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February 24, 2021
This was one of my favorite books as a child; I really wish I still had my copy. This book contains profiles of Gordie Howe, Phil Esposito, Maurice Richard, Glenn Hall, Eddie Shore, Norm Ullman, Bill Durnan, Milt Schmidt, Bobby Hull, Doug Harvey, Frank Mahovlich, Howie Morenz, Terry Sawchuk, Bobby Orr, Jean Beliveau, Toe Blake, Ted Lindsay, Andy Bathgate, Bernard Geoffrion, Pierre Pilote, Stan Mikita & Jacques Plante. Back in the late 1970s when I first read it, that was just about every name you needed to know with reference to hockey, and Terry Sawchuk was my fucking idol as soon as I read this book.
Around 1982-83, my sixth-grade classmate Jon was rejected by all the teams in the floor-hockey league that played in our school gym. Those teams were made up of all the wanna-be jocks in our school, and were all coached by the fathers of those wanna-be jocks. Jon's father was pretty angry about this- these same kids did their very best to make life at school miserable for Jon. They treated me the same way. So Jon's father decided to coach a team for all the boys who were rejected by the other teams. My younger brother was in the same grade as Jon's brother, and was recruited for the team through him, but they still didn't have enough boys for a team so they asked if I would play. I was never very big on sports, but like I said, I basically worshiped Terry Sawchuk. So I made a deal- I'd play, but only if I could be the goaltender. None of the other boys cared to be the goalie, so we were good to go. We wanted to call our team the Rejects, for obvious reasons, but they wouldn't let us. All the little jockstrap-sniffing sportos talked shit to me non-stop during the two weeks' or so time before the first game; they knew I generally sucked at sports & didn't give a shit anyway. Their equally asshole fathers did the same to our coach, telling him we would be lucky to win a single game, that their teams were going to destroy us, etc. The coaches didn't know that their sons were forgetting all about some of my most obvious characteristics: I'm straight-up crazy, have extremely high tolerance for pain and until well into my late 20s I'd fight anybody at the drop of the proverbial hat. Anyone who knows how Sawchuk played can probably guess what came next. Keep in mind that there was no protective equipment, and even though it was floor-hockey, the sticks are wood shafts with heavy-duty plastic blades, and if somebody beats you with one it will fucking hurt, and do a certain amount of damage too. From that first game I did everything I could to stop those bastards from scoring. I would dive for the puck, and they would start chopping at my hands with their sticks while whichever of their asshole fathers who were supposed to be refereeing for that game ignored it. Very quickly, they escalated the level of violence by stomping on my hands and feet, kicking me in the crotch and elsewhere, and "accidentally-on-purpose" hitting me in the face with their sticks. All of this was ignored by the referees as well, but those assholes still couldn't fucking score on me. Several of the little jerks were publicly humiliated by their asshole fathers after failing to get the puck past me again & again, and walked out of the gym bawling their heads off. This went on for nine straight games, then the other coaches came up with a plan to handicap me: I called it "The Liam Rule". "The Liam Rule" had three main parts, and said that I had to
1) wear one of the goalie masks the coaches had recently purchased (which meant I couldn't wear my glasses, and also that my peripheral vision was partially obstructed)
2) stay on my feet with the stick in my hand at all times (no diving for the puck), and
3) never, ever touch the puck with my hands.
Before the tenth game the coaches had a meeting, and afterwards I was told I had to comply with "The Liam Rule". My coach had fought for me, but the other coaches simply outvoted him. I almost made it through the first period, but then somebody slipped one past me. All the jockstrap-licking dickheads went insane with glee, and their families in the bleachers did too. I was absolutely enraged, and I ripped that damned mask off my face and sailed it across the gymnasium. I don't remember what happened after that in much detail; I was far too angry. Remember, I was only 12 years old. So I refused to continue under "The Liam Rule", and there was a lot of arguing between both us kids and the coaches. Eventually, they reiterated that I had no choice, and I told them that they could shove their new rule straight up their mother-fucking asses. I was immediately kicked out of the game, and warned that I would be kicked out of the league if I used any more "bad language". By this time I was quite literally frothing at the mouth with rage. I walked to the middle of the gym floor, faced the crowded bleachers, raised both middle fingers and screamed something along the lines of "FUCK YOU you cowardly fucking cheaters, maybe instead of getting rid of me you should have taught your worthless fucking sons to shoot better! KISS MY ASS!!! Then one of the coaches shouted "Hey, that's enough! you'd better watch your language!", and I replied "GO FUCK YOURSELF, ASSHOLE! WHO THE FUCK IS GONNA MAKE ME??? SUCK MY MOTHER-FUCKING DICK!!!". I grabbed my crotch as I screamed that last bit, and walked out of there, flipping them off again over my shoulder...
