me to him. I felt his hand cradle the back of my head.
“Go with God,” he whispered.
25
Manitouwadge means “Cave of the Great Spirit” in Ojibway. That was funny, because it was mining that gave the town its life. Everyone in Manitouwadge worked in the mines or the sawmills, and Fred Kelly had brought his family there from the Pic River reservation to join the thirty other Ojibway families who lived in a neighbourhood on the outskirts called Indian Town by the locals. Its residents called it the Rez. I’d learn fast enough that an invisible line was drawn across the intersection of Sanderson Road and Township Road Eleven that everyone regarded as part of the local geography. The town proper was populated by tough, narrow-minded men and their loyal women and their callow kids, all rough-and-tumble and rude. It was a place of Saturday night fights in the parking lot outside Merle’s Old Time Saloon, wild country dances at the Legion Hall, bass boats, snowmobiles, motorcycles and random games of Broom-a-Buck, the redneck game of leaning out the window of a car or truck to swat Indians on the sidewalk or the road. Fifty points for a head shot. Twenty for any other part of the body. I’d learn all of this later. That first day, in the late winter of 1966, all I saw was a town drenched in the seeping grey of spring breakup.
The outdoor rink behind Fred Kelly’s house was almost gone, but he showed it to me first thing. His back yard was huge, ending at an outcropping of pink granite, and the rink was full-sized. Seeing it eased the ache in my chest a little.
A tall, spare woman wearing a big smile opened the back door and stood with her arms wrapped around herself, shifting from foot to foot in the icy breeze. “Fred, for Pete’s sake. The boy needs food before he needs hockey. Bring him in and let’s meet him proper.”
Fred laughed and pushed me lightly in the direction of the house. “Ma’s first rule is food. She cooks up a storm too.”
The house was full of people. The Kellys had three sons. Garrett and Howard were married, and they were there with their wives and children. The youngest, Virgil, was a hulking seventeen year old. When Fred introduced me, Virgil squinted in a friendly way and looked me up and down.
“Kinda small,” he said as he shook my hand.
“He plays bigger,” Fred said.
“He’ll wanna.”
Virgil was the captain of the Moose. “It’s kinda like being a chief,” he said. “It’s all about family and who you know. Garrett was captain before me. Kind of went down the line. The guys? They’re not gonna take to you right away.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Couple reasons,” he said. By now we were sitting at the kitchen table with our soup and bannock, real food that I ate hungrily. “First is you’re not from here and you’re taking a spot away from someone else. Second is you’re a sawed-off little runt and they’re gonna think they have to protect you, stand up for you.”
“They won’t.” I said.
“You’ll have to prove that. My dad says you got a hell of a game, but they’ll make you prove that too. It won’t be easy.”
We ate in silence after that. When we were finished, Martha showed me to my room, and we went shopping for clothing. I’d never had anyone spend money on me, and it felt odd standing in front of mirrors with the cardboard feel of new pants against my legs, and crisp new shirts around my throat. Fred took me to the sporting goods store next and bought me my first gear. Now I had skates that fit properly. I had a stick right for my size and equipment that didn’t drape over me. I couldn’t wait to hit the ice and see how it felt to be suitably attired.
Our first scrimmage was that night. I sat in the Kellys’ kitchen and watched my new teammates, all of them huge, arrive and troop through one by one. They were boys still, but they had the air of men. Serious. Grave. Intent. Nobody looked at me. They just said their hellos to the family
“Go with God,” he whispered.
25
Manitouwadge means “Cave of the Great Spirit” in Ojibway. That was funny, because it was mining that gave the town its life. Everyone in Manitouwadge worked in the mines or the sawmills, and Fred Kelly had brought his family there from the Pic River reservation to join the thirty other Ojibway families who lived in a neighbourhood on the outskirts called Indian Town by the locals. Its residents called it the Rez. I’d learn fast enough that an invisible line was drawn across the intersection of Sanderson Road and Township Road Eleven that everyone regarded as part of the local geography. The town proper was populated by tough, narrow-minded men and their loyal women and their callow kids, all rough-and-tumble and rude. It was a place of Saturday night fights in the parking lot outside Merle’s Old Time Saloon, wild country dances at the Legion Hall, bass boats, snowmobiles, motorcycles and random games of Broom-a-Buck, the redneck game of leaning out the window of a car or truck to swat Indians on the sidewalk or the road. Fifty points for a head shot. Twenty for any other part of the body. I’d learn all of this later. That first day, in the late winter of 1966, all I saw was a town drenched in the seeping grey of spring breakup.
The outdoor rink behind Fred Kelly’s house was almost gone, but he showed it to me first thing. His back yard was huge, ending at an outcropping of pink granite, and the rink was full-sized. Seeing it eased the ache in my chest a little.
A tall, spare woman wearing a big smile opened the back door and stood with her arms wrapped around herself, shifting from foot to foot in the icy breeze. “Fred, for Pete’s sake. The boy needs food before he needs hockey. Bring him in and let’s meet him proper.”
Fred laughed and pushed me lightly in the direction of the house. “Ma’s first rule is food. She cooks up a storm too.”
The house was full of people. The Kellys had three sons. Garrett and Howard were married, and they were there with their wives and children. The youngest, Virgil, was a hulking seventeen year old. When Fred introduced me, Virgil squinted in a friendly way and looked me up and down.
“Kinda small,” he said as he shook my hand.
“He plays bigger,” Fred said.
“He’ll wanna.”
Virgil was the captain of the Moose. “It’s kinda like being a chief,” he said. “It’s all about family and who you know. Garrett was captain before me. Kind of went down the line. The guys? They’re not gonna take to you right away.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Couple reasons,” he said. By now we were sitting at the kitchen table with our soup and bannock, real food that I ate hungrily. “First is you’re not from here and you’re taking a spot away from someone else. Second is you’re a sawed-off little runt and they’re gonna think they have to protect you, stand up for you.”
“They won’t.” I said.
“You’ll have to prove that. My dad says you got a hell of a game, but they’ll make you prove that too. It won’t be easy.”
We ate in silence after that. When we were finished, Martha showed me to my room, and we went shopping for clothing. I’d never had anyone spend money on me, and it felt odd standing in front of mirrors with the cardboard feel of new pants against my legs, and crisp new shirts around my throat. Fred took me to the sporting goods store next and bought me my first gear. Now I had skates that fit properly. I had a stick right for my size and equipment that didn’t drape over me. I couldn’t wait to hit the ice and see how it felt to be suitably attired.
Our first scrimmage was that night. I sat in the Kellys’ kitchen and watched my new teammates, all of them huge, arrive and troop through one by one. They were boys still, but they had the air of men. Serious. Grave. Intent. Nobody looked at me. They just said their hellos to the family
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