A Sense of Self

By high school I had begun to have a sense of myself. And maybe of things to come, although I was oblivious to my own enlightenment.

I’d always had an interest in the Arts, and any form of creativity.

Math? Not my forte. Physics? Too much math.

But history, geography, social sciences and literature. I should have seen that coming and pursued it. I did later, somewhat. Those were the courses I was drawn to in university.

But back in high school, we were taught to pursue math, science, the “higher” callings. That way the student would be particularly prepped for law, business, medicine, and engineering.

I loved to draw. As a young child I used to lay out my comics and copy the panels. And that’s where it ended. Transferring to the Catholic separate school system meant an absence of arts programs. But that didn’t erase my interest. I’ve always been keen on painting, sketching, sculpture. I’ve purchased some books on drawing recently, but there doesn’t seem to be enough time, not enough hours in the day to pursue all interests, not yet, anyway.

I was always drawn to music. I was gathering a fairly substantial record collection, starting in 1976...and have yet to stop, although I’ve given up on keeping up with new releases. New purchases are more likely filling out the gaps in the soundtrack of my life, classical and jazz. I’ve discovered jazz these days, probably because I’d spent a lifetime watching old movies, starting with Saturday Night at the Movies when I was a kid, continuing on with TCM these days, and those films are replete with it.

And these days I’ve been learning to play musical instruments, as well. Clarinet, sax, guitar. Am I any good? Not really, but I suppose I'm not horrible, either. I’m hopeless away from sheet music. And it’s difficult to learn to play with others when there’s no one to play with. I missed out on that phase when everyone can suck together and everyone is okay with it. For whatever reason, people my age who do play music automatically believe, when they hear that I play too, that I’ve been playing instruments for 40 years, which I haven’t. When they do find out that I’m not a guitar god, they invariably lose interest. Am I hurt by that? You bet I am. But learning to play is a journey, and I do love the journey.

And of course, Story. Movies, books, myths, saga, epics. Any form of story narrative. Even as a young lad my imagination ran wild with story. I used to lug my parents Underwood to the kitchen table and, after much deliberation, type a page, usually some shlock reminiscent of ‘50s Red Menace movies. You know the type: giant mutated insects that attack a hapless town, that sort of schlock. I loved the clack of the keys as they struck the page. Computers may be more efficient, but there was nothing like the sound of a typewriter.

Creative writing came later. Much later. Two complete novels. But those are memories for later.

Until then, I read. A lot. I was always carrying a book around with me to fill empty moments, surprising, considering my having only begun to read in earnest in middle school.

I know. Not much of a story this time. Just collecting my thoughts on what I was, up to where I left off.

In High School.

Lessons Learned: Penny Poker

Throughout high school I was always trying to broaden my group of friends. That meant my adapting to what they liked to do. For some it was cars, so there was a bit of cruising involved; for others, it was video games; and still others, swimming.

There were those who had a weekly cards/billiards night. They were not the usual guys I hung out with. Some were part of the hockey crowd, a fairly excusive crowd, at best. I suppose most cliques are or they wouldn’t be a clique.

I remember the card clique well, just not what they were into, individually. Hockey does come to mind, but one of their number was heavily involved in tennis during the summer, as well. Some were “popular.” Certainly more popular than I was. I’d become more quiet and bookish throughout my high school years, in spite of track and helping out at the pool. So, I was flattered when I was asked to join them on their weekly Saturday gathering.

The game of choice was usually blackjack, although one of their number hosted billiards at his home. I wasn’t that good at pool then, I would be later at college, but I was a passable player, so I enjoyed those nights. Music was playing. There was much laughter. So, yeah, those nights were fun. Games were bet on, of course. Everything these guys did on a Saturday night involved a bet.

I was never much of a card counter, though. My family didn’t play cards much. My father could play cards, and was always dealing games of solitaire when I was growing up. And I discovered over the years that he was good at most card games. He’d brag to me on occasion on how he’d taken the guys he played with at Stags to the cleaners, on how cards were how he got his mad money (my father passed his paycheck to my mother, and never took an allowance, so I’d say those claims were true). I suppose it wasn’t just bragging. I believe now that he just wanted me to be proud of the things he did and had done. So, yeah, he was good at cards, good at gambling. Me? Not so much.

There was always a big winner each night we played. When I say big, I mean five or ten bucks. That was a lot of money to me then. I had yet to begin working for my money, so I was limited to my allowance. As there were about five or six of us, no one lost that much, no more than a buck, usually. I was never a big winner. I was usually a loser. I’m not complaining, it usually only amounted to a buck or two each Saturday night, less than I’d dole out at the arcades. But the potential for greater loss was always there.

There was a precedent set, earlier on, before I’d ever been invited (or so they said), where players could back a player against the “bank.” The bank was whomever was dealing that round. I didn’t understand how that went, or how odds could increase one’s winnings, but I went along with the precedent. One is supposed to trust one’s friends, so I was taught to believe. And I wanted these guys to be my friends.

The last night I played cards with that group, indeed, the last time I ever actually hung out with the gambling group, they took me to the cleaners. A player had doubled down, then doubled again. And had drawn some good cards. Not great. But good enough. So, when I had drawn 17, one of his three hands still beat my hand. And then, as fate would have it, there was another precedent I was unaware of, that the house had to “hit on 17, stick on 18,” and that if any of his hands beat mine, I lost and had to pay out on all three.

So, I drew another card, and busted. I lost 20 bucks in one hand, more money than I had with me. My heart caught my throat. I was devastated. I was sure they had just played me, that their precedents and their rules were bullshit. Moreover, I was sure they had only reason they invited me to join them in the first place was as a fleece. Why? Because they all laughed at me. They insisted I pay up. They insisted that I pay up RIGHT NOW.

I couldn’t, of course. But I did pay up. It took me a week, but I paid my debt. As my parents had taught me to do.

I’ve never gambled since. I have no respect for it.

Tackle Football

The football we played at O’Gorman was not what you’d call organized. There were limited rules, were just thrown together at a moment’s notice, and were definitely not supervised, in spite of being played almost within sight of Sister Fay’s office (out principal). We were just messing around in the thin strip of grass fronting the main building on Rea Street, that bit of land no wider than a vehicular lane’s span, that length that reached towards Ross Street. There were no windows along that bit, just the cinderblock wall. We were no fools. We were never going to play in full view of a teacher’s desk. We also didn’t want to break any windows. That would have ended football season in a heartbeat. We didn’t think to move the games to the larger field behind the portable, that would have necessitated planning, and would opened up the game, and we were all about the rough and tumble of crashing through the tighter, narrow lines that that thin strip of land afforded.

