If you look up the word Stubborn in the dictionary, it will describe my oldest friend.

We have been friends for over 30 years now. Through all these years, we’ve maybe had 1 or 2 disagreements. I was right both times but whose counting? Oppositely, I can never remember time spent with him that didn’t include a lot of laughter. That’s one commonality all my friends have, they make me laugh.

We met at a branding. I was a city kid posing as a country boy from Stettler, and we were at a branding in Linden. Tribalism was alive, and after branding we squared off to play football. Linden vs Stettler. At some point I decided to punch or spit at someone, and a rumble ensued. This was when I met Cory. He was from Linden, I was from Stettler, and it was his older brother Brad who I had got in a scrap with.

A year later, my family moved to Linden. It didn’t take long and we became fast friends. It was a true friendship. We did not always like the same things, but we always liked each other. I loved Sports, Cory loved Ranching and Horses.

I enjoyed horses too, just not as much as Cory. I needed a horse though, so Cory took me to the Olds Auction Mart.

“That looks like a good horse.” Cory pointed out.

“Ya?” I questioned him.

“Yup” he replied, “Nice and gentle.”

The horse loaded up gently, I’ll give him that. We almost made it home before it started kicking the trailer relentlessly.

“Ya, you got to be careful buying a horse at an Auction.” Cory enlightened me. “Sellers drug them.”

“Huh.” I thought to myself. “I didn’t recall him saying that at the Auction.”

That horse was the worst behaved horse you could imagine, but boy could he run. Cory and his parents took me Horse riding near Blue Rock, and to this day its one the coolest things I have ever done, and I have done a lot of fun things. That horse was alive up until recently, it was a very good horse.

More often than not we were partners in Crime. At a school where singing was important, we both refused. Our class of 8, Gene, Jay, myself, Cory, Stanley, Cindy, Carmen, and Marlyss, must’ve been the most punished Class in that schools history. Im not sure we ever learned from those consequences.

After we graduated, Cory went to toil in Agriculture, and I sought employment in Residential Construction. Our paths took us in different directions. When I got engaged, I invited him to my wedding. He said he was coming, but He didn’t make. He sometimes feels bad about this, I pretend like it bothered me, but it didn’t. I just enjoy making him feel guilty. I knew the reasons why, I even respected them. Our friendship was much stronger than that little detail.

Cory is honest. Cory cares about the truth more than anyone I know. And, this is precisely why he is stubborn. He’s stubborn because he refuses to deal in anything but truth.

How do you not respect that?

He owns a Trucking Company. Recently I jumped in with him and tagged along on a BC run. It was probably 12 hours of driving with loading and unloading, but felt like 20 min.

We talked about God, Jesus, people we grew up with, politics, business, kids and more. We don’t always agree, but we both see the humour in all of it, and usually we end laughing till our sides ache.

These days I have been very reclusive. Friends ask me out, I rarely go. People call, I don’t answer. To be honest I have been in a rut. Struggling. I always struggle. That is the truth. I am guessing almost everyone does.

I think one thing myself and Cory have in common is the desire to separate from groups. We like to go our own way. Do our own thing. We never felt like we fit in anywhere, and surprisingly 30 years later I think we both still feel this way. Maybe we all do? But I certainly always feel at ease when I spend time with Cory. We get each other.

So I guess when you have a friend that always makes you laugh and helps you live a better life, you should be thankful.

At my age, its doubtful I will make new lifelong friends. So, I lucked out with a friend like Cory, and others I’ve mentioned.

Cory, if you read this, I can’t wait for my Christmas present. Surely, with 2 months notice, I should receive a gift this year. Thanks for being my friend, I know its not always easy.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris

I’ve written a lot lately about the last few years, how hard I found them. There were many nights I didn’t know if I would keep my business afloat, find someone who believed in me, be able to be there for my kids.

Most of those pressures are gone now. My business is surviving, and I don’t need anyone to believe in me. I believe in myself. For the last few weeks my life has been continually getting easier. I’ve been a bit down if I’m honest. I work hard, but something is missing.

I miss the fight.

