Traverse City's head-in-the-sand ostrich strategy—having unmasked referees enforce mask compliance of players—split its seams last week, the inevitable outcome in dealing with the relentless virus. It was the classic combination of factors that has felled empires large and small: external pressure and internal decay.
Externally, both New Hampshire and Massachusetts tabled all hockey for a month, sending shock waves throughout our National Governing Body (NGB), putting Michigan's affiliate (MAHA) on high alert.
Internally, the fissures began innocently. A pee-wee sporting a long blonde ponytail made a polite request midway through a Sunday afternoon contest: "Would you please put on your mask?" Neither me nor my officiating partner complied. We continued the untenable position of our district—half-heartedly policing players to mask up while not wearing our own. MAHA assignor Mutt has been caught between the proverbial rock and hard place: to enforce the mask mandates with a tribe of officials who are opposed to masking up for a variety of reasons (physical and philosophical). Mutt claims that a lawyer in his hockey circle has looked at the paperwork coming from the state and has found a reasonable loophole exempting refs from masking up, so the charade played on for several weeks: "Do what I say, not what I do."
The walls started closing in our district Tuesday. I participated in a 50-person virtual seminar to secure my annual certification. It originated from Grand Rapids, the second most populated hockey district in the state. The officials in Grand Rapids are in close touch with the state's referee in chief, and there was not z whiff of ambiguity in the role of the officials when it comes to Covid compliance: We must be fully masked. And we must be the unswerving in the implementation of harsh penalties. One pre-game meeting to serve as a warning, and then Game Misconducts handed out at every faceoff to all maskless faces.
The news from downstate had not reached out tribe in T.C. My peers were still adamant that they would not be masking, nor would they use the electronic whistles. I came into the officials locker room and saw the red E-Whistles dangling from a hook, largely unused. My partner Terry was loudly spewing how it wasn't healthy to be breathing one's own carbon dioxide, and that hospitals were making false Covid claims to reap illegal benefits. He has not completed a single item on the certification punch list, waiting to see how the mask mandate would all work out.
Having heard the rumblings from downstate, I was determined to soldier through a game with my new mask and the E-Whistle. I enjoyed the fact that both the mask and the whistle were bright red with black trim, a color-coordinated statement of compliance. I barely survived the night on ice.
After just two minutes of warmups I was legally blind due to the fogging and condensation inside my visor. All my exhales were traveling north, up past my cheek bones and into the inside of my visor. I dashed off the ice, seconds before puck drop, to grab a cloth wipe to help salvage a semblance of vision. It barely helped.
In the lengthy of the U-19 women's game, I found myself swiping my visor during play, tilting my helmet back at absurd angles, and guessing at several of my calls. The E-Whistle had no gusto, and if not for the Terry's typical solid performance, it could have been a debacle. He seemed amused in the post-game locker room, firmer than ever in his position of defiance.
The following day, the winds of authority from downstate had arrived in T.C. Mutt fired off a blast email mirroring the seminar I had been subject to earlier in the week. Everyone masks, no tolerance, no exceptions. Doctor's notes to be ignored, game misconducts to be meted out, no second chances. Boom, boom, boom. That arrived in our inboxes Saturday evening, my next game was noon Sunday. I located my old gaiter, lost after the last laundry. Right after my Sunday coffee I put on the gaiter, strapped on my helmet, and hopped on the stationary bike. It took barely a minute to ramp up my cardio levels, including some heavy breathing. The gaiter did not force as much air into my shield; I figured I would survive.
My teenage partner, having not been through the sequence of events leading up to the Sunday game, had no idea that he was part of a watershed moment. I informed him that the pre-game meetings were of utmost importance, they would be the official warnings prior to potential Game Misconducts for mask violations. And five minutes into the AA squirt contest, 10-year old winger Magnus showed up at the faceoff circle sans mask. He became a martyr to the cause of saving hockey in Michigan.
The coach, an official in his own right when he's not wearing his coaching hat, grilled me pretty thoroughly during the intermission, pleading the case for his play getting a second chance, that kids unmask to get water on the bench. I told him under no circumstances would he be allowed to return to play. The coach was understandably pissed, but there were no repeat offenders. A Game Misconduct is a helluva deterrent. Sadly, Magnus will miss his next game as well, standard procedure for the G.M. But in the grand scheme of things, his penalty, regardless of whether or not justice was served, accomplished a lot. The gauntlet has been thrown. We will see how players, and official, respond to the imminent challenges of sports in a pandemic.
