'Indian from the bush' recalls NHL glory

By Tom Hawthorn

The Globe and Mail, September 17, 1997

Fred Sasakamoose belongs to a hockey fraternity whose most famous member is Don Cherry. It is a brotherhood of the unfortunate, of the suddenly lame, of the hard working but unspectacular.

They are the cup-of-coffee gang. Jobs were scarce in the days of the six-team National Hockey League as legions of fellows eager to escape a life in the dangerous mines of Ontario or on the hard-scrabble farms of Saskatchewan clamoured to take your spot. Cherry played only a single NHL game. Sasakamoose's tenure lasted all of 11.

His modest career included no goals or assists and six penalty minutes for the Chicago Blackhawks at the end of their dismal 1953-54 campaign. Yet, these days, Sasakamoose, 63, "an Indian from the bush" in his words, finds himself hailed as a hero by his people. A Cree born and raised on reserves, he was the first treaty Indian to play in the NHL.

While sporting victory can be short-lived and records are made to be broken, any pioneer holds an honour that cannot be taken away. With it comes a responsibility that cannot be escaped.

Just the other day, Sasakamoose, who lives on the Ahtakakoop (Sandy Lake) Reserve in Saskatchewan, about 100 kilometres west of Prince Albert, received a batch of 86 letters from children at the Six Nations reserve in Ontario. Retired NHL tough guy Stan Jonathan, who was coached by Cherry while with the Boston Bruins, had urged the children to write to Sasakamoose to learn his story.

"Being an Indian from the bush country, ending up with that kind of gift, maybe I was blessed in a special way," Sasakamoose said of his hockey talent. "Now I dream and I pass through it. Memories. I guess that's all it is now."

Though his skills took him to the big city, Sasakamoose retains his country way of speaking, with its deliberate monotone and choppy diction. He was born on Christmas Day, 1933, in an isolated land of bush and forest, where the harshness of life is reflected in the names of scattered reserves — Grizzly Bear's Head, Lean Man, Mosquito.

His earliest memories are of snaring rabbits and prairie chickens, of trapping beaver and muskrats, of fishing rivers and lakes. "We were poor. We had nothing. Lived in a log house that was 20 feet by 20 feet."

As a boy, he first skated on a frozen slough on his reserve. "It got awful cold out there. That's why you learn how to skate fast." At age 8, he was taken from his parents and sent to St. Michael's residential school in Duck Lake, where he remembers the French-Canadian priests being as fanatical about discipline as they were about hockey.

"They made us talk English when we first come in there. They wanted us to lose our culture. I damn near forgot my language. I couldn't talk."

"We got punished, we got punished pretty hard. I got strapped. I'm not going to complain about it. I learned to behave."

Mornings were taken up by classes and afternoons by care of the school's substantial farm. Early evenings were for hockey. St. Michael's owned only a few pairs of skates, and the students were certainly too poor to have their own, so older boys got to use the school's stock.

Dessert was served but once a week. Every Sunday in winter, Sasakamoose would trade his dish of ice cream to an older boy for an hour's worth of skating.

"Father used to stand at the middle of the ice. If you weren't paying attention to the whistle, he'd fire the puck at you."

St. Michael's forged a midget powerhouse, winning the provincial championship over Regina when Sasakamoose was 15. The next season, he was asked to try out for the Moose Jaw Canucks junior team.

"I didn't want to go. I [had] just got back home. Going home was beautiful. I never seen my parents. I told my mom and dad that I would go for two weeks. After two weeks, that's it, I'm coming home."

"We really didn't get along with the white kids," recalls Fred's younger brother Peter, who also had a tryout. "We go to the dressing rooms and no one would talk to you because you were Indian. I got so damn lonesome I left."

Fred stayed, earning a reputation as a slick-skating centre with a hard shot. Yet, he, too, was a stranger in a strange land.

"Edmonton, Regina, Lethbridge, there was always discrimination. They called you names. That's part of life, I guess. I got used to it.

"I didn't know that society well, that outside life. I knew they were the dominant race, I knew they had everything we didn't have.

"I felt at that time I always walked behind everybody else. After a while, I learned to play their game, to play their game better than they did."

At 16, he signed with the Chicago Blackhawks, becoming their property in exchange for $100. Meanwhile, his game improved, he was named Canucks captain, and he got new linemates in whose honour he replaced his white skate laces with a yellow one and a black one.

