hockey

Hockey and the tapestry of our lives

I would be a Leafs fan, I suppose, but when I was seven years old someone put a woolly Montreal Canadiens sweater on me, with the rest of my hockey gear, skates and all, before snapping a Polaroid of me standing in the living room. My allegiance was somehow set. Paul, my best friend, was a Leafs fan. His mother made sandwiches and cookies

(Flying around) a small world

It’s the other day and, unbeknownst to me, an old friend of mine, a Canadian we knew from Yemen way back in the day, is about to become a father. His name is Gabriel and, funny thing, I recently mentioned him in a column about my mother. (More on that in a minute.) Gabe’s wife …

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Daniel Alfredsson and me? Twins? Do I have to retire now?

After ensuring the children did indeed still have all their limbs attached, the first order of business back home here in Uganda was to play some hockey, the sort reported earlier this year here in the Hamilton Spectator, that is ball hockey with Ugandans who are getting too good at Canada’s game. Too good, indeed. Joining us for …

Daniel Alfredsson and me? Twins? Do I have to retire now? Read More »

A Canadian boy and his game. (And by the way, I’m going to @#$%^& kill you.)

This is about a boy who loved to play hockey. He played in rinks, sure, when he could, even outdoor rinks, but more so just on the road, hour after hour, with or without his buddies, often until dark, calling the play-by-play, shooting, scoring, winning with the crowd going wild, of course, at least until …

A Canadian boy and his game. (And by the way, I’m going to @#$%^& kill you.) Read More »

Celebrating hockey GOLD in Africa

The thing about winning Gold in an Olympic event over and over and over and (YAWN) over is that you might start to assume that it’s your birthright, which, I suppose, this one, uh, kid, with the red shirt thinks. You forget all the work involved and your belly gets flabby and you won’t want to even walk the dog …

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People of faith must come out of the closet

I have had an opportunity to see the recent move of 33 rooming-house residents from Toronto to Aylmer, a transfer equated by some as Toronto “dumping its trash” into rural Ontario, through the eyes of personal experience. My family owned and operated a private rest home for the better part of 20 years, with tenants, patients as we called them, very similar to those at the Aylmer home run by Anne Borden Maxwell.

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