The "Room" for refs in Traverse City is ample: thirty feet long with showers, TV, a fridge, and dual entrances depending on which rink you are heading towards, east or west. On Saturday it had a new feature, in addition to all the skate laces, old rule books and skate laces, there were four red electronic whistles hanging from the towel hooks.
If we officials were to comply with the mandate to keep our faces covered while working the games—and that was the info being passed down to us in no uncertain terms—then these hand-held whistles were the new world order. I gave mine a try and pressed the button—it seemed fairly loud, though a traditional whistle creates quite a screech in our cement bunker. There were three settings on the red whistle, which was the most powerful. It was clearly a whistle, but not piercing. The gadgets were not entirely convincing.
I was partnered up again with Max for another doubleheader—bantams and pee-wees, both AA level. I notified all the coaches during warmup, none had experienced a game officiated with handheld whistles. The devices were clearly a decibel or two fainter than the real thing. This would be interesting.
I had purchased a "gaiter" this week, comparable to a balaclava, a very thin covering that fisherman use to protect against mosquitos. I could actually blow my original whistle through the material, while still keeping my face covered. I considered trying to combine the old and new, but decided to succumb to the
Over the next couple of hours Max and I sounded our Fox-40 E-whistles a few dozen times, mostly without incident. He and I both inadvertently squeezed our triggers to the confusion of everyone on the ice. I had to stop play with an apology and conduct a faceoff, when Max sounded his after losing an edge and squeezing his hand involuntarily, I shouted to "Play on!" and that's what they did.
When Max signaled off-sides, I provided accompaniment with my gadget, a little support from my side of the rink. It was a little faint from 100 feet away.
At game's end there were no complaints, but I do think the play was slightly compromised. There are times when a shrill whistle is needed to defuse scrums around the net. This airless facsimile is a lot easier to ignore than the urgent blast from a zebra in your face.
In the post game locker we checked in with our two striped counterparts from the East rink. Although they wore masks, neither used the E-whistles. From what I could tell, Max and I were the outliers. The only other official I knew of who had used the E-Whistle was the USA Hockey District assignor Mutt. He and I had texted throughout the week, and I told him about the being able to blow through the gaiter, and he had asked about the brand. Nothing official had come down the line other than to use the E-whistles.
The players complied much more thoroughly this week; I estimated 75% of the players had mouths covered, maybe half over their noses. Family members in the stands were in full compliance, by and large. Change has come, and not a moment too soon.
Sunday morning I nearly spit out my coffee when I saw this bold headline in the local paper.
Nearly three dozen Covid cases reported from a summer tourney at the rinks. There was anecdotal evidence of unmasked players crowded onto benches hacking and spitting, but there was a valid consideration that these cases were shared away from the rink, socializing together over drinks and dinner, a common spreading scenario.
The rink protocol had clearly improved since that July tourney, but Sunday's blaring headline has placed rink management on high alert. For as long as hockey is permitted up here in Michigan District 7, those funny little fish-shaped whistles will become the new normal.
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SEPT 12.
Nothing Else Matters
Searching the icy depths for a crucial artifact; a crowded ref room brimming with Covid protest; and Mettallica sings the anthem that has us all reveling in blissful ignorance.
Arriving at the twin rinks Saturday, I noticed the parking lots were brimming. Turns out this was a showcase tourney, with clubs from Covid-restricted hotspots down state and in Ohio coming up to play here in Traverse City, a Phase-5 region that permits competition. Just as I reached the side entrance, a blast of natural sound informed me of the mask choice of the local refs: A real whistle shrilled, sans mask. Four zebras were at work in the two rinks, none covered above the neck.
Most fans were covered, coaches yes, players partially. Later I saw teams performing dryland with the exuberance that comes from a new season that had been in jeopardy; sadly, only a third were covered above the nose. Another real world experiment: blissful ignorance vs the Corona virus.
