Wednesday, December 31, 2008

As goes the groin, so goes the season

The fall of Capt. Luongo

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 31, 2008


The shot heard 'round the province seemed such an innocent thing.

On the afternoon of Nov. 22, at 4 minutes 54 seconds of the first period in a game at Pittsburgh, Philippe Boucher of the Penguins fired the puck from the point.

Roberto Luongo was ready. Kneeling in a butterfly position, the Vancouver Canucks goaltender moved his left leg to block the shot. When the puck instead ricocheted to his right, Mr. Luongo reflexively flicked his right leg.

He was attempting a physical position nature had not intended.

He collapsed face-first on the ice.

He was skated to the dressing room by teammates Ryan Kesler and Taylor Pyatt, the goalie placing his weight on his right leg, the left trailing behind. A photograph of the pair escorting the goalie looked like the painting The Death of General Wolfe, as all around looked on in horror at the fallen warrior.

As it turned out, the Canucks won a game, but lost a superstar.

The goalie's groin is “strained, not torn,” the club insisted in announcing he had suffered an adductor-muscle strain on the left side of his groin. Like a James Bond cocktail, the precision of the description is key. In this case, it is the fans who are both stirred and shaken.

Hours after the injury, a sports reporter wrote: “Roberto Luongo walked Sunday,” as if to reassure diehard fans and obsessive poolsters that the goalie's fate was better than that of Gen. Wolfe.

Here are some statistics. Mr. Luongo wears sweater No. 1, stands 6 foot 3, weighs 205 pounds. He has a save percentage of .928 and a goals-against average of 2.17. He has been watching games from the press box for five weeks and he still leads the National Hockey League in shutouts with five.

When you combine the words “Roberto Luongo” with “groin” on Google, you get 86,700 hits.

Comedian Torben Rolfsen says the goalie possesses the most talked-about nether parts since Sharon Stone appeared in Basic Instinct.

I will say this.

I know more about his groin than I do my own.

(In a city that gave us a band called Bruno Gerussi's Medallion, how long before some smart-aleck punks call themselves Roberto Luongo's Groin?)

The concern over Mr. Luongo's health reached a crisis in the week before Christmas when a radio station reported the goalie is lost for the season. The club insists the athlete is being evaluated on a week-by-week basis.

Why so much ink over one player's inguinal injury?

Mr. Luongo, the team's captain, is regarded as a cornerstone of its success. No Bobby Lou, no long playoff run. No long playoff run, no additional revenue from ticket sales, no jam-packed bars and restaurants, no (temporary) newspaper circulation gains, no out-of-towners staying in downtown hotels, no cops making tons of overtime while eyeballing celebratory fans. A lot of money rides on that adductor.

Goalies can have strained relations with their body parts, especially involving what is euphemistically referred to as a lower-body injury. A recitation of Czech-born goaltender Dominik Hasek's many groin injuries reads like a Franz Kafka tale as told to Feodor Dostoyevsky. (Note to hockey fans who have stumbled onto the news pages – the latter pair are dead writers, not checking forwards to watch at the 2010 Olympics.) So dark and so bizarre were Mr. Hasek's struggles with his health that the sports columnist Mitch Albom once wrote a dialogue between the injured goalie's brain (“I can come back”) and his groin (“I'm feeling a twinge. I'm not kidding”).

The media reports on Mr. Luongo's condition read like war dispatches:

Dec. 1 – Luongo skated a few laps, but did not take shots.

Dec. 2 – Luongo spent an hour on the ice.

Dec. 5 – Luongo faced “controlled shots” during practice.

Dec. 9 – Luongo returns to practice.

Dec. 11 – Luongo left practice early.

Dec. 13 – Luongo suffers a setback and will no longer take to the ice.

The Canucks have twice made the finals of the seemingly never-ending Stanley Cup playoffs. The euphoria of the 1982 and 1994 springs was a joy to behold. Okay, both ended in disappointment, and the white surrender towels of '82 would have been handy during the riots of '94. Still, the mood of the province is affected by the team's fortunes.

British Columbia is scheduled to hold a provincial election on May 12, just about the time the serious contenders in the playoffs make their move. The winner (of the election) will welcome the world to the 2010 Winter Olympics the following February.

No sporting event at those Games will be more closely watched than the men's hockey tournament. One of the likely goaltenders for Team Canada will be a workhorse Montreal-born netminder. That would be Martin Brodeur.

Another likely goaltender for Team Canada will be a workhorse Montreal-born puck-stopper who answers to the name Luongo.

In the coming months, we will be hearing as much about a goalie's groin as we can stomach.

2008 CTVglobemedia Publishing Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Mickey Vernon, baseball player (1918-2008)

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 27, 2008

They called Mickey Vernon the Gentleman First Baseman. The productive baseball player won two American League batting titles in a career straddling the Second World War. He was a seven-time all-star and one of the most popular players of his era.

Polite, kindly, and graceful on and off the field, Mr. Vernon's enviable reputation only grew after he retired as a coach and manager. He was a frequent guest at banquets, old-timer's games and other charitable events where fans got to meet their childhood heroes.

“Mickey Vernon is as silent as a night watchman, as conservative as a banker and as well-behaved as a vicar,” a baseball writer once said.

With a face as lean as his frame, accentuating a large nose and jug ears, Mr. Vernon's constant half-smile seemed to express delight that he was fortunate to earn a living playing a child's game. The placid demeanour contrasted with that of the mercurial Ted Williams, the great batter he bettered to win his first batting crown.

While resident in the White House, Dwight Eisenhower pronounced Mr. Vernon his favourite ballplayer, the selection receiving bipartisan support. The sure-handed first baseman provided the Washington Senators with a panache they otherwise lacked in the field and at the plate.

Five years ago, Mr. Vernon's hometown erected a life-sized statue of a favourite son on the site where his career began as a sandlot player. A plaque hails him as a “role model, mentor, great guy” and “a gentleman's gentleman.”

After 20 major-league seasons and a long career as a coach and manager, including a stint with the Montreal Expos, Mr. Vernon returned to the county of his Pennsylvania birth, where he lived with the high-school sweetheart who became his wife. Mr. Vernon attended the opening game of the local Little League each spring without fail, taking it as a duty after they named the league for him.

It was while closing out a losing season as manager of the minor-league Vancouver Mounties that Mr. Vernon got talked into a wacky stunt. The clubhouse attendant, a teenaged university student, begged for a chance to pitch. Something of a soft touch, the avuncular manager pencilled the lad in as the starting hurler for the final game of the 1968 season. What happened that day has become part of the city's baseball lore.

Mr. Vernon was born in a working-class town along the Delaware River between Philadelphia and Wilmington, Del. His grandfather, Samuel Vernon, a Civil War veteran, was elected the first burgess, or mayor, of the borough of Marcus Hook, Pa., in 1893. His father, Clarence Vernon, worked at the Sun Oil Co. (Sunoco) refinery. Pinker, as he was known, also starred as a first baseman, part-time pitcher and slugger for the company's semiprofessional baseball team.

An aunt took to calling her nephew Mickey and the name stuck. A tall and skinny boy, he first won attention in the Chester Times newspaper at 15 as a star hitter in a local sandlot circuit. That October, he hitchhiked with three classmates to Washington, where they took in two games of the 1933 World Series. Six seasons later, Mr. Vernon, by then a lean, 6-foot-2, 180-pounder, would be patrolling first base at Griffith Stadium himself.

While attending Eddystone High School, Mr. Vernon won a regional championship with an American Legion team before leading his school to a title of its own. He also earned a spot on the roster with the much older men on his father's old industrial-league team. A sports writer described the “lanky sensation” as a “sure shot for the big time.”

After graduating, he accepted a scholarship at Villanova College, ending feverish competition among scouts. As it turned out, the coach also managed the minor-league Easton (Md.) Browns and he inked the freshman to a professional contract.

Mr. Vernon played for the Greenville (S.C.) Spinners the following season, then earned a promotion to the Springfield (Mass.) Nationals in 1939. He was leading the league in hitting when the parent Senators called him up to the major leagues. Mr. Vernon made his debut in Philadelphia against the Athletics, the team for which he had cheered as a boy. He went 1-for-4.

In 1941, Mr. Vernon married Lib Firth, whom he had met in high school several years earlier. He had been too shy at the time to ask her for a date and their courtship did not begin until he was playing baseball out of town.

Mr. Vernon enjoyed three full seasons as the regular first baseman for the Senators before joining the U.S. Navy at the end of the 1943 season. After basic training, he spent much of the war playing baseball for service teams.

Competition for positions was fierce in 1946, as returning servicemen jostled with the players who held roster spots during the war. Mr. Vernon beat out veteran Joe Kuhel to regain his Senators job. Mr. Kuhel had been the first baseman in the World Series he had seen as a schoolboy. “He was a very good first baseman,” Mr. Vernon told Baseball Digest magazine, “but he was getting near the end of his career.”

At his physical peak and still retaining the speed of youth at 28, Mr. Vernon responded with the greatest season of his career. He hit 51 doubles, eight triples and eight home runs while registering a .353 average for his first American League batting title.

He failed to maintain those numbers in the following two seasons, as his batting average fell precipitously. The Senators traded him to the Cleveland Indians, although Washington got him back just 18 months later.

The Senators struggled to win as many games as they lost in the following seasons, badly trailing the Yankees in the standings. (The musical comedy Damn Yankees, in which a Washington fan makes a pact with the devil, debuted on Broadway in 1955; many years later, a Pennsylvania production was dedicated to Mr. Vernon.) A rare victory celebrated by Senators fans came in 1953 when Mr. Vernon won his second batting title, this time with a .337 average.

Back in Pennsylvania, a newspaper publisher arranged for the batter to receive a state licence plate with his initials and average: MV 337.

With Mr. Eisenhower on hand to throw out the opening pitch of the 1954 season, Mr. Vernon smacked a game-winning two-run homer in the bottom of the 10th inning off Allie Reynolds to defeat the Yankees, 5-3. As he crossed home plate, he was accosted by a man in a suit who identified himself as a member of the Secret Service. He took Mr. Vernon to the grandstand to meet the president.

A month later, Mr. Eisenhower presented a silver bat to his favourite player in honour of his 1953 batting title. Mr. Vernon failed to get a hit that game, but the Senators once again defeated the hated Yankees.

Washington traded him to the Boston Red Sox, where he spent two seasons before being claimed on waivers by the Indians, who in turn traded him to the Milwaukee Braves. Mr. Vernon closed out his playing career with the Pittsburgh Pirates, who signed him as a playing coach for the final month of the 1960 season. He got one single in eight pinch-hit appearances.

