Oil on Gesso Board (8x8 in)
SOLD
My father was a professional hockey player in the NHL for a
brief moment in time back in 1949. He
was born a hockey player, and as a very young boy, he woke early in the morning
every day in winter to go out and practice his hockey skills on the frozen ponds
nearby, before having to return home to his daily chores, and then head off to
school. Where hockey was concerned he was
passionate and determined.
He had just begun his junior hockey career in the late 1930’s,
but when war was declared he enlisted in the army around the time of his 18th
birthday. He came out of the army in
1945 as a Sergeant, but he also sustained a severe knee injury during his
service which would dog him in all the years that followed. Still, after the war his hockey career
continued and with a lot of hard work he eventually earned a spot on the 1949
New York Rangers; however, remnants of the knee injury drastically shortened
his NHL stint to less than one season.
Knee problems notwithstanding, Dad was still very much an
able and talented hockey player and his contract was enthusiastically bought
out by the Charlottetown Islanders of the “Maritime Big Four”, an extremely
competitive pro league where the fans took their hockey VERY seriously. There he assumed the role of team captain,
earning the league’s MVP award. As the
years went by Dad’s career migrated from player to coach and player,
successfully leading teams both in Newfoundland and Prince Edward Island to
winning championships. When his playing
days did finally end, he ran the Charlottetown Forum hockey arena, where he
helped and encouraged many young hockey players to realize their potential.
By the time I came along, his days of playing hockey were all
behind him. As a very young child though,
I remember him lacing up my skates for me and then his own, and leading me out
onto the ice at the Forum, just the two of us and a metal chair that held me up
and guided me on the little patch of ice that I dared venture around. I was quite shaky on those skates, but Dad
knew I could handle it. He derived great
satisfaction seeing each of his daughters take to the ice, although we would
only ever be recreational skaters, and pretty average at that.
I remember seeing his skates hanging in the back closet for
many years after he had finally stopped lacing them up, at some point his
injured knee having curtailed his ice time for good. Eventually his skates were given away, leaving
only my mind’s eye to tend to their memory.
Recently I saw this pair of old skates at an antiques and
collectibles market; they took me right back to that rink, that moment when
time slowed down, and it was just Dad and me.
I knew I would need to paint them.