I shuffled through the ref's locker room, one of the premier such rooms in the region, and saw it had a half dozen sets of gear bags spread about five-feet apart, no humans visible, the virus level unknown. I walked out to the west rink to track my striped peers at work. Competitive AA bantam play: kids sprinting around, coaches exhorting troops, smart jerseys from Cleveland sporting the old Barons colors and logos. Less than a week after Labor Day hockey appeared to be in full swing. The new season had begun while the NHL still had weeks to play in the old season. A time/space continuum. I wasn't sure about the sustainability of this blind optimism; it's one thing to keep hockey self-contained within this region that had a very small Carona caseload, but it's another to invite the regions not allowed to compete because of their own Covid issues into our bubble. But once the puck drops, it's full on hockey, and nothing else matters (thanks for that kicker Jim Hetfield).
A minute into watching my guys, including the region's dispatcher Mutt, working a tidy game the second day of a new season, a forward got run the through the boards in the far corner. I look to Mutt for the call, but his young partner immediately shot up his arm. At the whistle I watch his hands for what's known at the "TV call," letting the whole building (and a potential TV audience) know the type of infraction, and the kid let the perp have full justice. The young zebra performed a bit of a yoga pose, putting his non-whistle hand between his shoulder blades to signal a hit from behind.
Kind of a ballsy call. Instead of a roughing, where the guilty party simply serves two minutes and the game rolls on, this was an obligatory 2 and a TEN, one of the four minors that includes a ten minute misconduct. The young but extremely competent ref took the time to oversee the off-ice official make two entrees onto the scoresheet, then he had to explain to a snarly coach that he had to pluck another skater from his bench to serve the original two minutes as the primary perp sat for the misconduct. It was textbook work by the young zebra on opening weekend, something worthy of the USA Hockey instructional video at the annual seminar.
I hustled to the scorers table, and during a time-out motioned the kid over to the puck-sized communications circle cut out in the plexi. I complimented him on his stellar work. Then I went back to the room to lace up.
I found my favorite ref, a fellow NY and Boston guy nick named "Vig," possesser of a thick New Yawk accent he acquired during his previous life on Long Island. Vig rarely blares below the six-decibel mark. "I ain't wearing no (flippin) mask!" he bellowed. I love Vig, but our politics come from different stratospheres, even though we are both Boomers from back East. "I'm trusting my own immune system. I told them (USA Hockey regional powers) that if I have to wear a mask, I'm done."
Turns out another like-minded ref, Tom, shares his belief in no masks (and the second amendment for that matter), and that they would both gladly retire before donning a mask to work a game. From what I could tell, they were the driving forces that got our region's Poobah's to back off the obligatory masks and electronic whistles. I rationalized that Vig's L-O-U-D protests would simplify my job, but I also sensed that it wasn't great news over the long run. You can't outshout this virus.
I playfully parried with Vig about asymptomatic carriers, and how masks were proven effective, and even asked what he would do when 'They" came for his guns (Vig's plan was to do some high-powered sniping from atop the town water tower). I headed out of this potential Covid reservoir to get on the ice and re-acquaint with my edges. I'm in pretty good biking shape, but as stated before, hadn't touched my blades in half a year.
Thanks in no small part to my excellent partner Max, we had a game free from controversy. Halfway through I noticed the name "Drake" on the back of an undersized wing-man, and stole a glance at the Traverse City bench. There was Dallas, the 16-year NHL vet, the soft-spoken legend of the local rinks. In a one-goal game, I saw one of his players get his legs taken out from two-zones away as the trail official. There were too many bodies between me and the infraction to jack up my arm; I heard three sets of adult chirps from the Drake bench. Oh well, no one throws a perfecto on opening day, except maybe the Kid who worked the preceding game against the radioactive Cleveland Barons.
At the conclusion of the high-intensity affair (was it January already?) I dutifully hoisted the nets from the pegs and waited on the Zamboni before tilting the cages against the boards. I returned to the uncomfortably crowded room and saw my partner Max fiddling with the adhesive on his official USA Hockey crest. The one you have to dive through many hoops to acquire: seminars; open and closed book tests; NGB Safe Sport training; background checks and countless training videos. Attaining one of those cloth shields in the mail from Colorado Springs always contained some satisfaction fir the effort invested. Watching Max I instinctively pawed at my chest, and felt... nothing.