Teams were quickly assembled. That didn’t take too long, as the teams were usually no more than 6 to a side, and were invariably made up of close friends. One didn’t want to hurt one’s friends, after all. But we did get hurt. This was not touch football. This was lead with your elbows to make a hole in the other team’s line football. This was pile up on top of the downed player to wrench the “loose” ball from his hands football. Closer to rugby than to football.

There wasn’t enough length in the field to advance up field, so all three downs were begun from the same start, each down potentially a touchdown. There were only three downs to keep the game moving along. There was only so many minutes in a recess.

The game always started with a coin toss. The winner was always first offence.

I recall one play in particular. We were defending. There was the snap, the usual rush of bodies. Our forward three pushed hard to hold the line, their three to open a space along the wall. Their receiver slipped by, then broke right towards Rea Street, with me in hot pursuit. The ball was thrown and I leapt and reached high to bat it down. I missed. The lines shifted, ours to defense in depth, theirs to block our defense, to clear the way to the end zone. The ball was caught and Garry Martin took hold of the receiver’s shirt, then gripped his torso and hauled on him hard, dragging and pushing him toward the wall. I just happened to be in the way as I landed and tried to find my feet. I felt their bodies crash into mine, and then their weight on me as I crashed hard into the cinderblocks, sliding down the wall onto my ass. Then the rest piled on. Arms reached, hands grabbed and dragged. Elbows landed. The weight rolled and crushed.

And when the last body piled on, my head snapped back.

I actually heard the impact within my skull. It was a soft, watery “bonk!” And there it was, my second concussion. I was instantly dazed, only somewhat aware of the shifting weight as they first struggled for the ball, and then rolled away and off of me.

It took a moment before anyone realized that I was not getting up.

I just sat there for a couple minutes, pupils likely dilated.

I don’t recall there being too many more games after that. Not for me, anyway.

Track & Field

Or just track, in my case. I was always fast, faster than most in my class, anyway; so, it was only natural that I would enroll in track and field, or more specifically, the 100 and 200. Never long distances. Maybe it was because I came from a smoker’s house, but I lacked the lungs for it. I was usually placed in long jump, but I always seemed to either leap too early, or be disqualified for stepping on the board. I was hopeless at field. When attempting shot put, I’d have to dance out of the way to avoid crushing my toes. Javelin was not much better. Maybe I ought to have spent time in the gym, but I wasn’t interested in pumping iron. I had some at home. They were largely ignored, excellent at collecting dust in the corner. I tried hurtles, but we trained indoors at O’Gorman, and we only had room in the gym to set up three, and a mat against the wall. So, we’d have to crash into the far wall when training to keep enough momentum to clear the third hurdle. I always crashed into the fourth when in competition; I suppose that was that flinch instinct kicking in, expecting a wall to rise up and slap into me.

Track was late in the season, so I never made it into the yearbook. Those who ran cross-country in the autumn did, but never us in track and field. Too late to make the printers, I suppose.

My first meet was at RMSS, my first time on an asphalt track, too. I did alright, considering my never having ever worn cleats before, well enough to not lag behind, fast enough to finish with the field, but that was all. What I remember was an RMSS senior turning his dirty tube socks around so that the dirty bottom was on top. I wondered why he did that. It must have felt wrong, what with the heels all stretched out, not to mention the crusty feel they must have had.

I improved with age. Winning heats. Never quite coming out on top, but I remember always making it to the finals, and usually crossing fourth.

And then there was the joy of seeing friends who attended other schools, hanging with them, lazing out in the sun between races.

On one occasion, and I think it was the only time I’d ever seen him since Pinecrest, I watched an old friend, Mike (no idea what his last name was), running in the 400 meter. He was a short guy, muscular, long flaming hair flying behind him. I called out, “Go, Mike, go,” to him; he glanced over, but I don’t know if he recognized me as he passed. Time passes, people move on, and who knows, maybe he didn’t like me much back in Grade school. Or maybe he moved away, because, like I said, I never did see him again.

I do recall my less than finest moment. I was set to run the lead leg of the 200 m relay (not to brag, but we placed our two fastest runners in the lead and final leg, or so I’d like to believe). I surveyed the field, the competition, got set in my lane, one of the outer lanes, and anticipating the gun. There was the sharp snap, and I took off the moment I heard the shot. I focused on the race at hand, and when I ran, the world faded away, until there was only the pumping of my arms, the pounding of my feet on the track, my rapid breathing, my eyes on the lane ahead. What I remember most of the 200 was that you couldn’t see the other lanes, so when in the outer lanes, you couldn’t gage how you were faring against the inner lanes, so you had to really focus on maintaining speed, and on gaining speed. I thought I was doing pretty well. As far as I could tell, I was so far ahead that I couldn’t see anyone in my peripheral vision. What I did see, was my team mate, Mark Charette, the next leg on my team, running back toward me, waving his arms. I looked up, then around, then back. Not a soul. I was alone.

“What?” I asked, I yelled. I knew what.

“False start!” Mark said. Not my fault, either.

I was shocked, then furious in a heartbeat. I’d just ran 100 meters of a race for nothing. I threw the baton down. Cursed, almost threw a fit. Retrieved the baton. And sulked back to the starting point. Hoping and failing to get my wind back.

When the second start fired, I was slow to start, too aware of time, the gun, and another potential false start. And found myself too winded to do much better than to keep pace with the other lanes.

Entering High School

New beginnings, another reset, as it were.

We all meet a new batch of people when we enter high school, I imagine, as kids change school systems, kids move from other towns, and groups of kids from other middle schools are destined for the same high school but had yet to meet one another. I’m not sure if that last bit applied to TH&VS or RMSS, then; they may have already been set back at the beginning of middle school. Not so in O’Gorman’s case, where St. Theresa met Sacred Heart.

