All The Kings Men

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My brother Jeff and I were young, but old enough to know something cool was happening.  We were at Dad’s game, in the dressing room, in Los Angeles.  We had on our ridiculously over-sized Kings jerseys, and were waiting for the start of the Kings – Flames game.  The Flames at the time were badass (1988).  As most kids would, Jeff and I wanted to meet some of the guys on the other team. So, Dad arranged what needed arranging and sent us down the hall.

With our escort, we walked into the Calgary Flames road dressing room fully adorned in Kings gear.  Questionable decision maybe, but Dad seemed to think it was funny.  I remember meeting Lanny Macdonald and Mike Vernon, silently standing in front of them in the way young kids do, answering yes and no to polite questions.  It was around this point that someone on the Flames voiced their displeasure at our choice of clothing, and ideas of what to do with us started getting passed around the room. 

The solution, apparently, was to make us the ’80′s version of a chat-room message board.  Someone pulled out a Sharpie-type pen and wrote a message to the Kings on my jersey, then ushered us back to the Los Angeles room.  I have no idea what it said, but I don’t suspect it contained a lot of “doth’s” or “thy’s”. 

I took the message like a good delivery boy to my Dad, who read it, chuckled, then directed me to the appropriate respondee.  Prior to a professional hockey game in 1988, my brother and I became life-size notes in a class,  undoubtedly complete with all the subtlety and wit that the likes of Thereon Fleury were capable of.  But who knows what they wrote, because to this day, I have no idea where those jersey’s are or what was written on them.  In hindsight, Dad probably burned them both, along with all the colourful language that was permanently stained on that awful yellow and purple.

Jeff and I had some fun experiences around then that other kids didn’t get to have.  Largely those experiences consisted of being an anger shield.  By this, I mean they made us play practical jokes on people so they couldn’t be mad.  I don’t think it was by “free will” that I loaded Luc Robitaille’s hair-dryer with baby powder.  And yes, Luc used a blow-dryer everyday.

These are things I was able to remember and appreciate as I got older.  In the years immediately following Dad’s retirement, we were still around the rink.  I remember going to see a Canuck game when the Kings were in town and Dad took us down to the dressing rooms after.  Gretzky gave us his stick from that night, the classic silver aluminum complete with pre-made foam grip handle.  He signed it to “To Justin and Jeff, all my best, Wayne Gretzky”.  After we used it for indoor hockey occasionally, it reads “To   s in and J    al  my b   , scribble”.

I wish I had been older when Dad played so I could remember more of this stuff.  Somehow I have a house full of random autographed sticks and memorabilia that I don’t remember getting or who signed them.  And that sucks, because really, who cares about a signed anything by anyone?  The fun part is interacting with people, and getting to know a little piece of them.  The signature is supposed to say “this proves I had a conversation with Wayne Gretzky” for those who idolize the greats and want to prove to their buddies that they met them.  

I remember Tom Laidlaw throwing me miles high into our pool in L.A. while Mom cringed/cried/hated Tom Laidlaw.  I have all these stupid little memories from the latter years of Dad’s hockey, so I can only imagine the neat ones I can’t remember from the dynasty years.  The cool part is, I kinda went on to do a lot of it myself.  I ended up experiencing professional dressing rooms as a player, and because of that I think I showed up equipped to deal with other people’s kids in the locker room.  I just have to find the present-day equivalent for some of the old jokes.  If only players still used blow-dryers….