This was not good. It had happened once before when the two-way carpet tape used to adhere the crest to the striped jersey had come unglued over time. I made a mental note that such a thing would never happen again, yet it had. The Covid protocol had given us an extra half-hour between games, and I began the urgent work of retracing steps before the trail ran ice-cold.
No one had turned in a crest, there was nothing to see on either bench or the scorers' table, locker room zip, zilch, nada. I tracked down Zamboni driver Sam, who hadn't noticed anything unusual on the ice. Deductive reasoning told me that it had to have been scooped up by the Zam. I asked Sam the Zam (no Pharaohs for you oldy music aficionados) to keep on eye out for traces of color in the frosty bath of the Zamboni dump. He agreed to help, but I wasn't terrible confident.
Meanwhile, Max was setting me up with his two-year old crest, applying a new layer of double-sided tape to a 2018-19 crest when Sam popped his head in the door.
"Is this it?"
And there was my sacred crest, one which cannot be replaced. It had been through the full Zam cycle: gobbled up, spun with snow, and pounded down into the icy depths of a very large ice bath. Turns out it was Tony who spotted it, and rescued my peace of my mind in the form of a five-inch piece of colorful cloth.
So I was able to work the pee-wee end of my double header with enough peace of mind to get through it relatively undistracted. It was actually a hybrid pee-wee AA vs bantam A game, and it was kind of fun. I busted a bantam for bodychecking (a new rule to accommodate the pee-wees) and we had a mild discussion on the way to the box. He eventually admitted that the victim was his little brother. Which is just SO hockey, the ultimate clan sport.
So, all told, a great day; maybe. I left the ref room, one of my favorite respites in all of the Grand Traverse region, with a glow of camaraderie. I gave Vig an elbow nudge, thanked Max for help with the crest debacle, checked in on Jake's community college drone work, asked Buck about his U.S. Army reinstatement, and repeated my compliment to the young stud who executed the checking from behind to perfection. As if we were picking up exactly where we left off. But we weren't.
Exiting the complex through the east rink, I intersected another wave of geeked up hockey teens from downstate going through their dryland paces. They were laughing and bouncing and largely unmasked. This, my hockey friends, is not sustainable. I love the fact that the guys managing the T.C. rink are finally beginning to dig out from all the Covid-related red ink from a dormant summer, but I did not see a happy ending in this porous "bubble."
By Sunday morning, MAHA had sent down the latest edict in a blast email:
"So within the last 12 hours MAHA has decided for a 2nd time that officials WILL be required to wear face coverings. For those of you working tomorrow get the E whistles that are there. I have ordered 6 of the fox40 E whistles for us. 2 of them will be available to use at Kalkaska for next weekend only."
I now wonder if I'll ever work with my guy "Vig" again.
March 12. The last time I skated, exactly six months ago. With less than 24 hours notice, my USA Hockey regional assignor dropped two games on me—Bantam AA and Pee Wee AAA. This should be a trip. I started the morning with a coffee and a quick brush up with 'Ol Reliable,' the red Basic Officials Manual that is the first line of defense for every sanctioned ref.
In addition to managing the unfamiliar ice, my partner and I are expected to be masked at all times, and solve the riddle of electronic faux whistles for the first time. I've never seen one, but I'm guessing a button is to be pushed on a handheld gadget. Oh, yeah, this should be a wild ride. I'm trying not to conjure up the worst possible scenario: trying to converse with outraged coaches through my mask, defending a whistle that never sounded, surrounded by angry players. This has the makings of an on-ice maelstrom.
BREAKING NEWS: The USAH supervisor just weighed in by email, found a loophole on Page 4 of the latest mandate, giving us the option of wearing a mask during live play. Hmm... might make this maiden voyage a little smoother, though my wife and step-daughter might not like the idea of taking any unnecessary risks. Then again, the masks are one-way protection, not for the wearer. My family tested negative this week, so I'm confident I won't be endangering the kids. I'm leaning towards return to status quo during the live action, but will be prepared to go either way. Two pre-Covid whistles are tucked in my bag.
We live our lives to meet challenges. This is one of those opportunities. Carpe Diem.