Fuck them, I had nine straight shut-outs & totally humiliated all those obnoxious little jockstrap-lickers and their lame-assed daddies too, hahaha!!! That remains one of my absolute favorite memories from childhood.
There is a little postscript to this particular story. Several months later, almost at the end of the school year, we were playing floor-hockey in gym class. Several of my more athletically-inclined classmates were still a bit sensitive about the earlier incident, and I was taunting them and laughing about the fact that they couldn't score on me. Our gym teacher, Coach Mac, was a decent guy; I had never had any serious problems with him, although we did occasionally come into conflict over my lack of interest in participating in class. Coach Mac had played hockey in college, and all my jock wanna-be classmates started begging him to "stand up for the honour of the jocks" or whatever, and teach me a lesson by scoring on me. Well, I started baiting Coach Mac, talking trash and saying he couldn't score on me either, and I said a lot of other not very nice things that clearly pissed him off. So Coach Mac sent a slap shot screaming toward the net, and I stepped in front of it. BOOM! I heard the hollow thump and felt the shock of the impact through a red haze of pain. I felt myself falling as I tried, and tried, and tried again to draw another breath. The edges of my vision turned from red to darkening grey, and suddenly Coach Mac was lifting me off the floor. His face was ghostly white, and his lips were moving. Suddenly sound came back, and I heard him saying "Liam, are you all right???". I was finally able to draw a breath, and the left side of my rib-cage just exploded with agony. It felt like my chest was on fire. Coach Mac told the other boys that he was taking me to the office, and began carrying me toward the door. I knew if he did that he might lose his job- my father was the superintendent of schools for that district, and the principal was an ass-licker. Coach Mac must have been terrified, but he was trying to do the right thing anyway. "No, no" I gasped "Put me down, I'll be fine". "Are you sure???" he asked. I told him I was, and he gingerly set me down on my feet, holding me lightly in case I fell. I waved him away and walked slowly to the bleachers, where I sat down. "I told you you couldn't score on me" I said. He shook his head, told me I was crazy, and asked again if I was all right. I told him I'd be fine, then the bell rang ending gym class for the day. Coach Mac let me take it easy in gym for the last several weeks of the year, and at the end of the last day he called my name, shook my hand, and simply said "thanks". I was still having some pain while breathing in the beginning of summer, so my doctor took x-rays. The x-rays showed that one rib had been badly fractured, and the one next to it had a less serious fracture. Even now, nearly 40 years later, I have an obvious divot in my chest, and it still hurts like a bitch whenever it gets really cold. It was worth it, though, hahaha...
Around 1982-83, my sixth-grade classmate Jon was rejected by all the teams in the floor-hockey league that played in our school gym. Those teams were made up of all the wanna-be jocks in our school, and were all coached by the fathers of those wanna-be jocks. Jon's father was pretty angry about this- these same kids did their very best to make life at school miserable for Jon. They treated me the same way. So Jon's father decided to coach a team for all the boys who were rejected by the other teams. My younger brother was in the same grade as Jon's brother, and was recruited for the team through him, but they still didn't have enough boys for a team so they asked if I would play. I was never very big on sports, but like I said, I basically worshiped Terry Sawchuk. So I made a deal- I'd play, but only if I could be the goaltender. None of the other boys cared to be the goalie, so we were good to go. We wanted to call our team the Rejects, for obvious reasons, but they wouldn't let us. All the little jockstrap-sniffing sportos talked shit to me non-stop during the two weeks' or so time before the first game; they knew I generally sucked at sports & didn't give a shit anyway. Their equally asshole fathers did the same to our coach, telling him we would be lucky to win a single game, that their teams were going to destroy us, etc. The coaches didn't know that their sons were forgetting all about some of my most obvious characteristics: I'm straight-up crazy, have extremely high tolerance for pain and until well into my late 20s I'd fight anybody at the drop of the proverbial hat. Anyone who knows how Sawchuk played can probably guess what came next. Keep in mind that there was no protective equipment, and even though it was floor-hockey, the sticks are wood shafts with heavy-duty plastic blades, and if somebody beats you with one it will fucking hurt, and do a certain amount of damage too. From that first game I did everything I could to stop those bastards from scoring. I would dive for the puck, and they would start chopping at my hands with their sticks while whichever of their asshole fathers who were supposed to be refereeing for that game ignored it. Very quickly, they escalated the level of violence by stomping on my hands and feet, kicking me in the crotch and elsewhere, and "accidentally-on-purpose" hitting me in the face with their sticks. All of this was ignored by the referees as well, but those assholes still couldn't fucking score on me. Several of the little jerks were publicly humiliated by their asshole fathers after failing to get the puck past me again & again, and walked out of the gym bawling their heads off. This went on for nine straight games, then the other coaches came up with a plan to handicap me: I called it "The Liam Rule". "The Liam Rule" had three main parts, and said that I had to
1) wear one of the goalie masks the coaches had recently purchased (which meant I couldn't wear my glasses, and also that my peripheral vision was partially obstructed)
2) stay on my feet with the stick in my hand at all times (no diving for the puck), and
3) never, ever touch the puck with my hands.