I miss the struggle. I miss finding the end of my rope and asking God to give me strength to hold on. It’s really been a revelation to me. But the more I think about it the more it makes sense to me. I think there is no greater sense of accomplishment then to get through a hard time. Alternatively, I think nothing destroys the soul as quick as complacency, ease, comfort, and no responsibility.

A Gambler loves the feeling of a loss. That’s way they keep playing after a win. A Soldier falls in love with Combat. Workaholics love the struggle of work. Men and women alike love to go to the gym and lift things that don’t need to be lifted. We want resistance. We need it. We die without it.

I wonder how different of a world we would live in if we taught ourselves and each other the good that comes with hard times. If we embraced misfortune. If we owned our struggles and admitted our faults. If we didn’t look to others to blame, and we looked at them as a chance to get stronger, kinder, humbler, and more connected to each other.

What if we all stopped being victims. What if every slight and injustice real or imagined was just another chance to get to the next level. In Hockey, as coaches, we learn more about our team and players during a loss than a win. For the players, getting beaten by someone better is just a demonstration right in front of you that you can learn from.

I remember being in an arena with my Dad watching my younger brother play hockey. It was in the first period and the other team scored a quick goal. The other parents started the usual handwringing and fault finding; This player didn’t do this, the coach didn’t do that, etc…. The other team scored another quick goal and I watched my Dad put his hands around his mouth so he could telegraph his voice. I wasn’t sure what was going to come out, but what did was completely unexpected and I’ve never forgotten it.

“NICE GOAL!” he bellowed at the other team. “BUT YOU BETTER SCORE MORE, BECAUSE WE ARE GOING TO FILL YOUR NET!”

I loved that. We are descendants of Vikings, and I can’t help but think that spirit my Dad showed came from a long line of Cottier’s that loved the fight. My Dad would’ve been a far better coach then I ever was. If I ever coach again I will be a very different coach. One of my main goals will be to teach young boys the joy of the struggle. And when we lose, to not criticize them, nor patronize them. To enjoy the struggle with them.

2 Timothy 4:7

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.

I hate trying to interpret things from this Book. I’m not qualified, but I do think it’s significant that it doesn’t say, “I won the fight.” It also doesn’t say, “I won the race.” He fought it, he raced it. He didn’t give up. That’s it.

When you get through whatever it is you are going through, you may just find, like I did, that you miss the struggle. When trouble comes back around, I’m going to try to meet it with a grin.

On a humorous note, I just thought of something. For the last 20 years I’ve told anyone that will listen what I want on my Grave stone. It’s this,

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger……. oops.”

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

If you read this far, thank you. Tris.

I’ve written about some of my greatest friends. Sean, Devon, my family, my two phenomenal children. I have more to write about. Cory, you’re next.

But tonight’s blog will be about my Best Friend. I’m unworthy of this friendship. This Friend has never left me despite the fact I’ve turned my back on Him over and over again. I willfully choose my own path, my own ego, my own selfish desires, over anything he might ask of me. Yet, he never abandons me.

When my Life falls apart, He’s the first person I run to. When my Life goes well, He is the first I abandon.

Recently I was accused of being a fraud. I was accused of saying all these things I believe in, but not living it. The truth hurts, she was right. I am as fickle as they come when it comes to being loyal to this Friend.

A few years ago, I was hit very hard with a series of events that crippled me financially and emotionally. Someone I loved had decided to turn to someone else. My business was dealt a heavy blow. I felt worthless.

It was around this time that I sought help from this Friend. He helped me to believe in myself again. In the quiet stillness of the early mornings, we would talk. I’d ask for strength, He’d tell me how to find it. His influence helped me to drink less. His influence helped me to connect with the things I loved again. In no time I was swimming, flying, enjoying my work. I was giving up evenings of conventional “fun” to drive myself to Calgary on a Saturday night to connect with my Friend. The normal time to hang out was Sunday, but I couldn’t wait. Other nights me and my Friend would jump in a plane and fly over his work. My friend is an Artist.

Pathetically, I started ignoring my Friend. My Friend who only ever brought happiness and peace into my life. Like a damn fool I leaned on my own understandings.