Bedlam. Bobby Orr had just scored the acrobatic goal ending the Bruins 29-year championship drought and Boston Garden was shaking to its foundations. South Boston teen Kenny Callow was against the glass, giving his brother Keith a boost up, just as he was getting smacked down by a Garden security guard. Although Kenny never made it, Keith scooted over, joining a dozen other Southie kids frolicking in the midst of Bruins delirium: clapping backs, cutting in on hugs, and looting. Priceless mementos, mostly sticks and gloves shed by the celebrating players, ended up in the clutches of these adolescent raiders.
"I've got three gloves from that game," said Franny Flaherty, still living on South Boston, "Hodge, Bucyk and Sanderson. They're down in my basement." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward a closed door.
Shuttle the YouTube clip to the1:44 mark you will see a white shirted teenager with two Bruins gloves. He puts them on to consolidate his spoils. At the 2:10 mark, a lad in a yellow shirt caresses a pilfered stick, greeting his buddy in an auburn windbreaker (back to the camera) who's claimed his own. They are all from Southie. The Garden was their turf. How they claimed it, and how they managed to get into every contest they chose, is a Dickensian backstory to hockey's greatest moment.
Flaherty's cousin Larry Norton lived around the corner on Telegraph Street. A charming and dapper middle aged gentleman, Norton was the lynchpin of this neighborhood gang of sports maniacs who claimed Boston Garden as their turf. Their method of entry was as simple as it was ingenious. "I would put on my Sunday School clothes," said Norton, who was 13 at the time and known for his baby face. "I'd find a well-dressed family and slide in front of the dad. When the usher asked for my ticket, I'd just point behind me."
In the ensuing moment of confusion, Norton would bolt into the masses, and head for a designated location. "Door 14 off the East Lobby," said Norton, or another favorite spot called the "Cheese Doors." He would push them open, and let his pals in. Those doors led to five or six different areas of the Garden, so the staff couldn't cover all the options. "There would be 25 of us," said Norton. "The ushers would only get three or four of us. Those that got caught usually tried again and got in. We had eight or nine sure ins, and one would always work."
At the 3:01 mark of the video, a Southie kid comes up to Orr as he embraces an ecstatic old man atop the glass, the youth nearly separating Orr from his gloves. The legend rebuffs the attempt, and at 3:14 Orr hands his gloves to his roommate and team trainer, John "Frosty" Forristall. Orr was one of the few who escaped the swarm.
Prior to that season, the Garden belonged to kids from the North End and Charlestown. "We controlled Fenway, and Charlestown ran the Garden," said Flaherty, nearly two generations later. "There were a lot of turf battles. You were taking your life into your own hands, you [Southie kids] couldn't go over there. But we started to outnumber them, like locusts, the sheer numbers. Finally in 1969 I could go over there on my own."
Future firefighter Sean Ingram was also on the ice. He is in other unedited clips of the post-game madness, long red hair flowing as he danced across center ice.
By pure happenstance, Ingram was on a job in 2010, and began reminiscing about Orr's goal with John Gilligan, a pipe-fitter from Reading. Like so many others in Boston, Gilligan fell in love with the Bruins, and as soon as they swept the Blackhawks in the semifinals, he bolted to the Garden to spend the night waiting for tickets. There is a picture of him in the Record American, patiently queued up in the pre-dawn hours.
That morning he paid face-value for a pair of ducats worth their weight in gold. Gilligan's next stop was a Xerox copy shop, the first step in forging a reasonable facsimile of a workable ticket.
On May 10, Gilligan scalped his legit tickets for a sensational markup, and then used his forged version to slip in to the packed Garden, At game's end, he too, made it onto the ice, but he waited for the bedlam to subside. As the ice was being cleared he saw the cages and nets, cleared off inside the Zamboni entrance. With the building off its high alert, Ingram strolled over to cage and cut the netting, slipping it inside his jacket. The historic twine resides in his Reading den, next to the framed picture from The Record.
The Southie gang's lock on Garden access provided high-end entertainment beyond hockey. "We went to prize fights, Celtics, college hockey, AHL, concerts," said Flaherty. "We'd see big name bands on the board and we'd be there. It wasn't like we knew their music. Wednesday night, we're going to The Stones."