The Pirates faced the powerhouse Yankees in the World Series that fall. Ineligible to play in the series, Mr. Vernon assisted manager Danny Murtaugh, who had been a teammate when they were teenagers. Mr. Vernon never did play in a World Series game, but he counted Bill Mazeroski's dramatic series-winning home run as one of his greatest thrills.

He concluded his playing days with several records. He took part in 2,044 double plays at first base, including 10 in a doubleheader played on Aug. 18, 1943. He also set American League marks for first baseman in games (2,227), putouts (19,754) and assists (1,444), according to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

“Mickey was so smooth around the bag that he could have played first base wearing a tuxedo,” a minor-league manager once said.

The Senators moved to Minnesota and became the Twins. Mr. Vernon was hired to manage an expansion team playing in the U.S. capital under the old Senators name, but was fired midway through his third season.

In 1968, the minor-league Vancouver Mounties were suffering on the field and at the turnstile. Ernest (Kit) Krieger, the attendant for the visitors' clubhouse, convinced Mr. Vernon to allow him to take to the mound. After observing him in batting practice, the skipper agreed to the stunt. The teenager fared surprisingly well, surrendering a lone run to Hawaii before being pulled after three innings. He even recorded one strikeout. After the game, a Vancouver victory lasting just 64 minutes, the starting pitcher returned to his usual duties, including handling the soiled laundry of the players he had just faced. Mr. Krieger went on to become a high-school teacher and, eventually, president of the B.C. Teachers Federation.

Mr. Vernon's legion of fans have long insisted he deserved a spot in the Baseball Hall of Fame at Cooperstown, N.Y. The 12-man Veterans Committee composed of seven Hall of Famers and five historians considered Mr. Vernon and nine other players whose careers began before 1943. He got five votes, falling short of the nine needed for induction, the hall announced on Dec. 8.

James Barton (Mickey) Vernon was born April 22, 1918, at Marcus Hook, Pa. He died Sept. 24, 2008, a week after suffering a stroke, at Riddle Memorial Hospital in Media, Pa. He was 90. He leaves a daughter, Gay Vernon, of Sharon, Mass. He was predeceased by his wife of 63 years, the former Anne Elizabeth Firth, known as Lib, who died in 2004.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

New mayor is familiar face to Victoria's homeless

Dean Fortin photographed by Deddeda Stemler

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 24, 2008


The mayor strolled along familiar streets in search of the homeless.

Snow crunched underfoot. Crisp air reddened ears, the chill demanding gloves, scarves and warm overcoats, at least for those of us who owned some. The mayor's bootlaces slipped loose and he seemed in no hurry to remove his gloves to retie the trailing strings.

Dean Fortin, 49, stopped on the sidewalk in front of the Streetlink Emergency Shelter. Men huddled in knots, some whispering, others shouting.

“Not a good time,” the mayor pronounced. “It's the time of day when they're looking for a fix. They're planning and scheming the next score.”

He returned through Chinatown, cutting across Centennial Square on his way to a soup kitchen a few blocks to the east, when he bumped into a man pushing a cart.

“Hi, Mr. Mayor,” Darren Douglas said.

“How're you doing?” the mayor asked.

“As soon as I find a place to live, I'll be okay.”

Those words, or variations thereof, have been part of Mr. Fortin's working day for much of his life.

He is soft-spoken with the looks and manner of a vicar. A lawyer by education and an elected official by the voters' choice, he does not present himself as a boisterous, backslapping politician.

His face – round like Charlie Brown's, offset by stylish eyeglasses, topped by a laurel wreath of well-trimmed hair – is familiar to passersby. He sees in their eyes that they recognize but can't quite place him. For some politicians not to be recognized and afforded the proper respect would be a small death. Not so for Mr. Fortin. He's in this game for other reasons.

Although new to the mayor's chair, he is only too familiar with the city's most pressing issue. For 17 years, he worked as a community organizer in a poorer corner of the city. The locals included homeless families, two generations living in a car, or couch surfing until the welcome ran out.

One lad who sticks out in memory was a Grade 2 student who had already attended 20 schools. Twenty! The boy lacked a peer group and the only adults in his life were his parents, far from perfect models. The Burnside Gorge Community Centre offered hot meals, a warm place, and structure in a young life sorely in need of some.

“Homeless children,” Mr. Fortin said. “That will break your heart. Wonderful, amazing children.”

In his inaugural address to council earlier this month, the mayor told the gathering his daughter was aware of homelessness, a circumstance he thought unfair for a seven-year-old to contemplate, let alone live.

“I want to be able to tell her that we're doing everything we possibly can to find homes for those in need,” he said then.

The city's previous two mayors, both the choice of the business community, failed to stop downtown streets from turning into drug bazaars. As the situation deteriorated, residents and tourists alike began to avoid sidewalks taken over by those struggling with addictions, mental-health issues and poverty.

Where his predecessors were frustrated, Mr. Fortin says he can deliver results in as little as six months. It is a bold statement. The goal is to first get the hardest to house off the street, since they prey on other homeless folks.

A looming concern is whether Vancouver's homeless will migrate across Georgia Strait if Olympic planning forces them from metropolitan streets.

Mr. Fortin has never lacked for a home himself, though he notes he was brought after birth to a home that was a converted chicken coop at Kamloops. His mother was a nurse, his father “a cowboy, a builder, a miner” who prospected for gold.

“Did he have much luck? Nope. I'm sure even though he's dead he's out there looking still for his lucky strike.”

The boy inherited a sense of social justice from his mother, who took him to a political rally at the height of Trudeaumania.

The future mayor worked the green chain at a mill before moving to Victoria to attend university. He articled in Whitehorse, then joined a Victoria firm. Instead of building a career as a lawyer, he became executive director of the community centre, where he found he could directly help improve the lives of local residents.

After two terms on city council, he made an early announcement of his intention to run for mayor. The move convinced other councillors not to risk losing their seat by challenging the labour-backed candidate, though as it turned out, novice politico Rob Reid, a runner who owns stores selling athletic shoes, nearly scored an upset at the wire.

The short walk, bitter in the cold, at last brought Mr. Fortin to the entrance to the Our Place soup kitchen. The mayor had to introduce himself twice before the staff realized who he was. Usually closed on the weekend, the drop-in centre, with the city's help, had secured extra funds to operate during the cold snap. Inside, about 25 people snacked on oranges, bananas and muffins. Some slept on benches, their bindles beside them.

Mr. Fortin was invited to join a table where sat people who did recognize him. He asked after their health, listened intently as they talked. Karley Smith, a young woman whose shock of red hair seemed all the brighter for the paleness of her skin, told the mayor she is looking for a place to live. Pregnant with her fourth child, she is due to give birth in five weeks. Two of her children live with her mother, while a third has been placed for adoption. She is 22. He took her details and said he would do what he could.

He left the table. “Bad decisions,” he said with a what-can-you-do shrug. “She looks healthy, though. That's good.”

Earlier in the month, his wife, Donna Sanford, the daughter of former NDP MLA Karen Sanford, and his daughter, Sophie, joined him in serving turkey dinners at the annual Mustard Seed family Christmas dinner held at the Armoury.

The mayor believes the homeless situation will be solved by incremental change, one program at a time, one person at a time.

The man with the cart in Centennial Square said he was slowly working towards getting a room of his own. The cart he pushed, decorated by red tinsel found in the street, included brooms and brushes with which he cleans the street.

Mr. Douglas, a logger for 17 years until a falling tree injured his back, is paid $10 an hour by the Downtown Victoria Business Association. His route includes Douglas Street, which, he said, cracking a smile, is his responsibility because it carries his name.

Mr. Douglas told the mayor he was having difficulty getting an apartment because he did not have the extra money needed for a damage deposit. As it turns out, the mayor knows of a program that can help.

“You know where to find me,” the mayor said.

The street cleaner swung an arm, pointing to the red building behind him. “Mayor's office,” he said.

They shook on it.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Carlos Santiago, baseball player (1926-2008)

Two years after Jackie Robinson integrated the Montreal Royals, Carlos Santiago signed a professional contract to become the first black Puerto Rican in Organized Baseball.

Mr. Santiago followed Mr. Robinson to Canada, playing infield for the Farnham Pirates, based in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. The short-lived team played in the Class-C Provincial League.

Celebrated for his glove, but not his bat, Mr. Santiago hit a poor .195 for the Quebec team.

The 5-foot-11, 170-pound infielder was known as the “King of the Double Play” in his native Puerto Rico, where he was named to the island’s professional baseball hall of fame in 1993.

Mr. Santiago played for the Mayaguez Indians in his hometown before representing Puerto Rico with an all-star team at the 1944 Caribbean World Series. He was just 18.

He played for the Atlanta Black Crackers and the New York Cubans of the Negro Leagues after being discovered on a barnstorming tour of the United States.

His signing with the Stamford (Conn.) Pioneers of the Colonial League in 1948 was seen as blazing a trail for other black players from the Commonwealth such as Orlando Cepeda and Roberto Clemente.

Mr. Santiago’s baseball career was interrupted for two years when he served in the U.S Army during the Korean War. After being discharged with the rank of sergeant, he returned to baseball. The closest he got to the major leagues was a season spent with the Mexico City Diablos Rojos (Red Devils), two levels below the big leagues.

He later worked as a baseball coach and a scout for the California Angels in Puerto Rico.

“Baseball is a way of life to our young boys,” he said in an interview in 1973.

His death by heart attack was confirmed by his son, Carlos Manuel Santiago Feliciano, according to a report by The Associated Press.

Carlos Manuel Santiago was born on March 2, 1926, at Mayaguez, Puerto Rico. He died at his home in that city on Dec. 21. He was 82. — Tom Hawthorn

Thursday, December 18, 2008

A 150-year-old newspaper keeps up with the times

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 17, 2008


Who says newspapers are dying? Just the other day I spent several hours engrossed in the local daily.

The Times Colonist carries a hybrid name adopted in the wake of a shotgun wedding ordered by a new owner. (Please note, dear editor, the paper is an unhyphenated Canadian.) Critics still insist on calling it the Times Communist, which is more laughable than funny.

It boasts solid columnists and a talented reporting staff. On some days it offers almost 20 minutes of good reading.

The edition I couldn’t put down was dated Dec. 11. It remained riveting despite being a few days old. A few days and 150 years.

