook for her friends and family, and is a craftswoman as well. Many of the women in my family also take pleasure in making clothing for their loved ones, especially for their children and grandchildren. The impulse to do this is ages old and, I think, very moving. 

Porter Son Identité (Wearing Our Identity), an exhibit at The McCord Museum in Montreal, has been a major source of inspiration to me in writing Seeking. It is an installation of First Nations, Inuit and Métis clothing that has to be seen to be believed. Next time you're in Montreal, do yourself a favor and check it out.

I also invite you to go to the webpage, look at the photos, and watch the short video narrated by Guislaine Lemay, one of the show's curators. (You can also find it on YouTube.) It's in French with English subtitles, and it touchingly conveys the very tangible expression of love that I tried to express in Seeking.

When Girls Became Lions

I grew up female, a teenager in the late '70s and '80s. Now my daughter is as old as I was then. I'm always telling her how different things are for her than they were for me. I know it must get tiresome, maybe even burdensome, for her to hear, but I think it's important.

It's actually not that easy to wrap your head around. The deep, pervasive sexism that kept parents and teachers from encouraging girls to play sports seems so incredibly stupid in retrospect, that it's hard even for me, who lived through it, to believe. But that is the way it was.

When I was my daughter's age, there was a nominal acceptance of the fact that, theoretically, girls had the right to equal opportunities in sports. But the fact is, girls playing sports was not, at that time, a thing. Almost no girls played anything--not in my community and socio-economic category, anyhow. And no one seemed to think it was a problem. I loved watching Tatum O'Neal in the original Bad News Bears (1976)--if you haven't seen it, you should; it's a highly entertaining portrayal of how things were back in those Dark Ages--but it certainly did not precipitate a rush to get girls into Little League.

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I resisted reading this novel, by Valerie J. Gin and Jo Kadlecek, because it had an "agenda." But it was interesting and far exceeded  my expectations. A good read and one that tells an important story.

When Girls Became Lions (2015) tells part of the story of how we got from there to here. Set in 1983-4, in a small Ohio town, the novel is a fictionalized account of what happens when, more than a decade after the passage of Title IX, a public high school is threatened with the withdrawal of athletic funding unless it forms a girls soccer team--something its athletic director has resisted for years. It's also the story of how, a generation later, the new coach of the girls soccer team uncovers that original team's story--one that had been purposely suppressed because, well, who cares? They're girls.

Aside from being a compelling read, When Girls Became Lions documents an important piece of women's history, the history of our struggle to get our fair share of our communities' financial and, equally important, its emotional resources.

Every once in a while it's necessary to stop and reflect on what ties us together, as female human beings, across generations. And in my case, to be grateful to those women and men who stepped up so that my daughter can enjoy opportunities that I couldn't.

 

What does your sport mean to you?

While writing Seeking the Center, I tried to investigate the different meanings that hockey can have for different people. If you're interested in this topic too, I recommend that you read American Indian Lacrosse: Little Brother of War, by ethnomusicologist Thomas Vennum, Jr. 

Most everyone knows that lacrosse originated among various Native American tribes. In American Indian Lacrosse, Vennum explores the significance of the game within these cultures, past and present. Lacrosse, for them, is not just a game to play; rather, it's tied to many other aspects of life. Deeply rooted in the story of creation itself, it can function as a sort of prayer for health or fine weather, a way to train for combat, a mode of resistance against colonialist powers, or a way for young people to express pride in their tribal identities.

That's not an exhaustive list, nor does it do justice to the wealth of narrative, artistic, medicinal, social, spiritual, and other lacrosse-related traditions that Vennum describes, but you get the idea. This is a fascinating account with a wealth of illustrations and well-told stories. And as a bonus, reading it just might give you a new perspective on your favorite sport and your relationship to it.

My dog-eared, post-it-adorned copy of the 1994 classic, in which historical vignettes and contemporary conversations illuminate the contexts for the Native game.

Getting just a wee bit political, maybe

Last night I attended the concert that showcases and honors this year's National Endowment for the Arts National Heritage Fellows. The National Heritage Fellowships are awarded by the Arts Endowment to "recognize the recipients' artistic excellence and support their continuing contributions to our nation's traditional arts heritage."

A basket woven by Theresa Secord, Penobscot Nation

In other words, the awardees are people who have taken a traditional art form--for example, Dakota flute making and performance or Laotian khaen playing, white oak basket making or Huastecan son performance--brought it, through their own personal passion, persistence, and skill, to the next level, and--very importantly--been persistent in their efforts to assure their art's survival by being teachers, spokespeople, and/or advocates.

The concert at which each year's honorees present their art is always an incredibly moving affair, presented by the National Council for the Traditional Arts and a small cadre of devoted folklorists who come back year after year to assist. This year it was broadcast live over the internet, and you can watch it here.