Garden security started wising up, and the Southie kids had to make adjustments. "For big games, we'd get there two hours early, before regular fans were allowed in," said Flaherty. "Sometimes the owners of the Bruins, Westy Adams senior and junior, would be down at ice level before the game, grab a security guard and point us out in the Heavens [the old Garden's Upper Balcony]. Their feeling was No one gets in for free. We'd have to climb up the ventilation shafts and hide in the ceiling until they let the fans in. We'd pop back down and go wash up in the bathrooms. It looked like we'd been playing in coal."
The good times rolled on for the Southie hockey maniacs into the 1970's. After games at the Garden they would come home and play street hockey for another two hours. When the Bruins made it to the 1972 Finals against the Rangers, they got set for what they thought would be another rollicking Cup party, the Bruins leading three games to one, ready to clinch the championship on home ice once again.
"We were too cool to take the "T" any more," said Norton. "So instead of sharing a cab, I saw a car with the keys in it." The boys were now riding in style to the Garden, albeit in a hot car. With the Cup in the house, the Rangers upset the Bruins, forcing a Game Six in New York. This provided yet another opportunity.
"I still had the car," said Norton, "Let's go to New York!" Larry found lots of well-dressed New Yorkers to ply his craft, and Southie's answer to the Bowery Boys found themselves in a much glitzier Garden party. The end result, however, was much the same, with Johnny Bucyk and Lord Stanley taking a victory lap.
At the final buzzer, old film clips show renegade fans sprinting onto the ice, reminiscent of Mother's Day two years prior. But this Cup celebration was not nearly as accommodating to the gate crashers.
At the 22:35 mark you see an excited fan in a blue windbreaker sprinting towards Gerry Cheevers and the Boston net, gleefully ready to join the black and gold conga line. That is, until he runs into the elbow of Johnny "Pie" McKenzie, and gets flattened to the ice for his trouble.
In the remaining footage, the renegades are now out of the picture, apparently deflated by McKenzie's last check of the season.
The Bruins didn't win another Cup until 2011, and by that time the Norton, Flaherty, Ingram and Callow were all watching from their couches as middle aged men. But like their heroes in black and gold, this Southie gang had a hell of a run.
Every hockey fan is aware of the Hobey Baker Award, bequeathed annually to the NCAA’s premier player since 1981. Although three decades older than its more heralded cousin, the Hobey Baker Trophy is a forgotten gem in the pantheon of college hockey hardware. Awarded annually to the Princeton freshman who best exhibits the characteristics of its namesake, the Hobey Baker Trophy has been around since 1950. Its list of recipients reads like a Who’s Who of the sport, from Canadian hockey royalty—Syl Apps (P ’70), to a Stanley Cup Champion in George Parros (P ’03), to current elite NHL Prospect Max Veronneau (P ’19). The Hobey Baker Trophy has been a harbinger for hockey greatness.
You kind of look back and see who’s won it, to be a part of those guys, and held in the same light, is pretty important,” said Parros. “These are all things that mean something to players when they’re trying to figure out what their hockey careers are going to look like. It was a huge deal for me personally.”
The 2020 recipient is Pito Walton (P ’23), a Lawrenceville School product who was introduced to college hockey at Baker Memorial Rink as a toddler. Walton is a useful starting point to play the Hobey Baker version of “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon,” an exercise that takes us all the way back to the Baker era.
Walton’s father Jim was a senior men’s league goalie for the Essex Hunt Club, who often stared down Princeton Hockey Club’s ageless sniper John Cook (P ’63), the 1960 Hobey Trophy winner. Cook and Austin Sullivan (P ’63) actually shared the 1960 award, back in the era when freshmen ineligible to play varsity hockey, had their own team. The Tiger frosh were a juggernaut in 1959-60.
“We were a great team, we only lost one game,” said Cook. “We played the varsity that year, and to their chagrin, tied them 5-5.”
Cook’s older brother Peter (P ’60) was on that humbled Princeton varsity squad, as was captain and scoring star John McBride (P ’60), the 1957 Baker Trophy recipient. McBride will never forget the aura of Hobey when he arrived at Princeton in 1956, a skinny teenager from Chicago.
“We’d heard of Hobey Baker, for sure,” said McBride, “and went and played in Baker Rink. You walk in the rink and there’s a huge portrait of him. If you didn’t know about him before you came, you certainly did when you went out for your first tryout.”