The inaugural issue of the newspaper now known as the Times Colonist features four pages of dense columns of type. It is unsullied by photography. The lone graphic is a thumbnail sketch of a leaping stag, part of a small notice for the Washington Restaurant on Government Street, whose proprietors “continue to keep their table well supplied with all the substantials and luxuries which the market affords.”

Other advertisers in the debut edition of the British Colonist include a druggist, a shoemaker, a bookseller,an auctioneer, the Victoria Coal Co., and a merchant announcing “GOLD DUST PURCHASED.”

Three years earlier, Victoria counted just 148 adult residents. Reports of gold discoveries along the Fraser River in 1858 caused the rapid construction of a ramshackle city of 20,000 with muddy roads and creaky wooden sidewalks. Among the new arrivals was a 33-year-old dreamer from Nova Scotia formerly known as Bill Smith.

The warehouseman had left the Maritimes to seek his fortune in the California goldfields, where he set up shop as a photographer in Mud Springs. When the settlement changed its name to the evocative El Dorado, plain Bill Smith decided to follow suit. He legally changed his identity to Amor de Cosmos, a name he said expressed what he most loved — “order, beauty, the world, the universe.”

In Victoria, he started a newspaper. The editor promised “an independent paper, the organ of no clique nor party — a true index of public opinion.” A year’s subscription cost $5, a single issue 25 cents.

A history published by the newspaper at the start of the sesquicentennial celebration stated only 200 copies of Vol. 1, No. 1 were produced on an old hand press.

Today, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, the first edition can be read at a computer terminal anywhere in the world at any time of day for free.

Every page of every issue of the Colonist dating from Dec. 11, 1858, to June 30, 1910, has been digitized in a searchable form at . That’s more than 100,000 pages to be perused by historians, genealogical researchers and fans of old newspapers. No more scrolling and squinting and scanning reels of microfilm in some dark corner of a library.

The project is a collaboration between the newspaper and McPherson Library at the University of Victoria, with support from other university and public libraries.

Those of us who have spent hours at library microfilm machines know well the joy when a prospector spotted a good-sized gold nugget. Trolling through needle-in-a-haystack film of old newspapers demands a certain but-I’ll-find-it-anyway mania. Now, the thrill of discovery is just a few keyboard clicks away.

Those prospectors, many of them American, brought with them to the colony their passion for a game involving a bat and a ball. The baseball historian Geoff LaCasse has uncovered a recorded game of baseball played in New Westminster on the Queen’s birthday in 1862. A quick search of the Colonist unveils “base ball,” still spelled as two words, being played at Beacon Hill Park in 1863. Coverage includes a basic box score for the 39-33 match.

The first local baseball brawl happened less than a week later.

“Row on Beacon Hill,” the Colonist reported. “A breach of the peace took place on Beacon Hill yesterday. Two men seated in a buggy, and driving round the hill, came in contact with a party who were engaged in play base ball, and after some altercation, one of the base ball players pulled one of the men out of the vehicle, and, as we are informed, presented a pistol at him. Some of the by-standers prevented ay further violence occurring, and quelled the disturbance.”

A hint to the reason behind this puzzling confrontation — why so sudden and why so violent? — can be found a few items further along the column. Another game was to be played that day with the prize for the winner being a keg of lager beer. Hic hic hooray!

Technology is making the fustiest of communication devices — a century-old printed newspaper — as accessible as the most recent Twitter posting. This comes at a time when newspapers are undergoing a crisis — the National Post has axed weekday distribution in Manitoba, even though Canwest, which owns the Post and the Times Colonist, has headquarters in Winnipeg; Sun Media Corp. announced 600 job cuts yesterday; and, the Detroit newspapers are offering home delivery on only three days a week. In Victoria, the local community newspapers sometimes seem to be little more than flyer delivery mechanisms.

These days you wonder which will be the final surviving newspaper to report on the last North American automobile manufacturer to declare bankruptcy.

Mr. de Cosmos sold his newspaper to employees less than five years after launch. An advocate of the colony joining Confederation, he represented Victoria in the House of Commons and also served as British Columbia’s second premier. In the end, he went mad.

Happy 150th birthday, Times Colonist. Here’s to many, many more.

Tom Burgess, baseball player (1927-2008)

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 18, 2008

Tom Burgess had abandoned a dream of playing baseball for a living when his wife urged him to try one last time.

Her encouragement gave birth to a long career as a player, coach and, most notably, an instructor. Mr. Burgess also had two brief stints as a player in the major leagues, a rare Canadian to earn a roster spot in the mid-1950s.

A lackluster performance — he hit an anemic .177 in 104 games — belied a keen baseball mind.

He helped send to the majors legions of young players who benefitted from the skills he taught. Others praised him for his handling of young athletes. Among them was Tom Henke, the fireball reliever of the Toronto Blue Jays, who credited Mr. Burgess with ushering him through the minors.

The coach’s winning personality could convince even the most headstrong athlete to tinker with their batting stance, or alter their positioning in the field.

Like a mechanic who can fine tune an engine to get extra power, Mr. Burgess eliminated the weaknesses that made hitters vulnerable.

A typical case was that of Chito Martinez, a prospect born in what is now Belize, who languished in the minors with a low average. The free-swinging batter considered quitting until the coach eliminated a long, upper-cut swing in favour of a compact stroke that was both shorter and quicker. Mr. Martinez went on to enjoy two productive seasons with the Baltimore Orioles.

For a time, Mr. Burgess was under consideration to become manager of the Texas Rangers of the American League, which, had it happened, would have made him the first Canadian to handle a major-league club since George (Moon) Gibson guided Pittsburgh in 1934.

Despite a lifetime on the diamond, Mr. Burgess considered himself an outsider among the American baseball fraternity.

“To survive in the U.S. being a Canadian,” he said in a 2003 interview, “you’re getting knocked down and getting back up.”

For all his many seasons in flannels and polyester pinstripes, Mr. Burgess did not earn much attention in his homeland, even as a coach for the Baseball Canada’s national junior and senior teams.

“I am the best-kept secret in Canadian baseball,” he once told the Edmonton Journal.

Born to the postmaster of Lambeth, outside London, Thomas Roland Burgess, who would also be known as Tim in his playing days, interrupted high school studies to pursue baseball. He followed success as a peewee by pitching for the London Majors, a semiprofessional team in Ontario’s Major Intercounty circuit. He also played senior-B hockey in winter.

The St. Louis Cardinals signed him to a pro ball contract, assigning him to their Hamilton farm club. He was promoted to Allentown, Penn., and Columbus, Ga., before winding up at Omaha, Neb., after three seasons in the minors.

Mr. Burgess placed himself on the voluntarily retired list to return to London to complete his education.

After three summers, his wife, the former Dorrie Bates, a school teacher, convinced him to take another shot at winning a big-league job.

“I always thought that maybe later on he would wish he had gone back to baseball,” she told Neil MacCarl of the Toronto Star in 1953. “He had gone halfway up the baseball ladder and to quit then seemed silly to me.”

The couple set a two-year limit to the renewed quest.

The 6-foot, 180-pound left-handed outfielder enjoyed a stellar season with the Rochester (N.Y.) Red Wings, hitting .346 with 22 home runs and 93 runs batted-in. He finished second in batting average in the International League in 1953.

The parent St. Louis Cardinals called him up the following season for spot duty. The Redbirds had a solid outfield with rookie Wally Moon, sophomore Rip Repulski, and the veteran Stan Musial, a future Hall of Famer. Mr. Burgess managed just one hit — a double — in 21 at-bats.

He spent six seasons at Rochester, where his solid production on the field and popularity off it earned him the nickname, The People’s Choice.

Another three seasons in the high minors with the Columbus (Ohio) Jets and the Dallas-Fort Worth (Tex.) Rangers won him another chance in the majors.

The Los Angeles Angels were an expansion team in their second season in the American League when they promoted Mr. Burgess to fill a spot at first base. He displayed a deft glove, making only a single error in 35 games, but struggled at the plate, hitting just .196.

Ted Bowsfield, a pitcher born in Vernon, B.C., was also on the roster. He hit .162.

Mr. Burgess completed his playing days with the Richmond Virginians in 1963 before embarking on an odyssey. He managed teams in different leagues on both American coasts, as well as in the Texas and Appalachian Leagues.

He returned to the majors as a third-base coach, working with the New York Mets in 1977 and the Atlanta Braves the following season.

He was fired often and quickly hired by rival teams.

“It’s like politics,” he told the Globe’s Paul Patton in 1985. “If you’re on the right side, good things will happen.”

His regret at the time was not finding work in his homeland.

“I’m a Canadian and I’m sorry neither the Jays nor the (Montreal) Expos ever had a job for me,” he said.

He got his chance to work with homegrown talent with Baseball Canada. Among those whose raw skills he helped refine were Jason Bay and Justin Morneau, whose batting averages today are significantly heftier than that of their mentor.

In 1992, Mr. Burgess was inducted into the Rochester Red Wings’ hall of fame. The Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame at St. Marys, Ont., honoured him the same year.

A decade earlier, Mr. Burgess co-edited a coaching guide to baseball fundamentals. Like all books, it came with a price tag, though the creator was more than willing to share his knowledge for free.

Tom Valcke, president of the Canadian hall, tells a story about the coach’s ceaseless desire to pass on his baseball knowledge. Mr. Burgess was at the head table at a banquet held in Hamilton, the city where he launched his pro career, when approached .at the end of the evening by a prospect seeking tips. The conversation lasted until long after the hall emptied. The information was put to good use, as the prospect, Joey Votto, of Toronto, went on to join the Cincinnati Reds and was runner-up for National League rookie-of-the-year honours announced last month.

Thomas Roland Burgess was born on Sept. 1, 1927, at London, Ont. He died of cancer at Victoria Hospital in that city on Nov. 24. The resident of Lambeth was 81. He leaves a son, Tom Burgess, of St. Petersburg, Fla.; a daughter, Cindy Crawford, of London; a sister, Ruby Astles, of Toledo, Ohio; a brother, Bill Burgess, of London; and, five grandchildren. He was predeceased by his wife, Dorrie (nee Bates), who died in 1994. He was also predeceased by sisters Mildred and Violet.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Treasuring the West Coast's anarchic history

Photograph of Allan Antliff by Deddeda Stemler

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 10, 2008


Camas Books is a busy place.

By day, there’s a children’s free school. By night, teens gather for all-ages gigs featuring ska and punk bands.

Every second Friday is Burning Fort Cinema Movie Night.