Left to my own nature I am a natural contrarian, I like to fight everyone and everything. I like to fight alone. Me against the world. I love making everything an injustice, then go to war over it. I have problems with Authority, I hate being told what to do. Slowly, I have been heading for that cold, hard space I have spent most of my life in.

It’s time to stop. Turn around. Head back to my Best Friend. My Guide.

I AM a fraud. I’m the last person in the world that can tell anyone how to live. But if I could say something to those that see me, and think less of my Friend because of me, it would be this:

“If Jesus could love me complete with all my failures and flaws that are so obvious for you to see, imagine how much he must Love you.”

He’s real. He’s my Best Friend. He’s yours too, if you don’t already know.

I’ll share a meme a friend sent me. I hope whoever created it is ok with that. Somehow I’m sure they would be.

If you read this far, Thank you.

Tris

Devon is one of my best friends. He’s possibly the hardest working guy I have ever met, but he has charisma and character to go with it.

We met close to 15 years ago. I was a grouchy, disillusioned framer and he was just starting his own cribbing company. Cribbing, for those if you who don’t know, is the concrete foundation forming. I was working on a tiny home with a basement that was 20′ wide and 32′ long, 4 corners. We were both Contractors building for Trico Homes. He had walked down the street to talk to me…

“How’s the basement,” he asked, “Is it square?”

“Well I sure hope so, it only has four corners,” I answered.

“It’s one of my first basements and I want to make sure you are happy.” He explained.

“It’s ok” I muttered.

As he walked away I realized I was an ass. I started grinning because I remember when I had framed my first house with my brother, and I had taken a lot of time straightening the fascia. When I asked the soffit guy how he liked my fascia, he said, “It’s the same as every other house.”

The moral of this is never expect a pat on the back in construction. You will always be too slow, too expensive, and the customer/trades will always find something you should do better. Always.

Around this time I was about to build my first home for myself in Crossfield, Alberta, and I needed a Cribber. I couldn’t think of a better guy to ask than the guy who cared so much about his work, that he’d come and ask a framer how square it was. He came out with his crew, and his puppy Pocco. (Sp) We were rained out one morning and split the bill for breakfast for the crew. After that, a friendship was born.

I was a drinker back then. We’d work very, very hard, and then on a Friday afternoon we would meet at a pub, often in NW Calgary. This was unwind time. We never hit on waitresses, we never disrespected anyone, but we would typically find the guy at the bar that we just knew sat there every single day, and we’d listen to his stories. Learn something. That’s what me a Devon both shared. A love for lost people and an understanding of how wise they are. How authentic and real they often can be. Of course it’s easy to love these lost people for a few hours. I’m not blind to the pain and misery they’ve likely caused their families.

Years later, we went to New Orleans for Devon’s bachelor party. I could literally write 4-5 blogs about that weekend, but to highlight our commonality I’ll tell you this one.

The NOPD was at our door. Weirdly they didn’t knock. After a very brief discussion we found ourselves on the street with no accommodations. It might of had something to do with the fact that me and Devon had climbed the roof of the Inn, and were having drinks up there, looking out and laughing over the French quarter and the Mississippi. I vaguely remember the Innkeeper screaming at us. Of course it didn’t help that I had gone to the convenience store and bought a bag of candy that looked like pills and spread them all over the coffee table. I was trying to be funny, mocking all the drug use in New Orleans. Apparently the Innkeeper didn’t get the joke. So….there we were. 4-5 of us vacated from the suite. While the rest of the French Quarter powdered their noses, paid prostitutes, and took their clothes off for beads, 4 prairie boys from Alberta were evicted for doing something we do on job site every day; Climbing a ladder.

As we gathered confusedly outside the Inn with our bags, Devon decided he’d just jump in a rickshaw. I’ll never forget the image of him just throwing his bag in and taking off to nowhere in particular. Great! The rest of us figured he’d be back or answer his phone so we got another room. Well, Devo never came back and his phone was dead. Together with another friend of his I decided to go look for him.

“How are we going to find him?” His friend asked. It was a great question. We were downtown in the heart of the French Quarter.