Before the tenth game the coaches had a meeting, and afterwards I was told I had to comply with "The Liam Rule". My coach had fought for me, but the other coaches simply outvoted him. I almost made it through the first period, but then somebody slipped one past me. All the jockstrap-licking dickheads went insane with glee, and their families in the bleachers did too. I was absolutely enraged, and I ripped that damned mask off my face and sailed it across the gymnasium. I don't remember what happened after that in much detail; I was far too angry. Remember, I was only 12 years old. So I refused to continue under "The Liam Rule", and there was a lot of arguing between both us kids and the coaches. Eventually, they reiterated that I had no choice, and I told them that they could shove their new rule straight up their mother-fucking asses. I was immediately kicked out of the game, and warned that I would be kicked out of the league if I used any more "bad language". By this time I was quite literally frothing at the mouth with rage. I walked to the middle of the gym floor, faced the crowded bleachers, raised both middle fingers and screamed something along the lines of "FUCK YOU you cowardly fucking cheaters, maybe instead of getting rid of me you should have taught your worthless fucking sons to shoot better! KISS MY ASS!!! Then one of the coaches shouted "Hey, that's enough! you'd better watch your language!", and I replied "GO FUCK YOURSELF, ASSHOLE! WHO THE FUCK IS GONNA MAKE ME??? SUCK MY MOTHER-FUCKING DICK!!!". I grabbed my crotch as I screamed that last bit, and walked out of there, flipping them off again over my shoulder...
Fuck them, I had nine straight shut-outs & totally humiliated all those obnoxious little jockstrap-lickers and their lame-assed daddies too, hahaha!!! That remains one of my absolute favorite memories from childhood.
There is a little postscript to this particular story. Several months later, almost at the end of the school year, we were playing floor-hockey in gym class. Several of my more athletically-inclined classmates were still a bit sensitive about the earlier incident, and I was taunting them and laughing about the fact that they couldn't score on me. Our gym teacher, Coach Mac, was a decent guy; I had never had any serious problems with him, although we did occasionally come into conflict over my lack of interest in participating in class. Coach Mac had played hockey in college, and all my jock wanna-be classmates started begging him to "stand up for the honour of the jocks" or whatever, and teach me a lesson by scoring on me. Well, I started baiting Coach Mac, talking trash and saying he couldn't score on me either, and I said a lot of other not very nice things that clearly pissed him off. So Coach Mac sent a slap shot screaming toward the net, and I stepped in front of it. BOOM! I heard the hollow thump and felt the shock of the impact through a red haze of pain. I felt myself falling as I tried, and tried, and tried again to draw another breath. The edges of my vision turned from red to darkening grey, and suddenly Coach Mac was lifting me off the floor. His face was ghostly white, and his lips were moving. Suddenly sound came back, and I heard him saying "Liam, are you all right???". I was finally able to draw a breath, and the left side of my rib-cage just exploded with agony. It felt like my chest was on fire. Coach Mac told the other boys that he was taking me to the office, and began carrying me toward the door. I knew if he did that he might lose his job- my father was the superintendent of schools for that district, and the principal was an ass-licker. Coach Mac must have been terrified, but he was trying to do the right thing anyway. "No, no" I gasped "Put me down, I'll be fine". "Are you sure???" he asked. I told him I was, and he gingerly set me down on my feet, holding me lightly in case I fell. I waved him away and walked slowly to the bleachers, where I sat down. "I told you you couldn't score on me" I said. He shook his head, told me I was crazy, and asked again if I was all right. I told him I'd be fine, then the bell rang ending gym class for the day. Coach Mac let me take it easy in gym for the last several weeks of the year, and at the end of the last day he called my name, shook my hand, and simply said "thanks". I was still having some pain while breathing in the beginning of summer, so my doctor took x-rays. The x-rays showed that one rib had been badly fractured, and the one next to it had a less serious fracture. Even now, nearly 40 years later, I have an obvious divot in my chest, and it still hurts like a bitch whenever it gets really cold. It was worth it, though, hahaha...
Displaying 1 of 1 review