On Saturdays, a volunteer from the Devil’s Club Community Apothecary is on hand to answer questions about the contents of the jars in the wooden cupboard that serves as a shared herbal dispensary.

The Victoria Anarchist Reading Circle gathers on Tuesdays. The reading homework for last night’s scheduled meeting was a 16-page essay on the Black Panther Party. Last week they discussed fascism.

Then you have your meetings of the anti-Olympics “No 2010” group, not to mention assorted workshops, benefit concerts, bicycle maintenance demonstrations, and what is billed as a not-so-silent auction.

You wonder how the anarchists ever find the time to smash the state.

The not-for-profit bookstore is operated by a collective. No salaries are paid. Bookkeeping, book ordering and book reshelving is all handled by volunteers. Any revenue from book sales goes back into retaining the space.

The address provided for the store is “Lekwungen territory (colonial jurisdiction of Victoria, B.C.)” The oppressive-reactionary-bourgeois street address is 2590 Quadra St.

Camas Books and Infoshop takes its name from a herb popular with indigenous people, who cooked the bulb to a thick liquid like molasses, or dried and ground it into flour for bread. Camas fields disappeared to grazing cattle brought by settlers. By building neighbourhood autonomy and challenging authority, the collective states, they “envision the camas flower one day being able to blossom forth from beneath the pavement that now restrains it, flourishing on this land once again.”

Among those who helped launch the bookstore a year ago was Allan Antliff, who holds the Canada Research Chair in art history at the University of Victoria. His graduate seminars includes the topic “New York Dada.”

Mr. Antliff, who gives $200 monthly to support the bookstore, has made his own contribution to the shelf of anarchist literature by writing three books. He also donated his personal collection to launch an Anarchist Archive at the university.

“As a historian,” he said, “I was acutely aware that people were not saving their history.”

While researching the modern art movement of the early 20th Century, the professor sought documents seized from Emma Goldman’s Mother Earth magazine. These had been taken by American authorities during the Great War, when the publication’s 8,000 subscribers were investigated and harassed.

Turns out the government destroyed what they had taken.

“I don’t want to see the history of anarchism in Canada pulped by the authorities, or thrown into a garbage bin because they’re moving and don’t have a place to keep it anymore.”

One of the better finds for the Victoria archive came from an editor of the Toronto publication Ecomedia, whose files and correspondence had been gathered because of a court case. The cache was being stored in poor condition in an attic before being donated.

What do donors get for handing over their materials?

“They do what they do because they want to change the world,” Mr. Antliff said. “They get the knowledge that what they’ve done — and the ideas — aren’t going to disappear.”

The archive includes flyers and zines, posters and pamphlets. A stack of newspapers leaves the impression anarchists have black ink for blood. The titles tell the story — “Clash,” “Clamour,” “Class War” are unsubtle calls for strife; “Bulldozer” and “Slingshot” match theory with weaponry; “Endless Struggle” is either a call for never-ending confrontation, or a recognition of the task at hand; “Practical Anarchy” and “Anarcho-Syndicalist Review” promise a less-than-thrilling literary experience; “Strike!” and “Storm Warning!” are exclamatory!; “Demolition Derby” expresses the revolutionary and humourous nature of much anarchist expression.

The political philosophy has deep roots on the West Coast, where a respect for nature and a connection to the indigenous peoples are defining elements. George Woodcock, the prolific writer who in 1962 produced an important overview of anarchism, settled at Saseenos, outside Sooke, before moving permanently to Vancouver after the Second World War. A friend of George Orwell, he also maintained a correspondence with the English anarchist poet and art critic Sir Herbert Read, whose papers are also part of the holdings at the McPherson Library at the University of Victoria. Less literary and more Yippie were the pie-throwing Groucho-Marxists.

Four years ago, Arsenal Pulp Press published “Only A Beginning,” an anarchist anthology edited by Mr. Antliff. Some of the livelier writing is to be found in “Open Road,” which published irregularly from 1976 to 1990. The largest print run was 20,000 copies for an issue dedicated to Bikesheviks, who figured we’d all pedal our way to utopia.

One of the Open Road founders was Bob Sarti, who contributed a short overview to the anthology in which he acknowledged the newspaper’s outsized influence even if the results were thin.

“The environment is still going to hell, racism and authority are flourishing, state-sponsored war never seems to end,” he wrote. “And we really didn’t make much of a difference on the specific stuff we targeted either: Leonard Peltier is still in prison, solitary confinement has not been abolished, our friends got convicted for the Direct Action campaign and sent to prison.”

Still, he found much to cheer in the upcoming generation.

He’d doubtless be impressed by Camas. The anarchists are getting downright organized.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Bill Parnell, miler (1928-2008)

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 5, 2008


A cacophony of honking tugboat horns and screaming ferry whistles greeted Bill Parnell on his return home from the British Empire Games in 1950.

The runner brought with him two shiny souvenirs — a bronze and a gold medal — from the competition at Auckland, New Zealand.

After landing at the airport south of Vancouver, Mr. Parnell was escorted through the city in a motor cavalcade. The ferry across the harbour to his hometown of North Vancouver was adorned with flags and bunting. A parade brought the athletic champion to a reception at which the cheers of 500 high school students was all the louder for their having been given the day off in honour of one of their own.

“This is North Vancouver’s hour of triumph,” Mayor Frank Goldsworthy told the crowd. “Our Bill did it.”

Mr. Parnell did not care for the spotlight. One newspaper described him as being “tall, slow-talking and Gary Cooperish.”

He outran the best milers in the British Empire to claim the gold in a record-setting time.

While that would be his greatest achievement on the track, Mr. Parnell’s standing among fellow athletes was reflected in the bestowing of two great honours. In 1952, he carried the Canadian flag in the Opening Ceremonies of the Helsinki Olympic Games. Two years later, he read the athlete’s oath at the British Empire and Commonwealth Games held across the inlet from his hometown.

It was at those 1954 games that his record was shattered in the most celebrated mile-long foot race in history. The Vancouver competition also marked the end of the running career of one of Canada’s best track athletes in the post-war years.

Born on Valentine’s Day in 1928, Comer William Parnell competed as a high jumper as a junior in high school. He switched disciplines after observing the pace of runners at school meets. He felt he ran as fast. To test himself, each morning he deliberately left home late to try to beat the school bell. After school, he also ran home — uphill all the way.

As a senior, he won the city’s senior high school championship in 1945.

The 6-foot-2, 180-pound athlete had difficulty pacing himself while training for the mile, a problem not solved until after he won an athletic scholarship to Washington State University. A coach at the school at Pullman had a simple solution — Mr. Parnell carried a watch as he ran.

At age 20, he qualified for the Olympic Games at London, where he competed in both the 800- and 1500-metre races. He was eliminated after racing one heat in each event.

He set a Canadian mark in the mile that year with a time of 4 minutes 17 seconds. In 1949, he broke his own standard by placing third at the U.S. Nationals with a time of 4:09.6. The Amateur Athletic Union ranked him third in the world in the 800 metres.

He capped a breakthrough year by being named winner of the Norton H. Crow Memorial Award as Canada’s outstanding amateur athlete of the year in 1949.

The journey to New Zealand for the British Empire Games was a marathon. Canada’s team boarded the liner Aorangi in Vancouver harbour on Dec. 22, 1949. The athletes celebrated Christmas and New Year’s while on board, the holidays interrupting the monotony of a voyage lasting nearly three weeks.

Aboard ship was a backstroke specialist from Victoria named Joan Morgan. The swimmer and the miler, who spent many hours in the British Columbia capital training under coach Bruce Humber, would later marry.

Four days before his 22nd birthday, Mr. Parnell took to a soggy grass track at Eden Park at Auckland before 40,000 spectators to face the empire’s greatest milers. The favourite, Len Eyre of England, established a scorching pace over the first three laps. He was followed by Maurice Marshall, running on home soil.

Mr. Parnell ran freely in third place, having pulled away from the rest of the field. A move to grab second place was repulsed by the New Zealander about a furlong from the finish line. As the runners prepared to turn the final corner, found himself trailing the Englishman by 15 yards. Mr. Parnell made his final, desperate and decisive move.

The Canadian’s closing kick closed the gap. He passed both leading runners to breast the tape five yards ahead of his rivals. The time — 4:11 flat — established an empire record. He was six-tenths of a second faster than the previous mark.

“The race went exactly as we planned it,” Mr. Parnell said. “We hoped Eyre would forge his way to the front to enable me to get a final sprint at him and to my glee he did so.”

Auckland Star sports editor E.H. Doherty praised the Canadian’s strategy.

“It is possible Eyre threw away the race by over-confidence,” he wrote. “It is certain he received the biggest fright of his life when the Canadian came pounding up in the run to the tape.”

At a modest home half a world away, the Parnell family gathered around a radio console atop which had been placed a son’s photographic portrait.

“Mother was the one that got excited,” Alfred Parnell, speaking of his wife, told a visiting reporter. “She had her ear glued to the shortwave. When Bill came in first she could hardly speak.”

The runner may have learned a valuable lesson four days earlier. He had led the 880-yard race in the stretch when he was passed by teammate Jack Hutchins, who then was passed near the finish line by John Parlett of England. Mr. Hutchins took the silver, Mr. Parnell the bronze. The latter had been boxed in on the second lap of the race, a frustrating position he avoided in the mile.

The eight-week sojourn ended with a long flight home. The athletes landed at Vancouver airport to be greeted by local mayors and other dignitaries. Mr. Parnell joined fellow gold-medal winner Dr. George Athans (obituary, March 2, 2007), a tower diver, in riding in an open car adorned with a scarlet banner proclaiming, “Our champs.” They were lead car in a cavalcade including such other competitors as the cyclists Lorne Atkinson and Johnny Millman, the boxers Eddie Haddad and Len Walters (obituary, April 2), as well as Mr. Humber, who coached Mr. Parnell.

(The return to home soil was not without tears. Peter Salmon, a Victoria swimmer, was informed on his arrival of his mother’s death earlier that day.)

When he spoke at his former high school, Mr. Parnell said he was overcome by the moment.

“This welcome does something to you,” he said. “I just don’t seem to be able to talk.”

Two years later, he enjoyed the privilege of carrying the Canadian flag into the Olympiastadion in Helsinki during the Opening Ceremonies of the 1952 Olympics. He often described his role as flagbearer as being his proudest moment as an athlete.

He qualified for the semifinals in both the 800- and 1500-metre races before being eliminated.