Believe me, I don't want to take anything away from the artists themselves, from the amazing variety and beauty of the traditions represented, or from the profound nature of taking a precious tradition, with deep roots, and carrying it forward to future generations. But to me the evening represented another sort of continuity as well. It began with a set of tunes performed by awardee Billy McComiskey, an Irish button accordion player from Baltimore, joined, to my surprise, by two previous heritage fellowship awardees Mick Moloney, a multi-instrumentalist and vocalist, and Liz Carroll of Chicago, one of the greatest Irish fiddle players you'll ever have the good fortune to hear. I have special places in my heart for both Mick and Liz, because I remember them as good people and great to work with. But Liz is special to me--I don't know why, maybe because she's a woman and not many years older than I am.

When Liz was awarded her heritage fellowship back in 1994, I was a young person working in the field of folklore in DC, lucky enough to score an invitation to the ceremony on Capitol Hill. First Lady Hillary Clinton officiated, and she was very engaged, taking time to greet and congratulate all the fellows, especially D.L. Menard, a Cajun musician from her home state of Louisiana. But she also expressed particular interest in Liz and in Liz's entourage, which included her two young children.

Twenty-two years later? I don't want to make this post political, but I can't help noting that Liz, her children now grown, continues to honor us with her lively, nuanced fiddle playing, and Mrs. Clinton, now a grandmother, is still seeking to further serve our nation.

I have great admiration for people who show such persistence in their true passion over the course of a lifetime. The wisdom and experience that they have accrued and are so willing to share are things that we can't afford to throw away. 

Warrior paradise

The warrior paradise...Valhalla...filled with shields and mailcoats, haunted by wolf and eagle, and provided with hundreds of doors through which the warriors...pour out...[to] an unending battle, continuing forever because those who fall each day are restored to life again in time for the feasting in the evening...*

Hockey season is upon us. We're at the moment when #IsItOctoberYet? yields to breathless bits of hockey chatter. The young prospects bent on showing what they can do, hoping to crack the opening night line-up for the first time. The veterans out to prove their continuing worth, to overcome injury or age, to bring something new this season. And always everyone determined to win: win the majority of the 82 brutal regular season games, and, if the hockey gods smile, win the sixteen increasingly-more-brutal games necessary to hoist the Stanley Cup next June. 

One might think that, after a lifetime of warfare and (most likely) a grisly death in battle, Odin's chosen warriors, granted a seat in Valhalla, would kick back, drink some mead, play some video games, and enjoy the company of the valkyries. And they do. They feast and party all night, every night. But in the morning it's back to the battlefield, where they fight all day, are slain, and then revived to party some more and fight and die and be revived, party and fight and die and be revived, ad infinitum.

It seems exhausting, right? But these hockey players can't wait to get started. They're desperate to get into the routine of the season, the flow of games, where, whether they win or lose, they're going to hit the ice the next morning to fight again. It's their Valhalla, their warrior paradise.

So, my friends, welcome. It's #JustAboutOctober. Time for us fans, too, to revive ourselves (again) for the season ahead.

 

*quote from H. R. Ellis Davidson, Gods and Myths of Northern Europe

 

Beyond a Boundary: The classic book on cricket by C.L.R. James

Beyond a Boundary (1963) is C.L.R. James's classic memoir and exegesis of cricket in the colonial West Indies. James (1901-1989), a native of Trinidad who spent many of his adult years in Britain, was involved with cricket as a player, critic and commentator. He was also an historian, novelist, cultural and political critic, and activist. In Beyond a Boundary he describes how irrevocably enmeshed the sport was in his own development, as well as in the political, social and racial struggles of his time. 

C.L.R. James's classic was first published in Britain in 1963. The first American edition didn't appear until twenty years later. This edition was published in 1993 by Duke University Press.

I wish I was knowledgeable enough to discuss how this has all played out in the fifty-plus years since Beyond a Boundary was published. I'm not, but I want to offer to you this statement by James explaining the premise of this book. It speaks to the roles sport can play in defining a society and the points of struggle, of contest, and of contradiction within it. 

I haven’t the slightest doubt that the clash of race, caste and class did not retard but stimulated West Indian cricket. I am equally certain that in those years social and political passions, denied normal outlets, expressed themselves so fiercely in cricket (and other games) precisely because they were games. Here began my personal calvary. The British tradition soaked deep into me was that when you entered the sporting arena you left behind you the sordid compromises of everyday existence. Yet for us to do that we would have had to divest ourselves of our skins. From the moment I had to decide which club I would join the contrast between the ideal and the real fascinated me and tore at my insides. Nor could the local population see it otherwise. The class and racial rivalries were too intense. They could be fought out without violence or much lost except pride and honour. Thus the cricket field was a stage on which selected individuals played representative roles which were charged with social significance. I propose now to place on record some of the characters and as much as I can reproduce (I remember everything) of the social conflict. I have been warned that some of these characters are unknown and therefore unlikely to interest non-West Indian readers. I cannot think so.

He was right in that. Beyond a Boundary certainly held my interest, even though its "players" were not only unknown to me (as is cricket, largely, I'm afraid!) but also long departed from the planet. The circumstances James describes are fascinating and, though intricate, they resonate widely. I learned a lot from this book.