"After three years in junior hockey, they put me with a Chinaman, Jimmy Chong, on left wing and a coloured guy from Edmonton on right wing. The fans, they laugh at you because you're an Indian. When they put the little black guy beside me, I felt a little more comfortable."

In February of 1954, after a playoff loss to the Regina Pats, Sasakamoose sat soaked in the Moose Jaw dressing room, contemplating the end of his junior career and eagerly anticipating his return to the reserve. While he dressed, a team official carrying a suitcase entered the room to read a telegram. Sasakamoose, at 20, was to report immediately to the Chicago Blackhawks. The suitcase included three suits, shirts and a watch. He caught the next train out of Regina for Toronto.

Arriving at Union Station on Feb. 27, he was awestruck by the height of the Royal York Hotel across the street. "Coming from the bush, I knew tall trees, sure, but this was a different thing, this white society. Huge buildings. I thought, 'Where the heck am I?' "

The first stop was at a radio station, where he was given a box of cigars and a battery-operated transistor radio for doing an interview. "They asked me to speak Cree, to talk my language. I said, [speaking his native language] 'Hello, you'll be able to see me at the hockey game tonight.' I talked to all the Indians. I don't know if there were any Cree out there, but I doubt it."

He remembers the announcers greeting him by saying, "How!" as though he was from a Hollywood backlot. "I raised up my hand, just like an old Indian, and said, 'Howe. Gordie Howe.' "

His strongest memory of that night at Maple Leaf Gardens is of Foster Hewitt asking him how to pronounce his name. He later learned that all of Sandy Lake had gathered around the radio to listen to Hockey Night in Canada, his mother hovering over the set, though she spoke no English.

The Blackhawks were a hapless squad, struggling through what would prove to be the franchise's worst-ever season. They finished in the cellar, with 12 wins, 51 losses and seven ties. Perhaps most indicative of the team's weakness was that they surrendered 242 goals, 60 more than any other club. And yet goalie Al Rollins (3.23 goals-against average) won the Hart Trophy as the NHL's most valuable player.

The first time Sasakamoose stepped onto the ice at old Chicago Stadium, the organist played Indian Love Call. He wore the number 21, a jersey later made famous by Stan Mikita. The significance of an Indian wearing the Indian-head jersey was not lost on Sasakamoose, who was, predictably, called Chief by his new teammates.

"Freddie was an energetic skater," recalled Peter Conacher, 65, whose 19 goals led the Hawks that season. "But he was like the rest of us when we were called up from junior -- nervous, unsure, not confident."

Sasakamoose stood only 5-foot-9, and Conacher remembers "his sweater almost coming down to his kneecaps."

On his way home at the end of the season, Sasakamoose stopped in Humboldt to buy a 1954 Dodge DeSoto for $3,900. "There were no cars on the reserve in them days, not even a road," he said. "Only a trail." He bumped along before stopping outside the log cabin in which he grew up. He remembers his mother stepping out on the small porch.

She saw a shiny new car with a man in a suit behind the wheel. "Moonias , moonias ," she called into the cabin in Cree. White man. Sasakamoose stepped out of his car. "She looked at me and started crying. Nikosis . My son." He offered to take them for a drive anywhere they wished. They settled on the general store 13 kilometres away, where they loaded up on groceries and a pair of rubber boots for his dad.

He returned to the Blackhawks in the fall, but was sent down to the minors just before the season started. He played for Chicoutimi of the Quebec Hockey League and for the New Westminster Royals of the Western Hockey League, ending his career with Calgary of the WHL. Along the way, he picked up titles from the natives who flocked to watch him play -- Chief Running Deer and Chief Thunderstick.

"One day, my wife said, 'Either me, or your hockey.' I didn't like to lose her. You throw away your fame, you throw away your riches. What is money? I looked at it that money was not everything."

Still, Sasakamoose was in demand, especially when semi-professional clubs in Saskatchewan faced a big game. Since there were no phone lines to the reserve, owners and supporters would make the long trek, outbidding one another for his services.

Today, he lives not far from the slough on which he first skated, operating a water truck and farming 160 hectares of wheat and canola that has not flourished under this summer's dry sky.

"I'm not rich, I'm not wealthy. I have a life and I have a job. I'm also a farmer. I live comfortably, but not in riches. I have 35 grandchildren and four great-grandchildren, so I guess I got riches."

He has but one regret about his NHL days.