“He won’t be on Bourbon, Royal or any other Main Street” I told his friend, “He will be down some back alley chatting with a homeless fellow having a great time.”

Sure enough, after turning down the first grungy alley I could find, there was Devo, laughing, sharing a sip out of a brown bag with a drifter and his mottled dog.

From there we had the best night of the weekend roaming the far corners of the Quarter.

These last few years we don’t see each other much. He still works as hard as ever, but he’s got a young family now. Between the recession in Alberta, my struggling business, his two young children, my teens, we don’t get a lot of time. But when we do hang out, it’s just like old times. He invites me to things, I say I will go, but I never get there. I’m either waiting for a draw, overbooked, or just too tired. This weekend was one of those times. He and his wife throw a games party at the end of every summer. It’s epic, loads of fun. I was looking forward to it. But, it was also the first night I could spend with my daughter in 8 days and she wanted to stay home. so we opted to just stay home together.

There are many many stories I will likely tell if I keep writing, that involve Devon. There’s a motorcycle trip for the ages with his brother that still makes me laugh to this day. Those good times are great, but it’s the bad times, when he has always been there for me, that mean the most to me.

I’m very thankful he’s my friend.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris.

Powerful title hey? Hope is such a wonderful, energy giving emotion. But what I’m writing about today is not something as positive as all that. In fact, quite the opposite. I’m going to write about my stuck up cat. Her name is Hope.

She got her name from the employees at the shelter, along with her sibling sisters Love and Joy. I sometimes wonder if, in this anti male world we live in, if she had brothers named Lust and Greed.

Like all important decisions should be made, I got her on a whim. Suffering from guilt only a divorcee can feel, I decided my kids should have a pet. They chose Hope. Hope is a Calico American Shorthair. She’s a dainty thing. But don’t let that fool you, she’s also a cold hearted animal prone to long bouts of bitterness and resentment. She’s also a stone cold killer.

More than one bird and too many mice to count, have had their lives snuffed out by her. The way she looks at me when I’m late feeding her is the face I imagine mice see before they are dispatched to rodent heaven.

I think we used to be friends. But I’m not sure to be honest. I remember in sad times alone, her coming and sleeping on my chest. It was a comfort to me. But now I realize she does that when she’s hungry. It’s not to offer companionship, but to be sure I won’t leave the house without her being able to scream at me to feed her.

But for certain our relationship ended when on another whim I introduced her to Bauer, my newfound mutt hound. I think she decided if I could care for something as stupid and destructive as Bauer, then she had no room in her cold heart for me. Fine by me. I hated cats as a kid and happy to be friends off with Hope. It never felt right loving a cat anyway.

So, we just tolerate each other now. Co exist. I know when I see her, it’s not me she wants, it’s food or to be let out. Eat. Get out. Come in.

“Do whatever the hell you want Hope, we both know you will anyway

Oh, and thanks for the mice entrails on the porch again. And seriously? I spent 200 bucks on bird feeders you hairy rat! Stop killing the birds!”

My dog is a menace to society. But, he wants to hang with me AFTER he’s fed. He cares. Not Hope. It’s like she doesn’t even know my love language is time spent. She could not care less. If I were to die before I wake, Hope would have my soul for sale on Kijiji for a spoonful of catnip.

I’ll keep feeding her and all that. But our relationship is over. She doesn’t fool me anymore. She doesn’t care about me and she never did.

I came out of the closet and said I was a cat person, but I realize now I was just confused. The world makes sense again.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris

I have a newfound respect for my friends and kids. I’m sick of me. How the hell do they listen to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not self loathing here. Im proud of myself. I work hard, I’m honest, I try my hardest to be a good person. I’m just kinda done thinking about me. I read some of my blogs from the last year and some made me laugh, others seemed pretty self absorbed.

The ones I enjoyed reading the most where about others. My family. My friends. My kids. My experiences. I am ok with the ones where I try to tell people what I think, but who really cares?

I mean, sometimes when I speak, I bore myself to tears, realize no one is listening, then mock myself in my head as my voice trails off…. blah, blah, blah. If some dolt blathers on in a crowd, and no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound? Who cares.