Once again, I found myself in an odd place. I suppose I may have always been a loner at heart, or maybe just an ambivert, but I found my attention split between two, and sometimes three, clusters of friends, and this not counting what would become my core friends, those who I worked with and hung out with, we lifeguards from the Archie Dillon Sportsplex. I still had those friends from St. Theresa: Garry Martin, Chris Cooper, John Lavric, a group that had been rather depleted at the end of Grade 7, when many of our friends and acquaintances had transferred to the public system (when suddenly their parents discovered that they would have had to pay extra for their kids to continue on in the separate system). A few more transferred at the end of Grade 8, too, not many, but a few. No matter, at the beginning of Grade 9 our numbers swelled again. Not by a lot; O’Gorman was not a big school, by any stretch of the imagination, just two single story L-shaped buildings, and at that time, a single portable. Back then, there was only one, just a short frigid skip from the warmth of the main building, years before O’Gorman gained its former nickname, Portable High, after it finally gained full funding from the government and its populace exploded and its athletic field disappeared under the weight of those scattered ranks of prefab buildings.

Groups of friends shuffled, congealed anew. There were new athletic groups (track, cross-country, basketball, hockey), new geeks (drama, public speaking), new populars, new freaks. Smokers, snowmobilers, gearheads, muscle heads, and potheads. Hard to believe, considering the size of the place.

Where did I fit in? Somewhere between the geeks and freaks, the track, and the musicians. Not that I played. But I had begun to develop an enormous record collection, remarkable considering how little I made working at the pool, in comparison with those who worked for their fathers in construction, and those working at the grocery stores. But that was later. Initially, we all survived on allowances. And there was a divide there, too. Rich, affluent, middle class, working class, working poor.

Where was I most comfortable? The pool, amongst the fishes. In basements, turntables spinning. At the video arcades. Everyone else, everywhere else, was irrelevant.

School Dances

School dances were my first experience of formal courting of the opposite sex. There were other, different, experiences, prior, but they were private, far less public affairs. Some pleasant, quick spontaneous kisses on the cheek and then maybe on the lips, and such; and some were not, one I would consider a bit of a violation to my person, a bit of show and tell I was by no means ready for, at the time. When I begged off, was held down and forced to participate. That’s right, boys can be violated, too.

My first dance was my Grade 8 graduation. I had no idea what to expect. I realized there would be dancing. But how did one go about it? There were so many doubts. So many unknowns. I was asking myself the same questions, beforehand, that I suspect most of the other boys, and girls, were. Was I popular enough, handsome enough, attractive enough that girls would want to dance with me, were foremost in my mind. My sister tried to prepare me for the ordeal. She taught me to dance, and we practiced in our basement to those albums we had. She tried to reassure me, too, told me to not be afraid, that the girls were just and nervous as I was, and asked, “why wouldn’t they want to dance with you?” I’d have none of her reassurance. It wasn’t like I had a girlfriend. For those few who did, they knew there was someone willing to dance with them. Not so the lion’s share of us.

It was held in the afternoon, in the gym, and was no longer than an hour and a half. All the lights were left on, so it was painfully bright, not quite the ambiance I was hoping for. I recall one girl, as afraid and as lacking in confidence and self-worth as, I imagine, I felt. She was a big girl. Not as attractive as most. She was not popular, had no clique to protect her from her own fears and doubts. I saw her crying, a phalanx of girls around her, most of whom who usually wouldn’t give her the time of day, failing at first to set her as ease. I heard her say, “Nobody wants me here,” through her tears, her words broken by sobs. My heart broke for her. She was expressing those same thoughts I, myself, was tormenting myself with.

I did ask a girl to dance, eventually. With only an hour and a half to do so, I couldn’t wait too long, or it would be too late and I’d have to admit failure to my sister, who would surely ask how I fared, a fate I wished to avoid. I watched the first boys, though, to see how it was done. New territory to discover, and all that. I waited for cover, until there were quite a few kids already dancing. That way if the girl refused, the whole school wouldn’t be witness to my failure. And the first girl I asked did. It was like a shot to the heart. I retreated back to the boys’ wall, defeated. But I did venture out after a couple more songs, as there was no way I was going to be the last boy left standing all by his self against that lonely wall. There was no way I was going to be left to live down that humiliation! Luckily, the next girl I asked accepted. Was she just being polite? Did she too just need to get out onto the dance floor to get the ordeal over with? I don’t know, but that first hurdle had been faced and negotiated.

Later, in high school, dances were held monthly. I can’t say they were ever routine, that I ever faced them with practiced confidence, because I never did. I’d arrive and hook up with my friends, we’d always begin by gathering along the wall opposite the girls, and then after a few songs, we’d watch the first few brave souls as they would venture across the floor and ask the first girls to dance. That was always routine. After years of this, I discovered that as one of the older boys it was up to me to be one of those first, but I never did cross that floor alone, as far as I can remember. When I did, I did so with a few others, who were likely as nervous as I was. Safety in numbers, and all that. It was always a harrowing experience, at best, requiring all my courage to be gathered up and wrapped around me. Weak knees carried me across that distance, my heart in my throat. What if she said no? It happened, sometimes. Then the question arose: did I then ask another right away, like maybe the girl seated next to her who had just refused me? She’d likely be that first decliner’s friend, and would definitely refuse me, too. Should I ask another, three or four down the line? Would she say no, as well, insulted that she was considered second choice? Or would I skulk back to the wall that I’d just left, defeated and humiliated before my peers, and the amusement or horror of those younger boys gathering their courage, and watching, as I once had? And if I did, how long until I’d have to venture out again? One had to. Face, required that one had to.

Most times, the girl who I really wanted to dance with was not the first I asked. That required even more courage, afraid she would say no and ruin my whole evening. When she did, she would be the one I would ask most often, then. I wonder now if the girls ever knew that, knew what we were about, knew our minds, and could read us like open books.

But once those first songs were over, the floor was invariably filled, and the ordeal was easier. We were all having fun, inhibitions were dropped, Rock Lobster had lathered us with sweat, and we might venture a little petting before the teachers stepped in to break us up, as they couldn’t actually hose us down.

Early Music Lessons

I’ve always loved music, but didn’t engage in it much until recently, active more as an enthused appreciator than as an actual participant. I’ve always loved live music, and always preferred being up close and personal with the stage, never content with seeing acts and superstars who are no more than miniatures on a distant stage. More on that “up close and personal” in later posts, but you’ll have to be patient for those.

My sister took piano lessons from an early age, reaching 11th grade. She didn’t play in public often, just the recitals she was obligated to do. She rarely ever played when anyone else was in the room, either. She did make an exception for my father, who would sit and listen to her play for an hour at a time. She played when I was in the room, as well; probably because I never judged her performance. But she was a perfectionist, and never pleased with her playing. My mother asked me once, when I was still quite young, if I’d like to take lessons too, after noticing me fingering the keys on Karen’s piano. I declined, rather shyly, sure I could never learn. There were SO many keys, and they were SO far apart. And, having watched my sister play, it looked SO difficult. That was stupid of me. I regret it to this day. The earlier one begins to learn anything, the better, and it’s more likely to become innate if one does start at an early age.