"I always dreamed of scoring a goal. I came awful close, but close isn't good enough. If I had a goal, then I would have a puck."

Fans flock to meet a part of NHL's holy trinity

By Tom Hawthorn

The Globe and Mail, November 7, 2005

They came on crutches and on walkers, by wheelchair and by stroller, joining a queue for an audience with an ancient warrior.

The procession was clothed in the familiar bleu , blanc et rouge of les Glorieux . It was a pilgrimage in which devotees brought the icons and artifacts of their fandom. For many, their faith is a birthright.

Their religion is hockey and their denomination is the Canadiens.

They waited in line for up to three hours for a few moments of grace in the presence of a secular god known as much by his uniform number (4) and his nickname (Le Gros Bill ), as by his name.

Jean Béliveau is 74, his hair as white as the ice on which he once performed magic. His eyes are as blue as the sky on a sunny winter's day in his native Quebec. The unforgiving demands of his former profession can be seen on his nose: flattened across the bridge as though by a cross-check, the tip bent as though struck by a fist.

He is so ruggedly handsome that three generations of women from one family all pronounced him worthy of adoration.

The men, if possible, were giddier.

"Jean Béliveau for prime minister!" one shouted.

He might have done even better than that, having reluctantly turned down the possibility of being named governor-general. That he did so for family reasons only enhanced a reputation in no need of polishing.

"There is the holy trinity," 45-year-old fan Jean-Paul Desjardins explained. "Maurice Richard. Guy Lafleur. Jean Béliveau. Béliveau is the father, Lafleur the son, and Maurice, since he is gone, he is the holy ghost up in heaven."

Mr. Béliveau was once truly an Adonis, as can be seen on the cover of Jean Béliveau: My Life in Hockey , his 1994 autobiography. (A revised paperback edition has just been released by Greystone Books.) His hair was jet black, his teeth a perfect white row.

In those days, he made women swoon, and rival defencemen feel sick.

On Saturday, he sat at a table outside Bolen Books at Hillside Centre, signing his autograph with flawless penmanship, every underlined signature including a glyph reading "#4."

The book was snatched from shipping boxes before reaching store shelves. The supply of 200 sold out before the first copy was signed.The line of patient faithful snaked through the store, past the calendar displays and along two aisles of cooking books into the computer section.

Some wondered whether the demand would be too great for the veteran player.

"I'm used to playing in front of a big crowd," Mr. Béliveau assured those within earshot.

Ron Cairns, 57, was asked why he had come. "To shake his hand," he said. "He's a gentleman. An icon. A legend. A super human being."

Rolling up his right pant leg, Ira Hunter revealed tattoos stretching from his kneecap to his ankle. A Canadiens logo was surrounded by the Stanley Cup and portraits of goaltenders Georges Vezina, Jacques Plante, Ken Dryden and Patrick Roy. Mr. Béliveau found a bare patch of skin to sign, an autograph that Mr. Hunter plans to have permanently inked.

Grown men bowed on one knee to pose for a photograph, or to share an anecdote, or to receive a benediction. In line, they spoke in reverent tones about his classiness as an ambassador for hockey.

Mr. Béliveau joined the Canadiens in the early 1950s as a saviour, and a successor to Maurice (Rocket) Richard. He learned an early lesson about a star's persona. The Rocket fought the National Hockey League's English-speaking bosses, fuelling the imaginations of Quebec poets while becoming a folk hero, only to wind up selling Grecian Formula on television.

Mr. Béliveau had a Molson's employee number far longer than he wore No. 4 with the Canadiens.

He was corporate all the way, a federalist and an establishment figure.

Over the years, he has passed up overtures to run for office from the Union Nationale, the Conservatives and the Liberals. He twice rejected prime minister Brian Mulroney's offer of a Senate seat.

The most difficult to turn down was the job of governor-general, apparently on offer from former prime minister Jean Chrétien: Mr. Béliveau needed to spend time with his recently widowed daughter and her two children.

In an interview, Mr. Béliveau allowed how he sometimes contemplates what the position would have meant for a boy from rural Quebec, the eldest of eight children, who learned hockey on the rink his father built in the backyard.

"It would have been nice. Starting with the ice surface behind the house and ending up. . . ." He let the thought slide away. From Victoriaville to Rideau Hall. That would have made a terrific final chapter to the autobiography.