His status led to another honour closer to home. On July 30, 1954, he stood atop a structure called the Tribune of Honour on the infield grass at new Empire Stadium in Vancouver for another opening ceremony. After an air force fly-past, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, followed by the release of hundreds of pigeons and the firing of a five-gun artillary salute. Mr. Parnell held a corner of the flag in his left hand. He recited, as captain of the host team and on behalf of all the athletes, an oath: “We declare that we will take part in the British Empire and Commonwealth Games of 1954 in the spirit of true sportsmanship, recognizing the rules which govern them and desirous of participating in them for the honour of our Commonwealth and Empire and for the glory of sport.” With that, the greatest sporting event in British Columbia history began.

The official souvenir program of the games featured Mr. Parnell as a star alongside mile rivals John Landy of Australia and Dr. Roger Bannister of England.

The much-awaited showdown came on Aug. 7, the final day of competition. Two days earlier, Mr. Parnell came fifth in his heat, missing by one slot a spot in the final. “I was disappointed that I didn’t run harder,” he told the Globe many years later. “Or couldn’t run harder.” On the day of the big race, he flashed his athlete’s credentials to grab a prized piece of turf on the stadium’s grass infield not far from where he had taken the oath.

The race did not disappoint. Dr. Bannister called on a kick along the final straightaway to pass on the right as Mr. Landy glanced over his left shoulder for his pursuer. The Englishman crossed the finish line in 3:58.8. Mr. Landy also broke the four-minute barrier, earning the race the name the Miracle Mile.

Mr. Parnell’s four-year-old empire mark had been shattered by an astounding 12.2 seconds.

He cheered the runners, knowing he would be hanging up his cleats and picking up chalk as a school teacher. His competitive running career was at an end.

Mr. Parnell taught physical education at North Vancouver schools until his retirement, after which he continued as a coach. He was honoured earier this year for a half-century of coaching.

He was inducted into the British Columbia Sports Hall of Fame in 1970 and the Canadian Olympic Hall of Fame in 1977.

Over the years, his accomplishments were forgotten and his achievements overshadowed. He kept his medal, four years older but the same colour as Dr. Bannister’s, in a drawer at his home.

Some years ago, he reminisced how techniques for his students were different than he had known.

“We had our first child and I was trying to train myself, which never works out as well,” he told the sports columnist Archie McDonald in 1990. “We didn’t know as much about running in Canada as we do now. When I think of what high school kids do now compared to what I did I wonder how I managed. We didn’t know much about interval training back then. I guess we ran for fun.”

Comer William Parnell was born on Feb. 14, 1928, at Vancouver, B.C. He died on Sept. 6. He was 80. He leaves his wife, Joan (nee Morgan); two sons; two daughters; seven grandchildren; and, two brothers. He was predeceased by a sister earlier this year.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

George Morrison, hockey player (1948-2008)

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 2, 2008

George Morrison knew triumph on the ice of a hockey arena. He won a championship in college before forging a professional career lasting seven seasons. He also enjoyed the honour of having his stick requested by the Hockey Hall of Fame.

For all that, a certain segment of hockey fans preferred to remember him for an odd incident involving an untimely hunger pang, a hot dog, and an on-ice collision.

The skinny left-winger — he carried just 170 pounds on a 6-foot-1 frame — first won notice as a fleet skater and flashy sniper with the University of Denver. He seemed too callow to be playing so rough a sport. “Morrison has the fresh-scrubbed look and haystack haircut of a farm kid who should be carrying a pitchfork instead of a curved stick,” Sports Illustrated magazine noted.

The Pioneers were a dominant power in American college hockey under the guidance of Murray Armstrong. The Saskatchewan-born coach was seeking his second consecutive national title and fifth overall when Mr. Morrison joined the Colorado school’s team as a freshman for the 1968-69 season.

The Pioneers registered 26 wins against just six defeats. Mr. Morrison recorded 40 goals and 18 assists on a roster including such future National Hockey League players as defenceman Keith Magnuson and forward Craig Patrick.

In the final game of the championship tournament, the Pioneers faced Cornell University and star goaltender Ken Dryden, who would go on to become one of the greatest NHL goalies with the Montreal Canadiens. On this day, however, Denver persevered 4-3, with Mr. Morrison scoring his team’s second goal.

The Pioneers did not repeat as champs in 1969-70, although Mr. Morrison scored 57 points in 32 games in his sophomore campaign. He was dubbed Super Soph.

“He is at his best around the crease,” Sports Illustrated reported. “When traffic gets heavy he looks like Plastic Man, bending and twisting away from big, menacing defenders.”

In his brief university career, he was twice named a Western Collegiate Hockey Association first-team all-star and he was twice named an All-American. He led his association in scoring in both seasons.

Perhaps because of his pacific nature — he earned just 24 penalty minutes in two seasons of collegiate hockey — Mr. Morrison went unselected in the NHL amateur draft. Despite the initial lack of interest, the St. Louis Blues signed him as a free agent days before the puck dropped to start of the 1970-71 season.

His rookie campaign got a boost late in the season when St. Louis acquired Garry Unger from Detroit, where general manager Ned Harkness (obituary, Sept. 30) objected to the young player’s refusal to trim his hair. Mr. Unger centred a line with Mr. Morrison and Wayne Connelly, contributing to a strong 7-2-3 finish to the season.

Mr. Morrison scored 15 goals and added 10 assists. He was named the club’s rookie of the year.

His production lagged the following season and he ran afoul of the Blues’ management. The team traded him to the Buffalo Sabres and, when he refused to report to their minor-league team at Rochester, N.Y., he was suspended.

He sat out the remainder of the season rather than ride the bus around the American Hockey League circuit.

Meanwhile, a group of businessmen, frustrated by the cartel-like operations of the NHL, launched a rival major league. The World Hockey Association began raiding NHL rosters, offering players better salaries and freedom from the whims of managerial edicts about personal grooming.

The Minnesota Fighting Saints signed Mr. Morrison as the club’s eighth player in June, 1972. His former teammate, Mr. Connelly, had earlier signed with Minnesota. Both men were represented by Morden Lazarus, a lawyer who at the time said he was brushing up on his knowledge of contract and anti-trust law because NHL owners were threatening legal action to retain their contracted employees.

On Jan. 7, 1973, a WHA record crowd and a television audience watching on CBS witnessed the national debut of the new St. Paul Civic Center, a $23-million arena notable for dasher boards of clear acrylic. The Sunday afternoon game opened with a goal by Mr. Morrison against Winnipeg’s Joe Daley.

Mr. Morrison delivered the greatest single-game performance of his career in the final game of the 1973-74 regular season. The victims were the visiting Vancouver Blazers, much to the delight of an appreciative hometown crowd.

At 15:42 of the second period, he scored on a powerplay to give the Fighting Saints a 5-0 lead. Fourteen seconds later, he split the Vancouver defence before snapping a shot high over the shoulder of netminder George Gardner (obituary, Dec. 4, 2006). A third goal came at 16:25, the hat-trick in 43 seconds setting a WHA record. All three goals were assisted by Mr. Connelly and Bob MacMillan.

(Bill Mosienko of the NHL’s Chicago Black Hawks established the major-league record by notching three goals in 21 seconds against the New York Rangers on March 23, 1952.)

Nor was Mr. Morrison’s work for the night complete. He pushed yet another puck past the hapless Blazer goalie in the third period for his fourth marker of the night. It was also his 40th goal of the season. Mr. Morrison had never before scored more than two goals in a pro game.

The stick he used for the feat wound up in the collection of the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto.

After another productive season, the Saints traded him to the Calgary Cowboys in a multi-player deal in which they acquired Johnny (Pieface) McKenzie, a one-time rodeo rider from Alberta.

Mr. Morrison spent his final two seasons as a pro in Calgary, scoring 36 goals.

A respectable career as a journeyman with one brilliant campaign has mostly been ignored. However, his role in a bizarre bit of hockey lore has been retold in such trivia books as Floyd Connor’s “Hockey’s Most Wanted” and on such Websites as Joe Pelletier’s

While playing with the Blues in his rookie season, Mr. Morrison found himself riding the bench as the clock ticked down in a game against the Los Angeles Kings. Figuring his work was done for the night, he sent an usher in search of a hot dog, surreptitiously swapping one of his sticks for the snack.

He snuck a bite whenever the play took the coach’s attention away from his direction.

He was still chewing when coach Scotty Bowman unexpectedly ordered him onto the ice. Not wishing to be discovered violating an unwritten rule of hockey etiquette by eating on the bench, he shoved the remnants of the sausage down the cuff of one of his hockey gloves.

He was not on the ice for long before being bodychecked by an opposing player. The collision sent flying bits of bun, splashes of condiment, and a half-eaten hot dog.

Mr. Morrison was involved in sports management after leaving hockey. In 2003, he helped bring the Alberta Classic golf tournament to Calgary as a Nationwide Tour event.
Midway through last season, he offered his services as a volunteer coach for the Dutchwoman at Union College at Schenectady, N.Y.

An inoperable brain tumour was diagnosed before the start of this season. His sudden decline and death stunned the team.

“He was everything to our team — a leader, a mentor, a teacher, a father figure and a coach,” said head coach Claudia Asano.

The Dutchwomen held a moment of silence before the puck dropped against visiting Qunnipiac in a game played just two days after Mr. Morrison’s death. The hush was followed by a stirring round of applause.

George Harold Morrison was born in Toronto on Christmas Eve, 1948. He died on Nov. 12 at his home at Schenectady, N.Y. He was 59. He leaves his partner, Ellen Johnston; daughters, Sloane Junge and Keri Lauxman, both of Kansas City, Mo.; parents Harold and Margaret Morrison, of Fort Erie, Ont.; brother Robert Morrison and sister Cathy Gaglia, both of Toronto.

How a new calling for service grew from a seed

Tom Oshiro photographed by Deddeda Stemler

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
December 3, 2008


Folks greeted the small figure by patting his back, or by pumping his hand.

“Bless you, Pastor Tom,” said one woman, looking him in the eye after delivering a hug. “We prayed for you last night.”

It is a busy time at the Mustard Seed. The weather is cold and Christmas approaches. Tis the season for fundraising, as those with are asked to share with those without. Seventy cents of every dollar given to the charity will arrive in these next weeks.

On Friday, a surfboard store is offering discounts in exchange for food. The Salmon Kings hockey team has set up bins for donations at the entrances to their arena, which happens to carry the name of a grocery chain.

There will be a truck parade and food drives and charity events.

In 11 days, the parade grounds inside the nearby Armoury will be filled with paper-covered tables on which roast turkey and mashed potatoes will be served to people who have already begun to anticipate the upcoming feast.