The worst is when I’m talking to my kids, trying to teach them something important. Like who the hell am I to teach anyone anything? I feel like a fraud.

So for the next while I’m going to practice writing about other people. Here is one.

Gilles

Gilles was sent straight from God. My brother/partner had just lost a finger after I dropped a wall on his hand. He was out for a few weeks. (should’ve been months) Having just started a home I needed a helper. I drove to Cash Corner and picked up the first man I saw. It was Gilles. Gilles was French Canadian, late 40s. He was wiry, weighed around 140lbs and was probably 5’8″

Gilles has spent a lot of time incarcerated in a federal prison. In his youth he had been in an altercation with the police. He always told me,

“If you want to learn respect, Go to Prison, There are consequences for every word you say.”

He worked so hard. So, so hard. He never complained and was always helping me in every way. He was an alcoholic, probably more. But he was one of my best friends. We’d often go and sit in a pub and chat after work.

He had no teeth. So I’d buy him Skor blizzards on a hot day to watch him spit out the hard pieces… haha. Mean, I know. He taught me some French that I only speak when I drink. He gave me the history of the Rock Machines bike club in Quebec City.

Together we built a few homes. We expanded the crew later, but those first few months he really saved me. He became a permanent fixture at Wolf Construction till the day he came in high, and tried to stab me with an Olfa knife. Later that night I got a call from the police. He had stolen a blank cheque and had tried to forge my signature. It wasn’t made out for a lot, just a few hundred bucks. In hind site it was less than he deserved. The funny thing was when I got there, it wasn’t him. It was Paul, his younger brother. Except this man that I knew as Paul, had ID that said Gilles, and the photo matched. So to this day, I don’t really know who I picked up on Cash corner that day.

But I know that I miss him.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris.

Youth will be served, every dog has his day, and mine has been a fine one – George Borrow

I love this quote. It has been on my mind a lot lately. I’m 44, on the verge of 45. Not old, but far, far from youth. I’m not sure if it was my attempt at a relationship with someone younger that made me realize just how much I don’t want to be young again, but it certainly helped.

I’ve changed. A lot.. I see pictures of myself from even 5 years ago and there’s a strength and virility that is just gone now. I can work out, swim, eat well, but I’m declining. My son can eat McDonald’s and drink beer, and he’s gaining strength every day. Crazy thing is, this makes me happy.

I don’t have anything to prove to anyone anymore. I have no desire to “own” things. I want an older truck. I want a smaller house. I don’t want toys.

Well, that’s not true. I’d like a small Cessna 150 with a timed out engine and scuba gear in the back, to fly over the Rockies with, Nav Can willing. Think of it as the little flying engine that could. I think I can, I think I can……

What I want is to find a way to take all those tough experiences I’ve had, and help my kids avoid a few of them. Actually, no. What I want is to find a way to teach them how to cope and deal with them. Hopefully I can teach them to find the balance between working hard to create security and working so much it costs your family time and attention.

It’s not easy. Man, kids today have it rough. So rough. This digital world has really hurt our kids. It’s easier than ever to exclude, gossip, bully, hurt, mock, and betray. It upsets me. Things like having a family and owning a home are harder to achieve then ever.

If kids want to feel good, they need help. Booze, drugs, vape, sex, starve themselves, cut themselves, whatever. We pat ourselves on the back demanding a minimum wage for them, rather than take time to teach them real skills. They don’t need money, they need values, morals. What better high than the self esteem boost that comes with knowing you can walk a narrow road that leads up.

I’ve noticed something about this next generation. These kids are amazing. They are craving morality, discipline, order. Not authoritative order, authentic order. They are kind, generous, and the furthest thing from lazy. It’s almost as if an entire generation of kids with too busy parents suddenly decided to figure it out by themselves.

Back to me, and I’m sorry I’m jumping around. Im 45. If I made a million bucks, what would that make me? I mean there’s people that make a million by 20. So by that standard I’m a failure. I’ve met people that have nothing financially that have a far greater legacy than I’ll ever have. So let’s throw that useless measure out.