Finally, after more than three steady hours of signing without a break, as Mr. Béliveau prepared to catch an airplane to Vancouver, Rob Dunn stood before him in a gorgeous cream team jacket. Over his heart was a stitched crest for the 1950-51 Quebec Royals of the Quebec Senior Hockey League.

The jacket had been acquired by his mother from Royals right-winger Lorne Davis, who later became a Béliveau teammate.

Mr. Béliveau autographed the jacket on the right chest. Two other signatures were above the heart.

"Maurice Richard and Guy Lafleur," Mr. Dunn said, his chin to his chest to better read their handiwork. "And now Jean Béliveau. I've dreamed of this day."

Mr. Dunn, a 43-year-old health-care worker, wondered whether the Hockey Hall of Fame would want a piece of clothing blessed by the trinity.

Nice work if you can get it

By Tom Hawthorn

The Globe and Mail, May 17, 2006

VICTORIA

The tour at the provincial legislature was interrupted when some nut began shouting.

He wore a cravat, a top hat, and a three-piece suit. You could tell he was a nut because who in this century wears a cravat before Victoria Day?

He spoke in a loud voice and moved with theatrical flourish.

He introduced himself thusly:

"My name is Amor de Cosmos.

"Amor. Latin. Love.

"De. French. Of.

"Cosmos. Greek. The Universe.

"I truly am a lover of the universe. In three different languages!"

He wasn't just any nut at the legislature. He was the province's second premier, a kook and an eccentric and a model for so many elected officials to follow. He looked pretty good for a fellow who has been dead for almost 109 years.

"Do you like my name?" he asked. "I am, you see, a product of my own creation."

The man then proceeded to offer his history -- born in Nova Scotia as plain Will Smith; off to California to find his fortune in the gold fields, returning richer only in name; follows gold to British Columbia, where he stays to open a newspaper; earns the displeasure of the establishment through his acerbic writings; advocates the colony join Confederation.

Amor de Cosmos is not the only historical figure on hand at the provincial legislature these days. Queen Victoria can be found beneath a parasol on the granite steps, joined by the likes of Francis Rattenbury, who designed the formidable building; Sir James Douglas, the father of British Columbia and known as Old Square-Toes; Sir Matthew Baillie Begbie, the Hanging Judge; and Nellie Cashman, the Miner's Angel.

The characters are portrayed by young actors known as the Parliamentary Players. Like politicians on the campaign hustings, they ask of us a willful suspension of disbelief. Unlike the amateur thespians who plead for our votes, these actors want no more than to win our attention and, perhaps, applause at the end of a monologue.

So, amid the marble and gold-leaf splendour of a majestic building, the young actors sweat in their heavy wool suits to bring to life characters beyond living memory.

They have signed up for a 16-week run, which began Monday after two weeks of practice and rehearsal. The actors, who are employees of the legislature, deliver spiels during the free tours offered several times daily for tourists and schoolchildren.

Jennifer Ives, a 20-year-old tour guide, had just begun to describe a mural in the rotunda depicting Old Square-Toes and the Hanging Judge when Amor de Cosmos slipped in behind the group to interrupt.

"Douglas-Baillie, Baillie-Douglas. How incredibly dull," he stated.

The 19 members of the 10:20 a.m. tour group spun on the rotunda's floor to stare at the interloper.

In a slight Maritime lilt, the man spoke of his many accomplishments, as well as his overwhelming modesty. Among his achievements was the launching of the British Colonist, a newspaper, which, after mergers with other publications, still appears on the streets here seven days a week.

Whatever the merits of the current edition, the founding editor bravely challenged the colony's elite, saying: "I took great pride in being a thorn in the side of Douglas's nepotism and Baillie's tyranny. Thank heavens for me."

He also took credit for leading the argument for the colony's entry into the Canadian Confederation.

"But do you see any pictures of me in this esteemed rotunda? You must look far deeper into the bowels of this building to find my portrait. A wee bit smaller than these, too," he said, indicating the large murals surrounding the group.

Scott Hendrickson, a 20-year-old theatre student at the University of Victoria, had never heard of Amor de Cosmos until he saw last year's production. He is excited about interpreting a dramatic character of Shakespearean proportions.

"Amor de Cosmos is an awesome guy fighting for our freedoms," Mr. Hendrickson said. "It's cool we're bringing him to life again."