A familiar figure at these Yuletide events is the Rev. Tom Oshiro, a gentle, moon-faced man whose ready grin makes him look like he’s permanently squinting.

The constant need to replenish the larder, which feeds hundreds of hungry citizens throughout the year, can so dominate the discussion that the pastor thought it best to offer a visitor a reminder.

“The Mustard Seed is a church, not a food bank,” he said.

The street ministry opened a generation ago with a prayer closet in a downtown store. The needs of the underprivileged are so great that it is now housed in a former marine garage, where it offers food and clothing banks, as well as offering such services as counseling, advocacy, and prison visits. A 32-acre farm outside Duncan, called the Hope Farm Healing Centre, provides recovering drug addicts a working life on a spread with livestock, orchards and vegetable crops.

The old garage is where services are held, although the room today is filling with donations. Tables in the centre of the room are covered by mounds of discarded pants and blouses and hoodies. Two blue work shirts, still wrapped in cellophane, carry a gas-station logo.

The clinic, a small room not much bigger than a closet, was an untidy mess of tins of formula and medicinal flotsam. A layer of order could be seen behind the disarray.

In the entryway, coffee and carrot cake was being served to visitors. At the food-bank window, a tiny, big-eyed girl in a pink shirt, who looked a lot like Cindy Lou Who from Dr. Suess’s Grinch tale, reached for an overhead box of milk cartons certainly weighing as much as herself. Rev. Oshiro gently warned her away.

Seventeen years ago, as he neared retirement age, the pastor accepted an invitation to help out at Mustard Seed. It has been a consuming passion ever since, an unexpected grace note to conclude a rich life.

Rev. Oshiro wrote a story in the church’s current newsletter about his own background.

“In my lifetime,” he wrote, “I need to confess, I have never known abject poverty.”

He began working at age 9, delivering newspapers. His father, George Oshiro, had come from Okinawa to British Columbia to work on the railroad. An educated man, he soon handled bookkeeping and became foreman of a work crew. With his wife Tsuiru, he settled in Kenora, Ont., where he worked at the Canadian Pacific Railway roundhouse.

Tom was the sixth of seven children. The newspaper gig was followed by work as a caddy. During the war, his family was ordered, as enemy aliens, to stay within the city limits. Two older brothers circumvented the restriction, while also disproving the accusation, by enlisting in the armed forces.

Tom got a job at a 7-Up bottling plant, then joined his father at the roundhouse as lightup foreman, igniting the firebox so locomotives could return to duty.

He used an ax to shop down trees for a hydro right of way, and cut railway ties at a sawmill. He hauled oat sacks filled with stoker coal, building strength in his legs that helped him win a spot as quarterback for the high school team, no small feat for a young man just 5-foot-6.

As a schoolboy curler, his rink came within a few points of representing Northern Ontario at the Macdonald Brier.

Though his parents were not yet converted, he felt the calling.

“In Grade 12, I began to realize as a Christian my main mission was to follow Christ. I had trouble with that because I was having too much fun in high school. Eventually, I realized my life was to be act of obedience.”

After studies at McMaster University in Hamilton, the Baptists assigned him to a pastorage for the Rainy River District. At Emo, a town across the river from Minnesota, he met Vietta Gingrich, a nurse.

The couple married, moving to Southern Ontario in 1966, where Rev. Oshiro began his ministry at the King Street Baptist Church in Preston (now Cambridge). After a decade, he moved to the Baptist church’s headquarters in Toronto, from which he was assigned to be area minister for British Columbia, a high-ranking position he held for nearly five years.

After another six years with a Victoria congregation, Rev. Oshiro accepted the invitation to help out at Mustard Seed.

“I felt the pulsating experience of fellowship, of people who really wanted to get involved in people’s lives, and to serve the poor,” he said.

His wife, known as Vi, worked as lead organizer for the big Christmas banquet. She also offered nursing help from the closet-sized clinic, which she kept tidy and orderly until taking sick three months ago.

She died just before dawn on a chilly morning a fortnight ago.

At the Mustard Seed yesterday, the pastor accepted condolences from volunteers and visitors. He will be flying east today to attend a memorial service to be held Friday at the very church in which he was once the minister.

He will return in time to help organize the banquet. He would not miss it for the world.

As Rev. Oshiro likes to say, the first Christmas was the picture of poverty.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

William Allister, PoW and painter (1919-2008)

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
November 29, 2008

An actor, artist, novelist, filmmaker, and scriptwriter, William Allister’s creative impulses were stifled but not extinguished during 44 months of wartime mistreatment by Japanese captors.

Imprisonment demanded painstaking ingenuity. A pilfered swatch of canvas, a paintbrush improvised from a whittled stick and shoe-brush bristles, and a smear of crankcase oil secreted from an Japanese truck were the materials that allowed him to create surreptitious paintings of his Hong Kong concentration camp.

Camp overlords were known by nicknames, some hinting at their particular cruelties — Piston Fists, Little Napoleon, the Kamloops Kid. The latter was a notorious tormentor whose childhood experience of racism in British Columbia had left him with a dark heart and evil intent.

Mr. Allister suffered much deprivation and several beatings. Once, a Japanese officer unsheathed a sword, threatening to cut his head off. Mr. Allister’s defiant riposte — “Tell him my boss doesn’t want his men working without their heads” — was deliberately ignored by a fellow prisoner serving as translator, likely saving his life.

The brutal treatment brewed a hatred still simmering more than three decades after his release. Memories of punishments endured and friends lost to treatable diseases could not be erased.

“Starvation, beatings, illness, insults, psychological wounds,” he wrote in a memoir. “Hostility and anger ran deep in my blood.”

In 1983, the impulse to resolve these feelings lured him to the Japanese shipyard where he had been forced to labour in appalling conditions.

During a month-long visit, he immersed himself in a culture of a people he had come to loathe but in whom he now found much to praise. A son of one of the camp guards spent a week as a guide in Tokyo. At a precise moment, as a ceremonial dancer removed one kimono after another, Mr. Allister felt his animosity evaporate.

The journey unlocked a vision of how he could reconcile a simmering hostility with a new-found admiration.

“As an artist, I would paint toward peace, paint as I’d never painted before, stretching to the limits, soaring, exploring new forms, new harmonies,” he wrote. “Visions of giant canvasses marrying East and West unfolded before me.”

Remarkable for their bright colours and expression of an exuberant spirit, his works can be found in collections around the world. He had more than 30 one-man gallery shows.

This transformation became the subject of a 1995 Canadian documentary film. “The Art of Compassion” offers parallel portraits of the artist and a Japanese-Canadian architect who had been interned during the Second World War. Both men found inspiration from their painful wartime history.

Mr. Allister detailed his own imprisonment in “Where Life and Death Hold Hands,” a 1989 memoir remarkable for recapturing the stilted life of prison camp in which the veneer of civilization has been all but stripped away.

“Forget — no. But forgive — yes, if forgiving could encompass disapproval. To really understand was to forgive, to grasp the nature of the illness, the historic path of the virus in the bloodstream of a nation,” he wrote. “Open the gates of war anywhere, and hellish monsters roam the earth.”

Born to Ukrainian Jewish immigrants at Benito, Man., a village on the Saskatchewan border, he grew up in Montreal, where he graduated from Baron Byng High School. He had major roles in productions by the Little Theatre, a prominent amateur group affiliated with the Young Men’s Hebrew Association.

“Growing up in the hectic and colourful Montreal of the Thirties,” he said, “I was swept up in the stormy winds of art, politics and racial conflict.”

In April, 1939, Mr. Allister won a regional acting award at the Dominion Drama Festival. He portrayed a shell-shocked veteran in the one-act play “Road of Poplars.” He could not have known his own promising life would be consumed by another dreadful war in a few months.

Having “tasted the sweetness of early recognition,” as he put it, the young actor joined a touring repertory company, performing zany comedies for audiences in the Catskills. The Village Vanguard in Greenwich Village offered a venue for satirical sketches.

With steady stage work and having had performances aired on the CBC radio network, Mr. Allister pursued advance studies in drama in New York City.

He abandoned his classes to return to Canada in 1941, enlisting in the Royal Canadian Corps of Signals.

He underwent basic training at Huntington, Que., and Debert, N.S. An arduous regimen left him capable of transmitting eight words per minute in Morse code, a woeful rate about half the top speed of even a third-class signals operator.

He sailed to Asia aboard the liner SS Awatea after volunteering for a mission in which he joined other raw recruits in bolstering the garrison in the isolated British colony of Hong Kong. The thrill of so exotic a posting, in which the brazenness of the gambling and prostitution shocked even a Montrealer, was soon lost with the Japanese invasion.
In the chaos of the attack, he witnessed his own side summarily execute a coolie suspected of being a fifth columnist.

Surrounded by the enemy, he fired back with his rifle.

“A figure was dead centre in my sights ... silhouetted against the sky as I pulled the trigger. He dropped. The thought vaguely registered that I had just killed a man. And so (itx)easily.(enditx)”

He compared the experience to a duck-shoot booth at a country fair.

The hunter soon enough became the hunted.

Other comrades chose suicide over surrender. In retrospect, it might have been the wiser decision.

The Canadians and other allies captured began to waste from a starvation diet and the subsequent diseases that thinned the ranks — dysentery, diphtheria, beri-beri, cholera.
Beatings were common, and delivered on whims so as to be almost unpredictable. The prisoners bravely expressed their outrage through vulgar though dangerous stunts, the most notorious of which involved urinating into a teapot used by a man they called Little Napoleon.

The Allister family in the Mile End neighbourhood of Montreal endured a year from the fall of Hong Kong before learning the fate of their son. The capture of the signalman warranted a brief article in the Canadian Jewish Review.

Some time later, Mr. Allister received mail from back home.

“I opened the letter with trembling fingers and stared uncomprehendingly at the first sentence: ‘We were overjoyed to know you are a prisoner of war.’ Overjoyed! There I sat — in shit up to the eyeballs, half dead, crawling with lice, exhausted, starved, disease ridden, jolted by electric feet, a bloody walking skeleton — and they were overjoyed? Had they all gone balmy? It took a while to see it their way.”

In January, 1943, about 700 prisoners were ordered into the hold of a rusty freighter. The men used buckets as latrines, were fed rancid rice, and got only scant seconds of fresh air on deck in the four-day journey to Japan. They were to be slave labourers at the Nippon Kokan Shipyards at Kawasaki.

The men filled out forms detailing their civilian employment. The wily Mr. Allister listed librarian and painter. The unlucky translation of the latter placed him “on a thin plank suspended over the Pacific Ocean, painting the side of a ship.”

At one point, his true calling became known to his captors, one of whom established Mr. Allister in a stockroom with a supply of fresh paints and canvases. Happy to be painting and not eager to return to the deadening monotony of meaningless work, Mr. Allister painted with deliberation, calling on his showman’s instincts to turn his procrastination into a performance.

The ruse ended when the would-be patron realized the painting depicted the prisoners as kindly and their jailers as fiends. The canvas was smashed to the ground and the painter ordered back onto the scaffolding.

In March, 1945, he was moved to another camp that was “decrepit, small, uninviting, in a coal yard on the outskirts of Tokyo beside a rail ramp.” Only good fortune and a timely end to the war prevented them from being bombed by their own side.

Mr. Allister learned of the end of the war with the Emperor’s announcement of a surrender. The odds were just as good the guards were prepared to execute their charges. Six days passed before an Allied aircraft flew overhead. The prisoners cheered and shouted, waving bedsheets while using mirrors to reflect sunlight to attract attention. The pilot dipped his wings in acknowledgement. Mr. Allister remembered it as “the most magnificent symbolic salute ever received.”

The memoir offers an unsparing account of his own behaviour in those lawless days, as he joined colleagues in search of prostitutes. They entered a factory staffed by women workers, most of whom fled in fear. Mr. Allister confronted a woman in her small quarters. When she pushed past him, however, he did nothing to restrain her and returned to camp, having contemplated, but not committed, a crime.

In his favour, he saved three young Japanese guards from being executed by a trigger-happy American soldier.

Mr. Allister kept a diary throughout his ordeal, even though detection of the forbidden notes would mean a beating, or worse. Some was lost when he absentmindedly left a jacket behind in a latrine for a few moments. The rest did not survive when a friend nonchalantly threw the pages into the ocean on the way home.

In 1946, he moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career suspended by the war. He took bit parts in such movies as “Berlin Express” and “Joe Palooka in the Big Fight.” He did not stay long, finding “the jungle values of Hollywood were lower than the jungle values of prison camp.”

He turned to writing and painting, earning a living as a commercial artist and scriptwriter in New York. He composed a first draft of a novel in a Brooklyn graveyard, a rare place of solitude for a budding author with a young family — he had married a model from Ottawa — in a rumbling metropolis. A stint as an executive for a Montreal advertising agency financed a decade of revisions.

The completed book, “A Handful of Rice,” published in London by Secker & Warburg in 1961, describes the tribulations of Canadian prisoners captured at Hong Kong. The men endure the tortures of their captors and the dangerous selfishness of their own officers. The novel, which won a minor literary prize, was translated into Dutch and Norwegian.

Mr. Allister moved his family to San Miguel de Allende in 1962, seeking in Mexico to explore an abstract style. He proved to be prolific and his works popular, he once told the author John Virtue, generating jealousy among more established painters, though he himself did not think much of his own efforts.

“They weren’t too good, but they were all different, experimental. ‘This is the kind of stuff we’ve been looking for,’ people told me. Unfortunately, I outsold all the pros, the seasoned artists and teachers.”

While in Mexico, he completed a second novel, “Time to Unmask the Clowns,” which went unpublished.

The Allisters were also the subject of a short film by Jack Zolov that aired on the CBC television program “Focus.”

He returned to Canada before the decade ended, writing film scripts and radio plays, as well as documentaries. He won an Author’s Award in 1986.

The return journey to Japan resulted in the publication of his vivid memoir in 1989. The Globe critic William French praised the book, which he said “offers graphic evidence of the corrupting influence of war on traditional moral and ethical values, and affirms the remarkable resilience of the human spirit.”

“Where Life and Death Hold Hands” won a prize for the promotion of intercultural relations. The memoir was translated into Japanese in 2001.

Mr. Allister was active in the Hong Kong Veterans Commemorative Association, where he would be joined by Jan Solecki, an associate professor emeritus from the University of British Columbia. Mr. Solecki, who had been born in Inner Mongolia to a Russian mother and a Polish father, had been an artillery gunner when captured at Hong Kong. His spirit in prison camp inspired Mr. Allister to not give up hope.

Mr. Allister’s home in the Tsawwassen neighbourhood of the Vancouver suburb of Delta, about a block from the United States border at Point Roberts, provided a peaceful setting for contemplation, including the frequent presence of eagles.

His paintings received wide praise, including a showing at the Canadian Embassy in Tokyo, a building designed by Raymond Moriyama, the architect featured in “The Art of Compassion” documentary with Mr. Allister.

“Striking from across the room, Allister’s canvases first apear to be sizzling Zen calligraphy,” Robert Amos, a painter and art critic for the Victoria Times Colonist, wrote of a 2003 show. “As you approach nearer, his free play with colour kicks in. Up close, you’ll find a wealth of narrative and illustrative detail worked into the imagery.”

Some of his prison camp paintings survived the war. Two works, one depicting a Japanese sentry and the other a ship sunk in Hong Kong harbour, were sewn inside the pant leg of John Burton, a fellow prisoner from Toronto. A daughter took ownership after his death. They now hang on the living-room wall of her home in Prince Edward Island, a silent reminder of beauty amidst depair.

William Allister was born Oct. 5, 1919, at Benito, Man. He died on Nov. 2 at his home at Delta, B.C. He was 89. He leaves his wife, Mona (nee Gurland); daughters Dorrie and Ada; and, a granddaughter. He was predeceased by two brothers and three sisters.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Prolific writer chronicles big trouble in little city

Mark Leiren-Young photographed by Don Denton

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
November 26, 2008


Mark Leiren-Young finds trouble. Or, rather, trouble finds him.

He writes a radio play exploring racial attitudes and is accused of racism.

He writes a stage play about Shakespeare and censorship and anti-Semitism and not everyone gets the point.

He writes political satires and we all know how satire is a universal language of respect and understanding.

So, you might be forgiven for thinking he has adopted as his first name the adjective controversial, as in “controversial playwright,” or “controversial political satirist.”

Mr. Leiren-Young is a one-time reporter, so he knows controversial is newspaper code word for “this is a nuanced and complicated issue about which I will not pass judgement and besides that single word does a lot of work on my behalf and might even get this story on the front page.”

He did not spend too long in the low-paying ghetto of community newspapering before finding less lucrative work pounding out plays and scripts. Happily, he also has many gigs writing for television, which he composes on his preferred midnight-to-dawn shift.

He has just published his first book, which is to be launched tonight at Biz Books in Vancouver.

The book is titled, "Never Shoot a Stampede Queen.” It is subtitled, “A Rookie Reporter in the Cariboo.” It is published by Heritage House in paperback and costs $19.95.

It is going to be controversial.

The book should have been titled, “Never Shoot a Smart-aleck Writer.”

Mr. Leiren-Young — and after this let’s dispense with the double-barreled surname and go with the Hyphen moniker with which he was tagged at his student newspaper — is fair, honest and accurate in describing the good citizenry of the Cariboo. Which is to say it might not be such a good idea to stand behind him should he ever again visit Williams Lake, as the city comes across as the Wild West mixed with Capone-era Chicago with a soupcon of Jim Crow Deep South segregation and an unsavory dash of perversion.

And that’s just in the first chapter.

Hyphen is not without sympathy for the Cariboo. He knows he is the fish-out-of-water. “Apparently I had the only car in town,” he writes. “Everyone else had a pickup.” He is surprised to find that the annual stampede not only has a dress code calling for Western wear but that such an edict is enforced. The long-haired, theatre-loving, big-city environmentalist is shocked to discover Ducks Unlimited is a hunter’s group.

Soon after graduating from the University of Victoria with a bachelor of fine arts in theatre and creative writing — “recognized in better restaurants worldwide as a waiter’s degree” — Hyphen is lured by penury into entertaining a job offer from the Williams Lake Tribune. He accepts. Then, he looks on a map to find the city.

He arrives in town after midnight, stopping at a combination gas bar and convenience store, the only business still open at the hour. Three police cruisers are parked out front and he figures this is the local hangout. Instead, he learns the joint has suffered yet another armed robbery. The young female clerk pronounces Williams Lake to be the crime capital of the province.

He quotes her in his debut story. She says she did not give him permission (though she helpfully spells her name). The police are unhappy that he has not waited for their press release.

In short order, the new arrival has the city in an uproar.

“The cops wanted to shoot me, my bosses thought I was a Bolshevik, and a local lawyer warned me that some people I was writing about might try to test the strength of my skull with a steel pipe. What more could any young reporter hope for from his real job?”

What more? Among the stories he covered — a train derailment involving a load of toxic chemicals; three deaths from a ranch shoot-out involving a mad trapper; incensed relatives of beauty-pageant contestants (hence the book title); a manslaughter trial following a knifing death of a liquor store panhandler; the mysterious crash of a Piper Navajo, the pilot disappearing into thin air like D.B. Cooper; a female defendant in an assault case offering as her defence the statement, “The bitch deserved it” (“It felt less like a criminal trial,” Hyphen writes, “than an episode of Jerry Springer with Canadian accents”); another trial continuing even though the accused brings with him a homemade pipe bomb, which the judge, known for wearing cowboy boots beneath his silks (itx)orders be kept in the courtroom(enditx); and, a union drive in his own newsroom for which he received threats.

After 10 months, Hyphen pulled the plug.

These days, he wears his hair even longer, as it cascades well past his shoulders. With his beard, he looks like Ian McKellen as Gandalf were Gandalf not so white-haired. He remains boyish and enthusiastic, even when the intent of his work is misconstrued, as happened with the play “Shylock” and CBC Radio’s “Dim Sum Diaries.”

He is prolific, too. Not only does he perform a satirical cabaret as one-half of the comedy troupe Local Anxiety, but he has also recently wrote, produced and directed “The Green Chain,” his first feature film, about the debate over the forests (“Nothing is Ever Clear Cut”). At the end of each month, he takes a skewed look at current events for the Vancouver-based webzine TheTyee.

His old newspaper has yet to review the memoir. (Kamloops This Week called it “221 pages of rip-roarin’ Cariboo craziness that you simply won’t be able to put down.”)

Surely, though, Hyphen has taken comedic license to exaggerate life in Williams Lake (Official city motto: Moving Forward).

So, I moseyed over to the Tribune’s Website to check out the big news of the week.

The headline on the most-read story: Clerks threatened with bear spray in robbery.

The female clerks at the Handi-Mart convenience store on McKinnon Road described the perps as three young males in hoodies. They wore black bandannas over their faces. They demanded cash and cigarettes.

They fled on foot. Likely because they were too young to drive.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Bad News Bilodeau, hockey enforcer (1955-2008)

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
November 25, 2008

A tough and fearless hockey player, Gilles Bilodeau created mayhem whenever he stepped onto the ice.

He punched like a heavyweight and he wielded a hockey stick like a woodman’s axe, tripping faster rivals and clubbing tough opponents.

Big, beefy hands rarely managed to push the puck into the net, but he was never employed for his scoring prowess.

An extensive rap sheet included a ridiculous number of fights and misconducts.

To suit up against Mr. Bilodeau demanded a gut check. Early in his career in his native Quebec, he earned such nicknames as Tarzan and Zombie. When the Toronto Toros of the World Hockey Association promoted him from the minors, the team unveiled him as Bad News Bilodeau, a fitting nickname for a hockey enforcer.

In hockey’s lexicon, a goon can also be known as a policeman, for it is his responsibility to protect smaller, more skilled players by enforcing the sport’s Biblical code of a slash for a slash, an elbow for an elbow.

Mr. Bilodeau played a central role in a notorious incident remembered today as the Thanksgiving Massacre.

On another occasion, he could only be subdued after police sprayed him with mace. When he appeared in court, a judge compared him to a bum.

As is so often the case with tough guys, Mr. Bilodeau was a kind and law-abiding presence as long as he was not wearing a hockey sweater.

He was the third of nine children born to dairy farmers at St-Prime, Que. Even in winter, his mother locked the door to the farmhouse, forcing her rambunctious sons to either play in the barn, or skate on the frozen ponds of their Saguenay farm.

As a young man, the 6-foot-1, 220-pound left winger played major junior hockey for the Sorel Eperviers, a team whose fans, many of whom laboured in the shipbuilding industry, preferred a robust style of play. Mr. Bioldeau’s muscular presence was reflected in frequent appearances on the score sheet, more often than not for time served in the penalty box.

In 1975, the Toros selected the hard-nosed player No. 122 overall in the league’s amateur draft. The teams in the more established National Hockey League did not draft him at all.

Mr. Bilodeau made his professional debut with the minor league Beauce Jaros, based at Saint-Georges, Que. His name quickly became synonymous with fighting in the North American Hockey League, a circuit known for bench-clearing brawls and mayhem both on and off the ice.

The team’s playing coach, Gypsy Joe Hardy, offered a gentlemanly presence on a team with more than a few scofflaws.

Mr. Bilodeau led the league in penalty minutes, accumulating a stunning 451 minutes in just 58 games. He spent the equivalent of more than seven full games contemplating his transgressions in the penalty box. The eight goals and 17 assists he recorded, which would be the highest season totals of his career, seemed an afterthought.

He had been with the Jaros for about a month when a game against the Mohawk Valley Comets at Utica, N.Y., had to be suspended after just two periods of play. A fight-filled game ended in a free-for-all brawl that Comets general manager Brian Conacher described as a “riot on the ice.”

The league fined Mr. Bilodeau $250, adding a three-game suspension.

Later that month, as he served yet another suspension, Mr. Bilodeau became embroiled in a fight that would land him in court. He was sitting in the stands at War Memorial Arena at Syracuse, N.Y., when Wally Weir, another suspended teammate, became incensed at a referee’s decision. Weir rushed from his seat to bang against the glass surrounding the penalty box while shouting obscenities. When a police officer intervened, the two scuffled. An off-duty officer came to aid his fellow officer, causing Bilodeau and a third teammate to join in the melee.

The fight in the stands attracted the attention of the Jaros, who rushed across the rink to join in. Some swung their sticks over the boards, striking the officers. The fight ended only after Mr. Bilodeau and others were subdued after being sprayed with mace. Two policemen were treated at hospital with head injuries.

Police charged Mr. Bilodeau with second degree assault, a felony, as well as misdemeanor charges of disorderly conduct, obstructing governmental administration, and resisting arrest. He was one of seven Jaros to go to police court.

Judge Morris Garber asked the accused: “What’s the difference between the action of bums and your activities last night?” The judge did not wait for an answer, according to a newspaper report.

An unrepentant Mr. Bilodeau later broke the neck of Syracuse’s goalie with a cross-check from behind, ending the netminder’s season, as well as the Blazers’ playoff hopes. It was said to be his worst offence since biting a chunk of ear from a Mohawk Valley player during a fight. Outraged sports columnists urged the player to be suspended for life. Instead, he was promoted.

The success of the Philadelphia Flyers, a National Hockey League team nicknamed the Broad Street Bullies, created a boom in roughhouse hockey. The sport always demanded a hard-nosed attitude, famously captured in Conn Smythe’s statement that “if you can’t beat ’em in the alley, you won’t beat ’em on the ice.” The Flyers’ tough guys intimidated rivals, while more skilled players popped in goals.

The era of on-ice goonery was best captured in the slapstick movie, “Slap Shot,” which featured real-life hockey brawlers. One of them, Jeff Carlson, once got in a fight with Mr. Bilodeau along the boards at centre ice. Mr. Carlson reached into the rinkside announcer’s box, grabbing a microphone with which he proceeded to club his tormentor, each blow echoing through the public-address system — Poom! Poom! Poom!

The Flyers’ formula worked for the Jaros, who were acclaimed the dirtiest team in pro hockey even as they built the best record in the league.

The WHA’s Toronto franchise, struggling on the ice and at the gate, decided to call up Mr. Bilodeau, whose antics might not win games but would at least attract a certain clientele for a team without much of a following.

“We know he’s not the complete hockey player,” coach Gilles Leger said.

Writers on the hockey beat agreed.

“Bilodeau was built like a giant redwood and skated like one,” Al Strachan wrote in the Globe.

In 14 games of spot duty, Mr. Bilodeau recorded a single assist. He got 38 minutes in penalties, rather tame behaviour compared to his minor-league mayhem.

The Toros franchise shifted to the Deep South for the 1976-77 season. Home games of the Birmingham (Ala.) Bulls began with the playing of Dixie. Early in each game, fans more accustomed to seeing ice in their tea than on the floor of an arena began to chant: “We want goons! We want goons!”

Referees assessed Mr. Bilodeau 133 penalty minutes in just 34 games, an impressive array of wrongdoing until compared to his minor-league mark with the Charlotte Checkers that season. He managed to be charged with 242 penalty minutes in just 28 games.

He was back wearing Birmingham’s blue sweater, featuring a snorting bull, when he started a game against the Cincinnati Stingers on the evening of the American Thanksgiving holiday in 1977. The Bulls carried a grudge into the game, which Cincinnati’s coach somehow failed to realized. He sent his five most skilled — and smallest — players onto the ice to start the game.

The Bulls lined up three brutes — a forward line of Bad News Bilodeau, Steve (Demolition Durby) Durbano, and Frank (Seldom) Beaton, whose nickname hinted at his success as a pugilist. The clock ticked just 24 seconds before gloves were dropped. Mr. Durbano decked a Stinger, a signal for his teammates to jump in. Mr. Bilodeau squared off against Jamie Hislop, a hockey Gandhi whose penalty total for the entire season (17 minutes) had been matched by his tormentor in a single shift. Later in the game, Mr. Bilodeau cut another Stinger with a high stick. A newspaper compared the one-sided donnybrook to watching the German army invade Poland.

The Thanksgiving Massacre marked the nadir (or the apex, depending on one’s preference) of ruffian hockey.

In another game at Winnipeg that month, Mr. Bilodeau earned a $1,000 fine and a three-game suspension for leaving the penalty box to engage in several fights.

Despite such shenanigans, Mr. Bilodeau was only the third most penalized Bull that season, his 258 minutes overshadowed by Mr. Beaton’s 279 and Mr. Durbano’s 284. Dave (Killer) Hanson completed the club’s rogue gallery with 241 minutes.

The Quebec Nordiques signed Mr. Bilodeau as a free agent in 1978. In a game against the Edmonton Oilers, he made the mistake of picking on a slight centreman. The bullying caught the attention of the Oilers’ Garnet (Ace) Bailey.

“One night during my rookie year, we were in Quebec City, and this huge guy, Gilles Bilodeau, kept running me, knocking me around,” Wayne Gretzky told Sports Illustrated magazine seven years ago. “I weighed around 146 pounds, and Bilodeau must have been 220. Ace didn’t get a lot of ice time that night — in those days you didn’t use fourth-line players much — and he was getting angrier and angrier at Bilodeau. Finally, Ace told me, ‘Next time you have the puck, get that guy to chase you and skate in front of our bench.’

“So I did that, and a second after I went by, I heard the whistle blow and I looked back. Bilodeau was flat on the ice, and Ace and the other guys were all looking into the stands as if someone had thrown something at Bilodeau and they were trying to figure out what had happened. Ace had clocked him with his stick when he skated past.”

The following season, the Oilers and the Nordiques were among the WHA teams absorbed into the National Hockey League. As unlikely as it seemed, Mr. Bilodeau reached the pinnacle of pro hockey. He skated in nine NHL games, gaining a single assist and recording just 25 penalty minutes.

Mr. Bilodeau settled in Birmingham after retiring as a player. He had married a secretary whom he had met at a bar across the street from the hockey arena called, appropriately enough, The Place Across the Street from the Civic Center. They played the Bobby Orr PowerPlay pinball machine.

Mr. Bilodeau worked for former teammate and fellow Quebecker Jean-Guy Legace as a painter and deck builder before becoming a self-employed contractor.

He watched “Slap Shot” every chance he got. He would be forgiven for mistaking the comedy for a documentary.

Away from the ice, he was a lawful, pleasant, even kind man. In 1999, he was enjoying a day with his family at Panama City Beach, Fla., when a sudden thunderstorm surprised beach-goers. A man from Georgia and his teenaged daughter were felled by a lightning strike. Mr. Bilodeau performed CPR until an ambulance arrived. The girl suffered minor injuries, but her father was declared dead on arrival at hospital. Mr. Bilodeau’s wife said Bad News thought often of the unfortunate man and his family.

Gilles Bilodeau was born on July 31, 1955, at St-Prime, Que. He died of undiagnosed pancreatic cancer on Aug. 12 at his home at Birmingham, Ala. He was 53. He leaves Debbie (nee Powell), his wife of 28 years; two sons; two grandsons; five brothers; and, three sisters.