So how best can I have meaning as a 45 year old? Serve youth. I’m going to start with a few things.

Model a good work ethic

Unplug my TV

Listen to them

Pray for them

Apologize to them

Teach them things

Put my foot down when I feel them taking a wrong turn even though it makes me “uncool”

I’m going to start there. I had a very, very entertaining youth. Ive tried everything I wanted to try. I made enough mistakes for 5 people. Im so sick of me. I don’t want to hang onto my youth. I have a real chance here to step up and be a role model. I haven’t been a good one to date, or at least there’s room for improvement.

I will take care of myself and age as gracefully as I can; I’ll lift the odd dumbbell, fill a cavity now and then, eat fewer carbs, swim. Hell, I’ll even put moisturizer on my craggy face. But what I truly want is to serve youth. Finish strong as a Father of “at home” children. Maybe I’ll coach or work with troubled boys in the future. Oddly, but perhaps not, I’ve never been more excited for my future.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris

It is with enormous pride that I share this poem, written by my son, with whoever reads my drivel.

This is a poem every teenager can relate too, and every parent should read and listen too. I know I needed to hear this.

Slam

Life’s hard… They say.

Followed by an ignorant glare that says,

Pfft, you don’t even know.

Maybe I don’t know,

Maybe everything from now on will go so downhill I’ll need ski poles

And maybe these obstacles I face now will one day turn to potholes,

And when I need someone to hold,

All that’s left to grasp with my last gasp are these

Hormones that you blame for every struggle that’s,

Pfft, not so bad.

Depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder,

All things I seek to blame for the shame I feel for hurting.

The same shame that follows every tear down my cheek,

I must be so weak getting knocked down by these adolescent problems that are, Pfft, not so bad.

So what do I do?

I wake up every morning knowing that I’m entering the preparation phase,

I look to lay my gaze upon anyone…

Anyone who will listen to what I exclaim and not proclaim that what I feel is

But a feather.

Light.

Each sunrise like a tick on a time bomb

Steadily marching towards the day in which my feelings are validated

And all these problems that,

Ha,

Aren’t so bad…

Are so bad!

And when I look up from the bloody canvas of the ring of my brain

To see your smiling face, grinning ear to ear at the extent of my pain.

“Now your problems are real, now you’re allowed to feel,” They say.

The last words that travel into my ear,

My vision fills with light but I do not fear,

Because my head is so full of these “insignificant issues” that

I’m numb!

So listen to me when I tell you…

That when a broken soul looks to you for a lifeline,

And when tear-filled eyes look to you for support, Don’t look back and say,

Pfft, that’s not so bad.

Say wow, you don’t deserve that.

And I’m here for you.

And you’re not alone.

I know what youre going through And you have a home.

You.

Are.

Loved.

-Alastair

I hope you read this far.

Tris

“Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free”

The above lyric is in a song I have listened to a lot lately. I don’t know why, but I love it. It is written and performed by Leonard Cohen. My favourite version however is by Kate Wolf.

The first image of a solitary bird, sitting precariously on a wire, for me, captures the emptiness that so often comes with freedom.

However, the scene in my head that plays out when I think of a disheveled drunk surrounded by orderly choir singers, is one that brings a smile to my face every time.

I picture him unshaven, dirty. Perhaps he even has a suspect bottle in his hand. Maybe he just stumbled across the choir and jumped in without permission. Maybe he’s a regular, but on this day life got the upper hand and he slipped up. But hey, he showed up, that has to count for something right?

He’s in the back row but hardly invisible. There’s something in the song that he spontaneously connects with, and his spirit flees the very same fog that led him to drink. I imagine the song is “Amazing Grace”

“Amazing grace that saved a wretch like me….”

Who better to sing this song than a wretch?

He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care what the other choir singers think. He doesn’t care what the spectators think. He doesn’t care what the choir leader is doing. He is off key, he is off time, he is too loud. He is singing his guts out. He is fucking perfect.

Everyone will look at him, what a mess. What a disaster.