There was "choir" practice for the plays while in Pinecrest. I know I said that I hated learning harmony, but I always loved to sing. I used to sing along to LPs and the radio, often humming along while doing homework. I don’t remember musical instruments being taught there, at all.

That was relegated to art class in St. Theresa, where we were introduced to the recorder, probably to see if they could scare us all away from pursuing music as a career. I have patchy memories of music classes, I think it was once a week, where we were all expected to screech and squeak for about 15 or 20 minutes at most. I can’t recall anyone coming away from those music lessons with a desire to continue. Unless you took guitar lessons as an extracurricular activity. I did. And I really wanted to learn. But I was learning on a J-45, enormous for me at the time. And the strings hurt my fingers. I was told it would take time to build calluses on my fingertips, but impatience took its toll. I’d pick at it a couple time a week but I just couldn’t reach the fret board and reach around the body at the same time. I also had to endure the ridicule from bullies. They threatened to steal my guitar, they threatened to break it, they pelted me and the guitar case with snowballs. I quit shortly after that, afraid I would lose my dad’s guitar. I regret that too.

I would pick the instrument up from time to time, browse the method manuals, and attempt to teach myself, but learning to read music by myself was daunting, at best. Then, a schoolmate at college said he would teach me, but he only taught me a couple cords, never following through.

I began taking actual music lessons much later on, in my 40s, through the TSO. No guitar there, but by then I was interested in more than just guitar. I began with a plastic clarinet, later added alto sax. And now that I can read music, I’ve started back on guitar again. I’ll likely never be great, maybe not even good, but it’s the journey that matters. Challenge yourself. It’s never too late to learn new things, it’s never too late to chase down a dream.

A Brief Acting Career

For obvious reasons. I was never comfortable standing up and being on display when younger, let alone performing, debating, or acting.

Not that I had to do much of that while in Pinecrest. I was not in the main cast of anything while there. I suppose I didn’t make the cut. Although I was good enough for the chorus. But then again, everyone was good enough for the chorus. I recall being a sugarplum, dancing in your head, in the Christmas play. Was I a sugarplum? I can’t rightly say what I was, but I remember being dressed in a round red costume (so maybe I was a cranberry) with the others, lined up at the back of the gym, and when cued, we marched in through the main doors from behind the spectators (our parents), up the aisle, and then after splitting into two groups, up the stairs on either side of the stage. Our parents laughed when they saw us enter, not maliciously, but in good humour from being surprised by our sudden entrance from the rear of the gym...or so my mother said. We sang, I remember that. I had to sing harmony, and I was not particularly pleased to be chosen to be (I don’t think any of us were, to be honest). Harmony took a little while to learn; it’s not like it comes naturally to a grade school kid. I remember we’d been separated into two groups during practice, melody to the right, harmony to the left, all of us seated on mats on the floor.

Then, later, while in St. Theresa, I was in an actual play, one in which I actually had lines. I studied and studied, never believing I’d actually learn all my lines. There weren’t many, the play was just an act, and a short one at that, maybe five or ten minutes long at best, but it seemed an eternity for one with stage fright. We, the cast, were students and teacher in a classroom. I played the bullied student who forgives all the other students in the class who’d been cruel to me, once their misguided behavior was pointed out to them by our properly wise and insightful teacher. I told them, “All I ever wanted was for everyone to just get along,” (a la Leave It to Beaver) and they all understood and we were best friends till our dying day. Jesus...! There may have been some quavering of voice while I probably mumbled out my lines in a bland and unemotional monotone.

The final play was in high school. Mine was a bit part, just a walk through with one line. But at least I spoke. Without a nervous twitter of voice. More importantly, I was to walk arm in arm with a momentary crush. Granted, my heart was in my throat the whole time. Being mocked and teased by my friends in the front row didn’t help much.

Finally, in high school, we were separated into groups of three or four and expected to perform a skit on a subject we chose from a hat. We opted to perform ours as a newscast, with anchorman and man on the street interviews. We spent more time laughing at our own material than practicing. I think it showed. I definitely missed one of my lines.

Practice makes public speaking easier. Knowing your material cold helps too. Given time, I gave up on fear of speaking in front of others. I came to realize there was no point to it. Who the hell are they in the audience, anyway? Friends or strangers. They’re either rooting for you, or you’ll never see any of them ever again. So, don’t sweat it.

Interclass School Games

I’m not sure what else to call them, but I recall we had them at both Pinecrest and St. Theresa, where the school made up teams of members of different home rooms and grades, named them particularly cool and evocative names like the blue team, the red team, green, etc., or some such, and set the teams to compete athletically for points. Sort of like team Olympics.

Pinecrest was held in the warm spring months, so the sports were relay races, high jumps and the sort. I was especially good at the sprints, somewhat good at high jumps, disastrous at throwing events. We’d compete, and the teachers would award the points to the winning teams, and after completing the full circuit of events, the points were tallied and the three teams with the highest scores won gold, silver, and bronze. I don’t remember actually winning a medal, although I do remember once or twice being confused by who actually did win an event, not keeping the actual number of home runs or whatever clear in my head. Paying close attention to details like timekeeping and unmarked scoring was not really my strong suit back then.

St. Theresa’s was held in the winter, but the events were pretty similar. The one I recall most of all was a simple one. One team had to kick a soccer ball through the opposing team, each player in turn, and the team that kicked through the other the most got the points. I knew I would do well at this one. I’d played soccer at recesses since grade 1 and was always good at it. I could always kick long and far, and with reasonable accuracy. There were no other rules than those simple ones; so, when my turn came, I prepared for the kick by setting up the ball on a built up, make-shift tee of snow. I set the ball atop it, stood back, and having already figured out who had guarded their end the worst, decided to kick through them. I decided to keep the angle of the kick as secret as possible to the very end so the other team wouldn’t be able to shift their goal keeping at the last moment, as I’d seen them do, skipped the first couple steps, and then quickly wound up and kicked hard. And realized my mistake the moment I connected with the ball; I’d stacked the tee too high. My instep kicked the ball, not my toe, and the ball went high, not hard and deep as I’d intended. It went oh so high, like a pop-up fly ball in baseball. I watched the ball as it rose, as it seemed to hang in space forever, and I cursed. It was the easiest catch of the event. I didn’t win a medal at that particular Olympics, either.

Roughhousing

Boys will be boys. You remember. You don’t even have to remember. All you have to do is observe your kids, your grandchildren, the kids in playgrounds, or at the mall as you go about your day. It doesn’t take much to set boys off, to try to take each other down, or test one another’s strength. It’s all an alpha male thing, jostling for position, each one trying to rise to the top of the heap. It’s a sex thing, showing off, inviting girls to notice ME. Should girls be present, it can escalate pretty quickly. It can become a fight in the blink of an eye. Worse still if one of those boys likes the girl present; and it can become a desperate bid to save face if circumstances turn for the worse. Of course, girls needn’t be present, either. I wasn’t immune.

One day, back in Grade 8, Garry Martin and I were sent on an errand. Classes were in session, the halls empty. As we were about it, we began to joke around, and began to push and shove, never actually meaning to hurt one another. If anything, we were just having fun, giggling the whole time, muffling our laughter so as not to get in trouble for disturbing the classes in session, or the hallowed peace of the halls. We started to throw shadow punches and Kung-Fu kicks, always sure to be wide of the mark. Mind you, some of those came pretty close as we ducked and weaved in and out of range. Then I closed in, just as Garry began to thrust out a leg, his body becoming somewhat horizontal. Committed, I could not, for the life of me, check myself. But I tried. I skid to a stop, piked my body. I felt the psychic thrust of the foot approaching me. And then I felt a tap. In a slightly sensitive spot. Not even a tap. Let’s just say there was enough contact to say there was the hint of contact. And my entire world contracted with that touch, into that moment. I don’t think I’d ever experienced that much pain in my entire life, and I’d experienced some pain by then, riding into parked cars, falling off fences, that time I fell off my bike and landed in the hospital with a concussion. It exploded, rushing out from that central spot and cutting off all sensation everywhere else. Already piked, I crumbled. It must have seemed a seamless flow of motion when observed from without; you’d have to ask Garry. Garry was instantly horrified, seeing me down on the floor, clutching at my crotch. He rushed forward and whispered a panicked, “Are you okay?” when it must have been obvious that I wasn’t. I think we both thought that unless I got up pretty quickly, we’d be in shit, first for fighting, then for breaking the rules for roughhousing, and for not going about our chore like little automatons. Thankfully, that all-encompassing pain left me as quickly as it came, but I was tender for some time, certainly unable to do more than shuffle for a few minutes. Needless to say, whenever I see someone get kicked in the nuts in a film and continue to fight, I call bullshit.

School Trips

Memories are a muddle, all twisted up together, at times. Two memories collide in my mind, somewhat similar, but obviously separate upon further exploration: the Grade 6 Midland school trip, and the Grade 8 Toronto school trip. There had actually been two school trips, not just one! I’d suspected that, but couldn’t separate them. The two were similar in only one aspect, the visiting of historic forts, but that was enough to overlay one on top of the other, confusing them in my mind. Middle-age, and the long span of years taking their toll, go figure. Pictures would have helped separate them, but I have none, either never having been taken, or long lost.

The Midland trip. Grade 6. I recall the theft of the ten dollars from my suitcase vividly. That left me with almost no mad money for souvenirs, as I’d mentioned in that earlier memory. Left without the means to buy much, I had to be very careful with what remained. I made one purchase that I remember, a small fur pelt, purchased at the fort from a native display, one about a foot in length, the pelt, not the display. It was soft, the hairs parting and flowing between my fingers. I had to have it, and I did. I remember placing it on the small desk in my bedroom at home, not sure what else to do with it, always wondering as the months and years passed why I did buy it, what use I had for it. My first impulse buy. Not the last.

The Toronto trip. Grade 8. I recall the Pong game and the shoplifting at the end of the trip. I remember who did it, but as with the theft from my bags during the Midland trip, I don’t believe any mention of names would be fair, not after so many years have passed. And what would it serve? One memory is rather vivid from the Toronto trip, however. For whatever reason, our bus had not picked us up at the end of some tour, and our supervising teachers decided that we were not so far away from our hotel that we could not walk back. We were further than they imagined, as we were exhausted by the more than the hour’s walk on concrete. Along the way, a woman stepped away from a building, and through a wicked smile, asked me/us/the cluster of boys I was with if we would like to party. She was dressed as you might imagine. I imagine she was in hot pants and a tube top, her hair flared out, her make-up loud and not particularly subtle. I blushed. I think we all blushed. The woman laughed, so did her “friends.” Embarrassed, we begged off, trying and obviously failing to be cool, and found ourselves walking a little faster, to catch up with the more numerous cluster of kids ahead of us, the one presumably protected by our chaperoning teacher.

That was the first time I’d ever seen a prostitute.

Coming of Age, Of a Sort

That would be between ‘76 and ‘78, I’d say. That's a hard thing to nail down for most people, if not all of us, as it happens in leaps and bounds over a period of time. So let’s observe some of this process. Further details of each to follow, I imagine.

In ‘76, I began helping out at the pool, not the Schumacher pool (that’s where my sister began her junior guard experience), the Archie Dillon Sportsplex, then only a year old. Judy Miller was still at the cash (God love her for her longevity of service), but other than that, the two pools could not be more different. The Sportsplex was brick, tiled, windowless, '70s modern in every way. It echoed, as all pools do. It was humid, as all pools are; but hot, as the Schumacher Pool never was.

In ‘77, I bought my first albums with what little wealth I had: Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours,” and the Eagles’ “Their Greatest Hits 1971-1975.” I loved them both, but I can’t say I chose them on my own. They were picked out on the advice of my cousin Alan, in from Cochrane. We stumbled upon each other in the new Timmins Square on a Saturday afternoon, at Circle of Sound. I was in a record store for the first time, out with friends, trying and failing to be mallrats, leafing through the maze of future personal purchases, browsing the best sellers, when Alan appeared. We talked, he asked me what I liked, and I admitted I didn’t really know, limited to the playlist on the local radio and the memory of the too many ‘60s and ‘70s rock in my older cousins’ collections to remember; I’d yet to find my groove. When he asked me what albums I had already, I begrudgingly admitted that I didn’t own any LPs, then, yet. He took those two off the best-sellers wall, and said that these were two worthy of building a record collection from. He was right.

In ‘76, the class trip to Midland, the first time I was ever away from my parents. We were placed four to a room, one of whom likely stole the $10 of mad money my mother gave me for the trip. That kid held a $10 bill up to me and all in the room and said, “Look what I have.” Me too, I said, in response, unsure why he was so boastful about showing it off, my own mother telling me to keep it secret; but upon a search of my own luggage later could not find my own money my mother had given me. Read between the lines, and I’m sure you will come to the same conclusion I did. But how to prove the theft? I let it go.

In the summer of ‘77, Star Wars was released. I very much had an Eric Foreman moment.

In ‘78, I saw my first video game, Pong, on the school trip to Toronto. We spotted it in the restaurant of the hotel/motel we were staying at, and were soon 3 to 5 deep around it, fascinated, transfixed by what we knew was the future. That same trip, someone was caught shoplifting on a stop on the way home. One of our teachers went down the aisle with a basket, telling us that if anyone else had stolen something, to place it in the basket and nothing more would be said. He left with an empty basket. The shoplifter was eventually returned to us, his head low with shame upon entering the bus.

In ‘78 and beyond new interests began to penetrate my shell: girls, New Wave, Post-punk; video games, first at the Square, then Andy's Amusement, and later still at Top Hat’s.

The list of crushes to that point: Heather, Alison, Patricia, Shelly, Kim, and Sandra. Obviously, more to come.

Transitions

Transitions can be hard. So can letting go. I had always felt oddly separate in Grade 7. All the kids around me had come from other schools in groups, in readymade cliques, if you will. Not so me, the lone transfer from the public-school system to the Catholic. Of course, as I said in an earlier memory, thank God for my being set next to Garry Martin in Grade 7 Homeroom. We struck it off that first day, and later, when I followed him out into the playground at first recess and approached him (not without an extreme fear of rejection, I might add), he invited me to stay, introduced me to his friends from Schumacher Public, and soon that small group attracted a few other geeks and freaks, the too tall, the too redheaded, the slightly overweight, the bookish, the poor who were poorly dressed, a few natives down from Moosonee.

But I always pined for my old friends from Pinecrest. I think that’s understandable, but my old friends from Pinecrest living in my neighbourhood didn’t share my nostalgia, it seems, Larry specifically, not to rant on Larry; in retrospect, he had grown up faster than I had, and he and I didn’t actually share the same interests, anymore. What they were then, I could only guess at: girls most definitely (I liked them, too, but I really didn't know this new batch of girls, was hopelessly confused about them, and was terrified that this new batch of girls didn’t like me much, a couple of which were openly hostile to me), hockey maybe (I don’t really know if hockey was in his repertoire, at all). I’d call on them/him weekends, but nothing came of it. Larry’s younger brother Ralph hung out with me for a couple summers, then I outgrew him, we outgrew each other. By then, I was hanging out at the pool more, first as a teacher’s aide (junior life-guard, we called it). These people became my closest friends throughout high school.

But separations are sometimes hostile, fueled by hurt and doubt and the need to sever and move on. Shortly before the summer vacation following Grade 7, I was missing Larry, who I thought my closest friend at Pinecrest. I walked the short distance (just around the corner, really) from my house to his, hoping to find him and rekindle our flagging friendship. I crept up to his fence and peered between the boards to see if I could catch a glimpse of him before ringing the doorbell.

Larry and his new crew rounded the front corner of his house just then, and he and they saw me at the fence.

“What are you doing there?” Larry yelled.

“Looking for you,” I answered.

“What are you doing in my yard,” he said, his voice full of threat. His tone baffled me. And I had no idea how to answer, thinking I just had. His new friends thought this the height of fun, and laughed. I had no idea who these kids were. I’d never seen them before. I still don’t know who they were. I have no memory of their faces.

“Get off my yard,” Larry ordered.

Not to lose face, I didn’t, but I did begin to make my way home, keeping an eye on this menacing group led by my grade school and childhood friend. I wasn’t not fast enough, apparently.

Larry said, “I said, ‘get off my yard,’” again. Now, I knew that this was city property and that his yard ended at the fence, so, I said so. Not the brightest move, because Larry’s pack decided to force the issue. They rushed me. I stood my ground. Again, not the brightest move, as there were 5 of 6 of them. They rushed me, pushed me, grabbed me, surrounded me, and made to push me off balance. I pushed back, more to keep to my feet than to do damage.

I blurted, “You don’t scare me,” and “That didn’t hurt, at all,” or something of the sort.

That’s when the first punch landed, first to the body, then others to the neck and head. Now, I was never much of a fighter, but I fought back, limited mainly to elbows, knees and kicks. For every landed blow, I lashed out, and with every new punch, my fury rose. I remember landing a few vicious elbows to other’s heads. And that’s when the punishment stopped.

We separated, exchanged the expected insults, and then each made our way home.

When I got there, my Dad saw me first. I was crying, by then. He asked me what happened and I told him. I could tell he was mad as hell, but he told me to not tell my mother, that telling her wouldn’t do any good, anyhow. Then he decided I should know how to fight. Fight dirty, he told me. That’s the only way anyone fights, he said. You may not win, but if they’re going to hurt you, make them regret it. Make the fuckers bleed.

A Reader is Born

I was never a reader until Grade 7. I didn’t have the attention span until then, preferring to be out and about, running, playing, riding my bike. I suppose I may have always been young for my age. It’s not that I had never read; I did, but the books were largely short, children’s books, the ones a couple steps above picture books, books where anthropomorphic animals were the main characters. Each story was no longer than a couple pages, at most. They actually put me in “special” reading class before I was held back, where the text was largely “see Jack, see Jack run.” Keep in mind I was a December baby, and a year younger than others when I began school. As you can imagine, special reading class was a real boost to my self-esteem. Only dummies were enrolled in special reading class, that’s the way we kids looked at it. It was only for one year though, my first year in Grade 2. Once I was held back, that extra year of development meant that I could concentrate more, absorb more, and make those cognitive leaps required to transform those symbols on the page into words and sentences and finally into thoughts and images in my head. I went from a struggling student to a high B student, and remained that way until post-secondary where I continued to improve. Still, regardless my huge improvement as a student after being held back, special reading class may have put me off reading.

Everything changed in Grade 7. My mother had always read, and now my friends read, too. And who does’t want to fit in with their friends? I had a book report to do, and I chose Arthur C. Clark’s 1952 science fiction novel “Islands in the Sky” from the library after much deliberation. I had grown up watching Star Trek, so when I saw the cover, I thought I might like it. There was a man in a space suit (a suit without individual legs) floating in space above the Earth, a ‘50s style rocket, and a space station similar to the one in 2001 behind him. Luckily, it was one of his earlier works, and a juvenile novel, so it wasn’t outside what I’d be able to handle for a first novel to read. I ate it up, surprised by how completely I was captivated by the story. More books followed, this time without the requirement of a book report. And then books into the summer, nothing too taxing, yet, the first few like “Alien,” adapted from the screenplay, and a few other horror and sci-fi.

I’ve read ever since.

John

A John. Not The John. This distinction will be evident in posts to come.
One of my first friends in St. Theresa in Grade 7 was a Native boy. His name was John. I have no clue what his last name was. I can’t even say that I knew him well. I didn’t know him that long. He was a quiet young man, not terribly scholastic. Maybe that was what drew me to him, his unpresuming quiet. He seemed out of place in all the bluster and activity that surrounded him. If you've ever known a North American Native, you'll know what I mean.
As to his less than scholastic nature, he was not stupid. He was just quiet. That said, he was not particularly interested in his studies. I cannot comment on what is schooling was, or where he went to school before I met him, or even how long he had lived in Timmins. But I remember seeing how he struggled. I wanted to help him. He was kind to me, after all. I lent him the notes he was missing once (he'd been away, and had fallen even further behind than he'd already been), he tried to hand them back, but I insisted. John was too shy to insist I take them back. He had reason to; he was moving back to Moosonee, and I would never see him again.
I had to borrow Garry Martin's notes to copy when I discovered that John had left. Needless to say, I studied how my straight-A friend took notes. They weren’t that different from the notes I took. He just retained the information therein better than I did.

Discipline, Of a Sort

What is acceptable at school has certainly changed since I attended St. Theresa. Most teachers today probably remember their own treatment with horror.

Point in case: Grade 7, recess, one of my friends blurted out to the student body that it was my birthday. It was. Everyone wanted to congratulate me and help me celebrate in the most time-honoured tradition: by giving me the bumps. They grabbed me, took me by the arms and legs and lifted me off the ground, whipping me into the air and back down so that my bottom kissed the earth with each repetition. Each landing was accompanied with the most gleeful ONE, TWO, THREE, and so on, by everyone gathered, and laughter. They never reached twelve. Midway through, I screamed “Jesus Christ!” Not the best thing to yell at a Catholic school, or any school for that matter. Then we all heard an adult cry out, “HEY!” over their count and their collective laughter. Everyone fell silent, in fact the entire playground fell silent, like all animals do when they sense danger. They parted like the Red Sea, and I saw Mr. S. staring at me. Everyone was terrified of Mr. S. He was small for a man, no bigger than the tallest of us—the only thing large on him was his Roman, aquiline nose—but his reputation proceeded him.

“Does your mother know you talk like that,” he asked me, his voice filled with authority and menace.

“No, sir,” I whispered, very interested with the ground at my feet, glancing up just often enough to see if my deference had had any effect. It must have, because he cut me some slack, let me off with a warning. Maybe his having seen me repeatedly slammed to the ground had something to do with it. Although he did not have enough sympathy to stop them from doing it.

I was lucky. Not so a classmate of mine later on. I do not remember his name, but I do remember that he was a class clown, harmless really, but he did have a bit of a mouth on him. Looking back, I think he might have come from a bad home, but that’s just a guess. He was slight, average height, long, straight, shoulder length hair. Not the cleanest. Not the best clothing. He had a bit of a skittish poise about him. He had the misfortune to answer a question by S with a little sarcasm, not much, but enough to make us all titter nervously. S chuckled, too. And then he struck. He reached out over the lab table (you remember the type, blacktop, waist high, with tall stools on either side of a central sink) and grabbed the kid by the hair; he lifted the kid out of his seat, over the table, and literally threw him into the chalkboard. The kid hit hard and crumpled to the floor. We were stunned. There was silence as we tried and failed to process what we’d just seen. WHAT THE FUCK! Doesn’t begin to describe our collective shock. I still remember sitting transfixed, watching a lock of hair floating on the air as it fell to the ground. I remember seeing blood on the strands. S then hauled the wailing kid off the ground and slammed him back into the wall before dragging him out into the hall where he repeatedly slammed the kid’s head against the lockers. He then shoved the kid to the stairs and hauled him to the principal’s office. We didn’t move, we didn’t even whisper amongst ourselves lest he somehow hear us, not the entire time S was gone, not even when S returned and resumed class as though nothing had happened. We knew better. Even children know when they’re in the presence of a dangerous animal.

Nothing happened to S, as far as I knew. But I seem to recall that the kid transferred to Ross Beattie Public immediately afterwards. I did feel a thrill decades later when I heard that S had contracted cancer. That sounds horrible, I know, but I remain unrepentant of it to this day.

St. Theresa, Grade 7

In a few weeks I’d settled into St. Theresa Secondary, I’d mapped out the layoff the land, so to speak, even made a few friends. Garry Martin welcomed me into his group of friends. We were a ragtag motley group of those who didn’t quite fit in anywhere else, but we didn’t just let anyone IN, either. It was a relatively small school, and not so many people as to have unlimited cliques. Some may have tagged us geeks, and that’s bullshit, but not actually wrong, either. We may not have been jocks—there was not a hockey player among us—but most of us played sports; many of us were in track and field, a couple loved to watch football, and Garry and I discovered we were both swimmers (although how we both managed to grow up as pool rats at the Schumacher pool and never share lessons or even meet is still a mystery to me). None of us had girlfriends, so maybe that’s where that came from, not that we didn’t like girls. We certainly talked about them a lot. But we were also still a little young for that, I think. I did have my string of crushes by then: Heather, Allison, and Patricia, by then. But I really didn’t know what I was supposed to do about those crushes. We were each of us experiencing a little arrested development at that time, I think. Or maybe everyone develops at their own pace, in their own time.

I remember playing tag in the school compound. We played with an Indian rubber ball. You got tagged by the ball, you were IT. This guy was chasing me, his name was Archie, I think, but we called him Lou for reasons that escaped me even then. Lou was IT. I ducked and wove between groups of people, trying to keep them between him and me, trying not to get boxed in. Long story short, he boxed me in. I found myself up against the gym wall, turned a little sideways, hands out to ward off the coming pain, waiting for the inevitable that never seemed to come. He made a couple fake throws to see if I’d bolt left or right before finally committing. He tagged me with that hard Indian-rubber, and bolted. The ball being Indian-rubber, and the ground being packed gravel, it didn’t bounce too far. I gathered it up, stretching out the knot of pain he just gave me. The ball was heavy. I looked down the gym wall and saw that Lou was running a straight line, not weaving at all. I took aim, and threw as hard as I could. I didn’t really have much of a throwing arm, I was more a sprinter and a swimmer, and could never throw too well; but this time the ball flew straight and true, arcing beautifully. But as I released the ball, I thought that I’d thrown too hard. I watched the ball as it rose and as it began its decent, then I looked back down at Lou, who was still racing straight ahead without any hint of variance at all, back up at the ball, and back down at Lou. And I felt a thrill rise up in me. I’d actually thrown the ball perfectly. The ball came down on Lou’s head before ricocheting up again, Lou flattened to the earth beneath it.

Bits and Pieces, and Such

Oddly, I have a lot of gaps in my memory of attending St. Theresa. I have a fair number of gaps in my memory of attending Pinecrest, too. Grades 1 to 2 are not quite as vivid as 4 through 6, when my class had solidified, somewhat.

I remember surprisingly few teachers. I remember a woman in ruffled shirts and salt and pepper hair teaching Grade 2 (don’t quote me on that, she may have been Grade 3), then Mrs. Gage (I do not remember her maiden name—she had that the first semester, then returned married after Christmas...unless I’m confusing two separate school years) for Grade 4, Mr. Litchfield for Grade 5 (our Principal took over the class after the nameless teacher we began with left for maternity leave quite early in the school year), and finally, the beloved Mr. Reade for Grade 6. I remember Mr. Battachio subbing in for gym class, his change jingling in his pockets. I remember mistakenly calling Mrs. Gage mom, once; being seated beside Alison Tilly for art class in Grade 6; Mr. Reade reading a chapter of a novel about a winter plane crash to us each day. My memory is replete with playground recollections: lots of soccer and touch football, then baseball and basketball. I remember being bused to the Schumacher Pool for swim classes, the water so cold that Tony Syball (sp) used to shiver uncontrollably. There were occasional testosterone clashes with Larry MacDowell in the playground, and sometimes with Donald Rhodes. I remember Alison Tilly and Tony Syball joining our class sometime around Grade 4 (I’m sure there are many who can tell me exactly when). There was Kathy Kreiner mania after her gold medal win at the ‘76 Olympics, and track and field try-outs.

But surprisingly few memories of Grades 7 and 8. I remember a snow day which turned out to be one of the best winter days ever, a solar eclipse when we had to sit in class with all the curtains drawn to protect us, a school Olympics where teams made up of people from different homerooms and grades were combined. I recall a socially awkward boy who was ridiculed by almost everyone. He was clueless, it seemed, unable to follow others’ lead to fit in. I first saw him up against the urinals, with his pants and underwear down around his ankles, all the boys in the washroom laughing at him. I felt so sorry for him, but what was to be done? He went from one social gaff to the next, never talking to others. I do recall how many people left to go to Ross Beattie in Grade 8, the socially awkward boy among them, the year parents had to pay extra for the privilege of having their children attend Catholic School.

I am cognizant of how many times I had to “start anew.” I began school in Cochrane, then began again after moving from Cochrane to Timmins (another beginning, when you think on it), then again when I was held back in Grade 2. I began again in Grade 7, when my parents transferred me from the public-school system to the separate. Losing many people mid-middle school was another surprise.

This trend of my starting over would continue in post-secondary, even in work, but those are stories for another day. Throughout my entire life I was always finding myself starting over. I shouldn’t complain. I may have lost many friends with each renewal, but I also met new people with each beginning, as well. It’s no wonder that my memory is a riot of mixed memories, somewhat loosely anchored.

The Transfer

My mother wanted my sister and I to go to O’Gorman High School, part of the English Catholic Separate School Board, so, my sister Karen and I being 23 months apart, I had to transfer to St. Theresa (now O’Gorman Intermediate) when she entered O’Gorman High School (it’s a taxes thing). I was not pleased to leave all my friends behind (I imagine was my sister wasn’t too keen, either), but we weren’t given much of a choice. My mother was also under the impression that O’Gorman gave a better education than the public school, Timmins High; a lot of parents were under that impression, but as all school boards had to teach the same curriculum that was mandated by the Province, I can’t see how going to one school of the other made much of a difference, but hindsight is 20-20. I don’t regret going there. I enjoyed going there, for the most part.

I was nervous that first day; I was going to another new school, after all, and I didn’t know a soul (you’d think I would have this new class/new friends thing down by now, having moved from Cochrane at 4, and then held back in Grade 2; see earlier posted memories).

Karen and I walked together as far as St. Theresa, then she continued on her way to O’Gorman. I didn’t mind the walk; I’ve never taken a school bus (I always lived within the bus limit), and we gave one another moral support. But once she’d left to face her own first day in a new school, I was on my own. I recall milling about, leaning against the school walls, trying to appear cool in such a way as to attract the right new friends, trying not to appear envious that others were already grouped together. They at least, were not alone; they were already friends, having spent the last seven years of school together. The bell rang, teachers emerged to group us by grade, and my new school year amongst strangers began. I expect Karen’s experience was similar.

I met two boys fairly early on. The first was Garry Martin, a largely hyperactive boy who was drafted to take me under his wing, so to speak. Thank God for that, and thank God it was Garry. He and I became close friends and would soon share about a decade’s worth of life experiences together. The second was Gord Disley. We found ourselves at the back of a class together, and we began chatting. It was a comfortable chat. Then came introductions, but there was a sight change to the usual exercise where the teacher would just get each student to stand and tell something about themselves. In this case, we were to write something about ourselves, place the papers in a hat, and then as the teacher read each in turn the rest of the class would try to guess who that person was. I was clueless to all these clues, of course. But the girls were actually giddy about the game. When each was guessed or not, each of us then stood up in turn to introduce ourselves and tell the class what we wanted to do when we grew up. No one guessed mine (understandable, considering no one know who I was); I can’t even remember what I wrote, or what I said. But I’ll always remember what Gord said when his turn came: “I’m Gord Disley, and I want to be a Rock Star!”

True to his word, at 18, Gord packed his bags and moved to Toronto, guitar over his shoulder. He never looked back.

Did he become a rock star? No. But he did become a professional musician for a time, which is very much the same thing, I expect. He worked in restaurants to pay the bills while he waited for the expected to happen, which never did. Did he become famous? He did, somewhat. He became a stand-up comedian. He’s been on TV. He never became famous, but he did something few others ever did: He took a shot at it.