Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

Howe—generation, of players. He was totally unfamiliar with virtually the entirety, of the 1942 Wings roster.

Well, maybe not all of them. There was—out there skating, during the pre-game warm-up—a raw-boned, young, Jack Stewart. He’d long been one of Grandpa’s favorite players—along with Bill Quackenbush. The pair had been the Wings’ main defensive pair, in the mid—and late-forties. Stewart would come to be called “Blackjack”—some years, down the road—for the many bone-rattling body-checks he would have delivered. He was an equal opportunity hitter. “If it moved… and it was wearing the other team’s jersey… he’d hit it,” Grandpa Piepczyk had always advised. On numerous occasions.

And then, there was Modere (Mud) Bruneteau. His fame had also continued through the years—although (it would turn out) to a lesser degree, than that of the future-legendary Gordie. “Mud” had scored the winning goal—in what had become the longest hockey game in National Hockey League history. That contest had taken place in 1936. As of this writing, it has remained the longest tilt! By far!

The Wings had played those now-defunct Maroons—at the venerable Forum, in Montreal. They’d played the game, to a tie,—over the regulation 60 minutes! The deadlock had remained—through five additional 20-minute sudden-death, overtime, periods! It was well past two-thirty—in the morning—when Bruneteau, ultimately, scored the winner! Propelled the puck past Lorne Chabot—the Maroons’ goaltender!

So everyone (well, almost everyone) knew all about “Mud”—even in the 21st century. And he would be playing tonight! For Jason and Eric! This living/skating legend—was about to be engaged in this contest! It didn’t get much better than that! (Well, maybe it would—if Gordie were to, magically, step out onto the ice!)

It seemed—to Jason—that Grandpa had told him that the first game the old man had ever attended (at The Olympia, of course) had been Bruneteau’s last game, in the NHL—in the mid-forties.

Tonight, though, Sid Abel was there—also a youngster. So was Syd Howe. Jason tried to remember—whether Grandpa’s first game had also been Syd Howe’s last contest. He couldn’t recall. Grandpa had told him that Gordie—who would not come upon the scene, for another five or six years—was not related to Syd.

He’d thought he’d remembered the old man telling him of Johnny Mowers—the Wings goalie. Mowers would start in the Wings’ nets—on that mystical Thursday. It seemed, though, that—when Grandpa had become a fan—Mowers was either in the Canadian military, or had retired. It was Jason’s memory—that Harry Lumley had played goal, in Grandpa’s very first game. Had continued to tend the Wings’ goal, for the next few years.

It had been difficult for Our Hero—to view a few of the contestants, skating around before him. And to endeavor, to try and relate them—to what he’d remembered his mother’s father relating to him, so often, about the players, of his new era.

But, what had staggered Jason was the rink itself: The playing surface—and surrounding areas! In the first place, it looked so—so sterile. There were no advertisements—flamboyant or otherwise—on the unencumbered boards. Just the white wooden barriers, themselves—topped by a narrow, red, sort-of-railing. And there were no team logos—nor advertisements—imbedded into the ice surface, itself. Just the red line, the blue lines—and the face-off circles. Sterile!

The red line was (of all things) red. Solid red. No square red “checkers”—or parallel stripes—delineating center ice. No white diagonal lines. Just solid red—from one side of the rink, to the other.

It occurred to Jason that, when television had first come into being, everything was shown, in “glorious black and white”. Which meant that the pictures all came out—in varying shades of gray. The powers that be in the NHL had, obviously, “broken up” the red line—so as to make it stand out, on TV. To differentiate it—from the two blue lines.

Most startling of all was the fact that there were no glass “walls”, lining the playing surface! None! Above the plain white, advertisement-barren, boards? Above those antiseptic boards? There had been—nothing! Absolutely nothing! Just air! Just the fans! The vulnerable onlookers! Unbelievable!

How could that be? Didn’t pucks get shot out of the rink? All the time? Well, true, they did have some manner of “screens” at both ends of the rink! Set up behind each goal! But, those were comprised, of a few sections—of what looked to be steel-cage material! And those barriers didn’t extend anywhere nearly as high—as the break-proof glass partitions, that were to be found behind each of the nets, in the arenas in the era, from which Jason had come! No protection—here! Wouldn’t people get killed? Literally killed? As in dead? Kaput?

Especially in lethal jeopardy—in the second row? For, that’s where he and Eric were sitting! Almost directly off to the left of Mowers’ elbow! Well, adjacent to his elbow—in the first and third periods. And opposite Turk Broda’s (the Toronto goaltender’s) elbow, during the second period.

Jason had thought that he’d heard Grandpa talk of Broda—a Hall of Fame net-minder, for the Maple Leafs. Also, Syl Apps, the Toronto centerman. It seemed to the young man—that he’d heard the old man mention Apps, another legendary player, more than a few times.

He did recognize the name of one of the leafs—Billy Taylor. His granddad had told him, often, that Taylor and another player—the name of whom Our Hero couldn’t remember (it was Don Gallinger)—had been banned from hockey for life! For betting on some games! But, that had been—to the best of Jason’s memory—in 1947 or 1948. And it seemed to him that they’d both been playing for the Boston Bruins, at the time. In fact, Jason seemed to remember, Taylor had just been traded—from the Bruins, to the New York Rangers—when the league had caught up with him! Could this be the same guy? THE Billy Taylor?

When the referee and two linesmen skated out, Our Hero was really surprised. And not simply because they were not wearing the “traditional” black plastic helmets. But, they were also sans the equally-traditional black-and-white striped shirts—that he’d been so used to. These officials wore white sweaters! They didn’t even look like jerseys.