“What’s a guy like that doing, singing in a choir?” they may ask.

What the hell do they know? In that moment he is FREE.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris

There are very few things I love more than Hockey. My body can’t play it the way I want to anymore, but I’ll never forget the thrill of playing the game.

I can’t tell you exactly when my love for hockey began, but I do remember watching the Islanders beat the Canucks in the Stanley cup final in 82, and the Oilers in 83, and then the Oilers exact their revenge in 84. Surprisingly I was an Islander fan in 83, and have been an Oiler fan since 84.

My dad was a speed skating coach, and my older brother and 2 sisters were very competitive racers. I grew up on skates. I do not think I ever speed skated. My love was always hockey. We didn’t have the time so I never was able to play on a community team. But boy did I ever play. We had a backyard rink that myself and my neighbour played on nightly. My older brother would take me with him to the outdoor rinks and I’d play with the “big” boys.

In the summers I’d play road hockey as often as I could. Often I was alone, imagining teammates and games. It was always game 7, I always scored the winning goal.

After a move to Stettler Ab, I’d find slews and ponds to play on. After another move to Linden Ab, together with a friend we built an outdoor rink. Every Saturday we’d play hockey.

We were immersed in a Mennonite community. In fact my family had become Mennonite for a while. It’s a religious group, with strict values and one of those was their children couldn’t play competitive sports. In a way, it was a perfect fit for me.

Once again the same older brother, Austin, took me to the big boy games. I’d play with my age group and his. He was a beautiful skater, always one of the best if not the best player.

Mennonite hockey was the purest hockey I have ever played. No pads, no gear, no rules. I have scars all over my legs, my elbows, my face. We would play from the AM till the sun went down. I loved it.

If anyone ever has an interest, I would take you to Linden on a Sat AM. They wear pads now, but it’s still the same. Sticks in the middle, teams are formed, lines are made, puck is dropped and then the battle begins.

I left the Mennonite community behind me, chasing work. I married. For the first time in my life I joined a Team. My younger brother Nathan invited me on to a team called the “Flatliners”

For the first time I had to stay onside, refrain from hacking people. I couldn’t trip, slash, or hit. It wasn’t as much fun but it was great to play on a line with my brother. I think he won the scoring title for our league that year.

The next phase of my hockey adventure came with the birth of my son. He loved the game, and was more skilled than I ever was. I coached him for years. I made a lot of terrible mistakes coaching him. Fathers shouldn’t coach sons, but we still had amazing memories.

I played on teams at the same time. I’d frame all day, coach in the evening, and then go play a game at night. I’d try to watch every Oiler game I could in between. Hockey was my life. On the weekends I didn’t coach, I’d take coaching clinics and even joined the Hockey Ab coach mentoring program. I took all their specialty skill clinics.

For a few years we formed a team called the Hammerheads/Hosers. This was a team I founded with my brothers. It was so much fun. We took a LOT of penalties. We were basically a bunch of Vikings on skates. We won some, we lost some, but we created some amazing memories. Jason, Chris, Nathan, Myself. Friends of mine, Kevin, Guy, Ryan, Grant, Mark, many many more. We even had a couple guys who went on to play in the NHL suit up for us. We became really good at playing 3vs5 in those years, and I always enjoyed the company in the penalty box.

I’m 44. I am too old and too slow now. I can’t play the way I want to play anymore. I will go out and shinny once or twice a year but it’s not the same. I’ll usually trip someone just to relive the “old” days.

No one likes to play with a beer leaguer who plays the way that I do, They say things like…

“Hey man, we all have to work tomorrow!”

My first thought is always,

“well don’t play hockey then. Go find a sport that fits your gentlemanly disposition.”

My son, who has excellent grades and wants to go to university has chosen to focus on school. He was an amazing player for 11 years. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I loved to watch him play those last few years.

So from a small backyard rink in Red Deer, to the ponds in Stettler, Mennonite hockey on the prairies, scoring goals and taking penalties with my brothers, teaching tyke kids how to skate, laughing in locker rooms with friends, to watching my son play his final minor hockey game, my hockey story ends.

Go Oilers.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris