Gordie Howe’s picture was beside them in the Eaton’s catalogue, so they had to be good. You couldn’t tell me that Number 9 for Detroit didn’t skate up and down the ice in the same skates. They cost about $29, which to a young boy was a lot of money.
My mom knew all about buying skates, too. Even though she couldn’t skate herself, she was smart enough to buy them two sizes too big so we would grow into them. For the first year we would be a bit wobbly, even with newspaper stuffed in the toes, but by the next couple of Christmases, when the next edition would be under the tree, they would be so tight we could barely get them on. The blood would be cut off so badly that your feet would have no feeling for what seemed like hours when you got home.
The only problem was that my brother’s feet stopped growing one year just when he opened up the big box under the Christmas tree. He was forced to shuffle around the ice, his ankles barely above the surface. It was embarrassing for him. Hey, it was even embarrassing for me. Even though I was five years younger, I would often get picked ahead of him. He was great in goal though. Those size 12 boots spread over the ice like flippers stopped many a puck destined for the goal. The game we played had two piles of snow or somebody’s rubber boot for the goalpost and there were no raises.
Finally, my feet grew to be about the same size as my brother. One day he asked me if he could borrow them to go to the rink. I had other things to do, so I gave my blessing to his desire. Gordie Howe would have been pleased with me.
Actually, I hoped that he would show the others at the rink a thing or two about hockey and restore our family honour.
The rink was about 10 minutes away. In less than half an hour, my brother returned with a rather unpleasant look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Didn’t you like my skates?”
“They were great,” stated my brother. “I zoomed around the rink like never before. All eyes were on me. Then I took a shot. The stick broke. The puck soared over the boards never to be seen again. The worst part was that I fell and my pants split apart.”
I don’t think my brother ever played hockey again. Like many Canadians, one sign of becoming an adult is realizing that you are never going to be in the NHL. That still didn’t erase the legend in our family history of one of the greatest shots of all time. And, to think, it all wouldn’t have happened if we didn’t have skates endorsed by Gordie Howe.
My mom knew all about buying skates, too. Even though she couldn’t skate herself, she was smart enough to buy them two sizes too big so we would grow into them. For the first year we would be a bit wobbly, even with newspaper stuffed in the toes, but by the next couple of Christmases, when the next edition would be under the tree, they would be so tight we could barely get them on. The blood would be cut off so badly that your feet would have no feeling for what seemed like hours when you got home.
The only problem was that my brother’s feet stopped growing one year just when he opened up the big box under the Christmas tree. He was forced to shuffle around the ice, his ankles barely above the surface. It was embarrassing for him. Hey, it was even embarrassing for me. Even though I was five years younger, I would often get picked ahead of him. He was great in goal though. Those size 12 boots spread over the ice like flippers stopped many a puck destined for the goal. The game we played had two piles of snow or somebody’s rubber boot for the goalpost and there were no raises.
Finally, my feet grew to be about the same size as my brother. One day he asked me if he could borrow them to go to the rink. I had other things to do, so I gave my blessing to his desire. Gordie Howe would have been pleased with me.
Actually, I hoped that he would show the others at the rink a thing or two about hockey and restore our family honour.
The rink was about 10 minutes away. In less than half an hour, my brother returned with a rather unpleasant look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Didn’t you like my skates?”
“They were great,” stated my brother. “I zoomed around the rink like never before. All eyes were on me. Then I took a shot. The stick broke. The puck soared over the boards never to be seen again. The worst part was that I fell and my pants split apart.”
I don’t think my brother ever played hockey again. Like many Canadians, one sign of becoming an adult is realizing that you are never going to be in the NHL. That still didn’t erase the legend in our family history of one of the greatest shots of all time. And, to think, it all wouldn’t have happened if we didn’t have skates endorsed by Gordie Howe.
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