The young actors were all born around the time William Vander Zalm became premier. His accession was proof the people of British Columbia had become too sophisticated to support an eccentric populist of uncertain stability such as Amor de Cosmos. Mr. Vander Zalm was the model of the modern government technocrat as he provided policy pronouncements from the pleasant setting of his suburban home, a biblical-themed roadside attraction called Fantasy Gardens. (Those who do not remember the sober governance of his term as premier can be said to be suffering from Zalmnesia.)

A century from now, budding actors will have no shortage of characters to portray during tours of the legislative buildings. The Zalm provides a fantastic opportunity, as would Fat L'il Dave Barrett, an orator of great wit who gave himself the mocking nickname.

Some of the supporting roles could be filled by Flyin' Phil Gaglardi, the pedal-to-the-metal highways minister who did not drive too fast so much as fly too low; or Glen (Glennochio) Clark, the pugnacious premier from eastside Vancouver who got decked by a police raid; or Gordon Wilson and Judi Tyabji, whose caucus canoodling led to their being called the Liberal Lovebirds.

Over the coming months, as the novelty of portraying a historic character wears off, members of the Parliamentary Players can find encouragement from the success of one of their predecessors.

Broadcaster Adam Sawatsky, one of the popular hosts at A Channel in Victoria, once spent a summer at the legislature as the architect Rattenbury. From such foundations a career can be built.

Special to The Globe and Mail

Uforia

By Tom Hawthorn

The Province [Vancouver, B.C.]

June 23, 1991

TACOMA, Wash. - Space aliens work in mysterious ways.

They kidnap people and tinker with their brains but they won't appear on Donahue.

So when ordinary people meet to share their extraordinary tales of close encounters with extra-terrestrials, no story is too far- fetched.

"On Nov. 26, 1969," says Edward Palmer, 85, a retired psychiatrist, "I was picked up by a UFO and taken to the moon. A lot of people live inside it."

In a stuffy motel with a Robin Hood theme, 38 space cadets worked themselves into a state of UFOria this weekend at the New Dawn Foundation's 30th annual space-age conference.

Their motto: "Keep looking up."

The gathering is held in late June to mark the anniversary of pilot Kenneth Arnold's sighting of nine crescent-shaped craft near Mount Rainier in 1947.

Saucer talkers came from as far as Brookfield, Mass., to speak on such topics as "The biblical prophets as UFO contactees."

Delegates offered testimonials over the crooning of a nearby lounge singer and the roar of transport planes landing at McChord Air Force Base.

They have heard all the explanations - satellites, weather balloons, swamp gas - and they don't believe a one. They have also heard all the insults, the most polite being that they are merely eccentric.

"You've got to have a sense of humor or you'll never make it," says Lela Maxwell, a Tacoma poet.

If space beings of superior intelligence do exist, they have chosen rather unremarkable humans as their emissaries.

The New Dawn conferences are the brainchild of Wayne Aho, 74, known locally as Mr. UFO.

Aho, who is a regular guest on radio talk shows, always asks: "Caller, what planet are you from?"

After years of ridicule, Aho believes his people's time has come.

"Not long ago President Bush said, 'The world is entering a new dawn,' " he told delegates. "He used the very words we have on our brochure."

One of seven children born to a family of Finnish homesteaders, Aho is a retired logger and army major. He has been on a mission since the day he saw a flying saucer in the Mojave desert in 1957.

As well, he hears voices not unlike those heeded by Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams. Aho bought a field near Mount Rainier for use as a flying saucer landing pad.

With his icy blue eyes, suspenders and string tie, Aho has a folksy, Reagan-like patter as he delivers his tale of past lives and cosmic consciousness.

He has become accustomed to the skepticism of doubting Thomases.

"I'm not afraid to tell the story, even though some say, 'weird, weird, weird,' " he said.

Aho's current mission is to find a college where he can teach a course he would call UFO 101.

As a text, he would use the Bible, which he calls the best flying saucer book in the world.

"It's got UFOs from cover to cover," he says.

Despite their own faith, UFO buffs say powerful forces are suppressing the truth about space aliens.

"The UFO is the biggest coverup ever, bigger even than Watergate," says Paul Dickey of Tuscon, Ariz. "Now, I can't prove this, but I believe they killed people to cover this up."

Dickey, 64, insists he was hounded from his job with military intelligence in the 1960s after reporting he had seen a UFO. He believes high government officials have ordered his silence. "President Johnson said, 'Shut that guy Dickey up!' "

In the shadowy world of saucer fanciers, the CIA, the Pentagon, the White House, the National Security Council and the Federal Reserve Bank are all part of a grand conspiracy.

"The key to all this," Dickey said, "is that no UFO has ever been seen refuelling at a gas station."

You mean, the big oil companies run the world?

Dickey looked as if he were speaking to a particularly slow- witted child.

"Everybody knows that," he said.

Sandown sunset

By Tom Hawthorn
[Victoria, B.C.] Times Colonist 

August 25, 1997

One hot afternoon I am leaning against a chain-link fence wondering how such a handsome brown gelding as Clover Dutch can lead a race for seven-eighths of a mile and yet finish fourth.

Now this is a most interesting lesson to me as I am new to harness racing. So great is my faith in the promise of Clover Dutch that I place a crisp $5 bill on him. Not so many other bettors at Sandown Raceway in Sidney are as certain, so the nice tattooed young woman at the pari-mutuel window explains how she will replace my fin with four others. Should Clover Dutch win, that is. These are called the odds, and they do seem a little strange to me.

Anyway, Clover Dutch is on the grey dirt track followed by a two- wheeled buggy in which rests Barry Treen, who wears a white outfit with brown trim and a round white helmet. He also wears sunglasses and I am thinking he looks like Mad Max would Mad Max have been Amish.

At this point, I am already down $11.20. It is $2 to get in, $1.35 for french fries, 85 cents for a Revello ice cream, $5 for my investment in the fifth race, and a final deuce for the racing program, the latter a bargain for it is as detailed as a mutual-fund prospectus and as nitpickingly accurate as Burke's Peerage.

From it, I learn more about Clover Dutch than I know about the people who teach my children - his mother's name, his father's name, his birthplace, his age, his owner's name, his trainer's name and record, his driver's name and record, his performance in previous races measured in quarters and eighths of a mile. I do not learn that he fades like a flag in the sun.

Which is what happens. He leads from the the point where announcer Rick Uppal growls, "There-r-r-r-r-r-r they go! " Growling Rick says "There-r-r-r-r-r-r they go! " nine times a day, two days a week at Sandown, and a fellow thinks it cannot be too bad a job. Growling Rick leans out of a booth high in the grandstand, one hand holding a microphone, the other binoculars. He finds syllables where nature has neglected to put them, and in this race "Cuh-low-ver Dutch" leads the first circuit around the track, leads past the corner with the Old Oak Tree, leads coming down the backstretch, and then hits a patch of molasses.

As everyone else seems to be joining Growling Rick in raising their voices, I shout various crudities about Cuh-low-ver Dutch's parentage; about clover as a legume; and about the Dutch in general. All to no avail.

I am now the proud owner of a slip of paper worth as much as a Bre-X share.

I will say this. I may be the only sap not to do so well, for most everyone else reports that armed with their handicapping and their Rick's Picks tip sheets and their charts and their horoscopes and their grandkids' names - well, things are going swell. No one cares to admit losing the grocery money at the track.

Take Fred Barr. Fred is a retired meat manager who owns shares of some standardbreds and, no, he did not handle shares of horses in his meat manager days. Fred, who, incidentally, does not stand many hands high and volunteers without prompting that "I've been kicked and everything else by horses," is busting with joy when B JS Blaze, a three-year-old colt in whom he owns a one-third share, beats the likes of Payday Darling and Little Do Do and actually wins a race.

"He's broken his jinx," says Fred, giddy as a Dust Bowl farmer in a rainstorm. "He's had six fifths in a row."

Fred wears green work pants that hang low in the back as is the current fashion although a fellow suspects Fred is following the fashion of some previous epoch. A battered cap is pushed back on his head. His boots are dusty with whatever it is one steps on in a paddock and a recent acquaintance thinks Fred can afford a new wardrobe since B JS Blaze pays $7.80 for every deuce put on his chestnut nose.

It is a custom that a horse pose for a snapshot with driver and trainer and owner and owner's new-found relatives. Fred makes a beeline for the Winner's Circle, which is a fancy name for what is a forlorn patch of dirt in a sea of asphalt.

As it turns out, B JS Blaze is as shy as Tony Fats when it comes to cameras. Perhaps he is unaccustomed to the routine for a winning horse. Or maybe he thinks not too much of the accommodations. In any case, he is taken away, like an unrepentant delinquent leaving juvenile hall.

The track is a good place to meet characters, some of them the two-legged variety. Some years ago, a terrible fire flashes through the barns, killing a dog, two ponies and 13 thoroughbreds, including one named Fuel Baron. The cops pinch a firebug who turns out to be a groom who is a jockey until a riding accident costs him his left leg below the knee. Anyway, the grandstand is now made of concrete should any other one-legged disgruntled jocks get to start playing with matches.

Personally, I think I prefer the country atmosphere of Sandown, with its discarded banquette benches, the armrests torn open by edgy bettors, to the swanky likes of Churchill Downs, home of the Kentucky Derby and mint julep-sipping swells. At Sandown, the closest connection to the Bluegrass State is a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet a mile away.

Anyway, this fellow is standing on a sea of discarded betting slips, the confetti of fortunes lost, and he eyeballs me and says: "There's something wrong with my program."

I comfort him with the words of a great philosopher by the tag of Damon Runyon. "All horse players," he says, "die broke."

The First (NHL) Noël

Noel Price

By Tom Hawthorn

Some hockey players are always in the holiday spirit. Just ask Greg Joly, Carol Vadnais, Scott Garland, Rick Boh and Ray Sheppard.

The first Noel to don skates in the NHL was Noel Price, a hard-working defenseman who played in 499 NHL games.

What would the holidays be without a little Christmas cheer? So, here's a raised glass to Carl Brewer, Darcy Martini, Larry Mickey, Andre Champagne, Gary Rissling, Kirk Maltby, Ivan Droppa, Paul  Shakes, Bob Corkum and Bob Beers.

And now you know why Doug Hicks and Doug Mohns.

If you need a ride home, we suggest designating Bruce Driver. Avoid riding with Bart Crashley. And take Joel Otto, not Steve Junker.

(Just don't serve any alcohol to Gerry Minor. Gary Sargent might send you to Dale McCourt.)

Since we were now in our cups, Stanley and otherwise, let's introduce the All-Mistletoe Team of Bill Hicke, Ernie Hicke, Greg Hickey, Pat Hickey, Stanislav Neckar and Martin St. Amour.

Plenty of players were dreaming of a White Christmas (Brian, Peter, Todd, Bill), probably none more so than goalie Garth Snow.

Too much of the white stuff might attract the attention of our All-Weather Team of Frank McCool, Theo Fleury, Jim Storm and Jeff Friesen. Then we'd have to call on the Fireside Chat Line of Brian Bellows, Marc Laforge and Christian Laflamme.

Laflamme, incidentally, is on our Holy Rollers squad with Christians Ruuttu and Dube, not to mention Jeff and Dave Christian. Brad and Jack Church would be in attendance, joined by Joe Crozier and Cory Cross.

For the three kings we could go with a line of Derek King, Kris King and King Clancy, with Brian Wiseman as a spare.

So who was naughty and who was nice? We bet Lyle Phair, Kelly Fairchild, Larry Playfair, Terry Virtue, Gerard Gallant and Ebbie Goodfellow will be well rewarded Christmas morning. Santa also is expected to bring a modest gift for Larry Goodenough.

The Christmas morning outcome should be harsher for the likes of Ted Bulley, Paul Lawless, Kevin Krook, Ed Van Impe, Brian Savage and Miroslav Satan. Those naughties knew what to expect as a stocking stuffer (a lump of Danton Cole).

What's that under the tree, wrapped in shiny paper and a bright bow? Why, it's Lionel (Big Train) Conacher! Just what we wanted. What else did we get? A Rocket (Richard), a Tie (Domi) and a Dolly (Dolson), as well as a (Terry) Ball, a (Jim) Kyte, a (Zdeno) Ciger, a (Bob) Ring, a (Ken) Lockett and a (Rob) Whistle. Makes you feel like a (Trevor) Kidd all over again.

Of course, no Christmas would be complete without a feast. So, we visited Mike Kitchen and Garry Galley, where Jamie Baker, Garth Butcher and Matt Cooke are preparing a meal to be served by Jerry Butler. On the menu are Bun Cook (with Bill Butters), Stew Adams, Mark Lamb (served in a Floyd Curry), and a main course featuring Peter Sturgeon (seasoned by Herb Raglan with Steven Rice on the side).

Desserts include Clarence (Taffy) Abel and Don Cherry, served with Paul Coffey and Sugar Jim Henry.

The less fortunate will have to make do with Scott Gruhl, Adam Oates and Mush March.

All this merriment only serves as inspiration to the All-Scrooge Squad of Steve Penney, Bernie Nicholls, Charlie Bourgeois, P.J. Stock and Stephane Richer.

Finding it hard to make a Wilf Paiement? Call on Rich Parent, the former St. Louis Blues goalie.

And don't forget that it's only seven more weeks until Chris Valentine's day.


First published in the Detroit Free Press and TheTyee.ca.

Didn't you use to be … Vaughn Meader

On 50th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's assassination, a look back at Vaughn Meader, a JFK impressionist who never again performed his act after Nov. 22, 1963.

Vaughn Meader holds a copy of his smash comedy LP, "The First Family." 

By Tom Hawthorn
The Globe and Mail
February 10, 1989

Vaughn Meader was an overnight success whose rise was made the more memorable by his rapid return to obscurity.

An unheralded singing comic from Lowell, Mass., he was performing a nightly monologue at a Greenwich Village club in the summer of 1962 when his uncanny impersonation of fellow New Englander John F. Kennedy caught the attention of a talent scout.

The scout had Mr. Meader and a troupe of actors record a parody album that poked polite fun at the foibles of the popular, young U.S. president and his family.

The album, called The First Family, was rejected by four major record labels before being accepted by Cadence Records. It was the best-selling U.S. recording to that time, more than five million copies being sold within a few months.

Its success was spurred in part by the good-humored response of the target of Mr. Meader's gentle gibes. Mr. Kennedy delighted reporters at a press conference that year when he acknowledged he had played the album.

"I have listened to Mr. Meader's record," he said with a smile. "I thought it sounded more like Teddy than me."

The singer seemed destined for a long career making light of the Kennedys. But on Nov. 22, 1963, his brand of humor went out of style.

Mr. Meader went into seclusion after the assassination. But even after purging his act of Kennedy material, he was seen only as a reminder of tragedy. A fickle public turned an overnight success into an overnight flop.

Like many of his younger compatriots, the singer spent much of the 1960s exploring North America. He lived in teepees, houseboats and log cabins.

A 1971 comedy album about a visit to Harlem by Jesus called The Second Coming proved unprophetic. Mr. Meader could not shake his reputation as an oddity from another time and the record received little attention.

His wandering ended 12 years ago, when he settled in sleepy Hallowell, Me., where he lives with his fourth wife, Sheila.

Mr. Meader, 52, plays the piano with his five-piece bluegrass band Gone Fishin'. They perform weekly at the Speakeasy bar, which he calls "the biggest new-happening joint in central Maine."

"I'm still rockin'," he says today. "Gone Fishin', that's our attitude when we all sit down to play. It's a good time, man."

Mr. Meader is considering moving toward a harder rock sound by adding a horn to his band, but he resolutely refuses to cover modern tunes.

"People request a new one, I give them a quarter and they can go play it on the jukebox," he said.

Still writing songs, he managed to pen just one last year. It's called I'm Still Rockin'.

Mr. Meader is well known among residents of Hallowell, a tourist town about three kilometres south of Augusta, the state capital. Joyce Walters, a bartender and Mr. Meader's former neighbor, said the singer is often asked by visitors about his fall from fame.

"Abbott's pretty well cool about the whole thing," she said. (Vaughn is the singer's middle name, which he used on stage.) "He won't play any Kennedy stuff, though."

For his part, Mr. Meader is content to be a major celebrity in a minor town.

"You can send a letter to me: Abbott, Hallowell, Maine, and I'll get it," he said. "If any Canadians come to Hallowell, they can walk up to the first person they meet on the street and say, 'Where can we find Abbott Meader?' They'll find me."

The barbs of The First Family are tame by today's standards, although Mr. Meader had one brush with Washington officialdom.

A Washington radio station once aired a short promotional blurb in which Mr. Meader told listeners the Kennedy clan listened to station WWDC "with great vigah." The chairman of the Federal Communications Commission was so enraged by the commercial use of a presidential impersonation that he drew it to the attention of the Kennedy White House.

By the time press secretary Pierre Salinger complained, the station's owner had ordered the plug off the air.

Mr. Meader long ago abandoned any wish to return to the big time. "That's like asking Ted Williams to play for the Dodgers," he said during last fall's World Series. "He couldn't hit the ball past first base."