McBride went on to set several Princeton scoring records (Baker’s teams did not keep official statistics in his era), including an astounding 54-point season in 1959-60, a Tiger record that held up for 58 years. John Cook racked up 67 career goals, another piece of Princeton bedrock that wasn't shattered until 2019.
McBride’s father Paul (P ’22) never played hockey, but made annual pilgrimages from his Chicago home to Baker Rink to watch his son take a star’s turn for the Tigers. Back when Paul McBride began his freshman year at Princeton, Tiger sports hero Hobey Baker was racking up aerial victories in World War I France. Shortly after his first exam period in December of 1918, McBride and the entire campus was rocked by news that still confounds the Tiger sports community today: the legendary Hobey Baker had perished in a freak plane crash, the proverbial last man to die in World War I.
During his senior year, Paul McBride learned that Princeton would honor their hockey deity by building their own facility on campus, the Hobey Baker Memorial Rink. McBride missed its grand opening in January of 1923, having graduated seven months prior. Paul McBride’s first visit to Baker Rink wasn’t until 1957, the year his son John won the Hobey Baker Trophy.
Baker-to-McBride-to-McBride-to-Cook-to-Walton-to-Walton, six degrees of separation within a century of Tiger hockey.
It’s impossible for Princeton player not to know the legend of Baker, and cannot help but be inspired by the superstar’s long shadow. John Cook frequently thought of Hobey as he commuted from his Kingston home to Baker Rink, passing the Baker family farm on Castle Howard Court en route. John’s father Peter (P ’37), yet another Tiger scoring star from the Cook hockey clan, painted the quintessential Baker portrait with a grant from Hobey’s 1914 classmates.
And now 20-year-old Pito Walton, who watched his first college game as a five-year-old at Baker Rink, is the 81st Princeton freshman to have his name forever associated with the legend in orange and black. He plays all his home games in front of season ticket holder John Cook. Cook is impressed with the lad, and thoroughly enjoyed the club’s playoff sweep over Dartmouth this spring.
The Dog Days of Winter had descended upon Grand Traverse County. The month-old snow crunched like styrofoam, barely concealing the dog poop and cigarette butts. Christmas Trees lay prostrate like prickly green corpses, and four calendar months lay unturned before T-shirt weather. What's a fun-loving bunch to do? To paraphrase our late spiritual guru John Belushi...ROAD TRIP!
Nine fun-lovin foodies piled into three sedans for an international moveable feast. A poignant story-line immediately emerged: our sweet Melissa (thanks for the moniker Duane and Greg) was reunited with her former best friend Toyota, and for the first time in ten-thousand rides, our dainty brunette sampled the back seat of old faithful. They remained best buds of course.
Now, an hour's drive north can burn a lot of calories, what with the loading of skis and excitable chit-
chat. A must stop at the greatest diner this side of SoHo, Cormack's! A humble sampling of 1/2 pound Corned Beef and Ruben sandwiches, Tuna Melts, Tomato Soup, and... and... QUICHE?! Go figure. I'll leave the Quiche eater unnamed, but suffice to say this feline wears purple on NFL Sundays. 'Nuf Sed! And because no one had broken the 10,000 calorie mark, the carnivorous clan reloaded all nine bodies into seatbelts to travel exactly two more minutes, piling out at Johan's pastry shop to imitate our New York friends: coffee and cake. Lips smacked, cups in hand, the gang got serious and put some serious miles on. Zooming past Mackinac City, soaring over the big bridge into the U.P. and then leaving the United States, shuffling passports and Canadian Loony's and Toony's before finding ourselves in the OTHER Soo, a land both glorious and free.
Downtown Sault Ste. Marie resembles East Berlin circa 1985, so there was not loitering. The slopes were calling, and calling loud, just a few kilometers north. And finally it was before us, fresh snow, live pines and
Waxing Poetic
inexpensive trail passes. Eighteen skis clicked on, funky blue wax added to the soles, and a little "head wax" for our souls. Round and round we spun, burning a fraction of the calories consumed, but as we all know, Somethin' is better than Nuttin. The gang that couldn't shoot straight raced the sun to the horizon, and then sped north once again.
The Ninetets hunkered down in our woodsy Ice Station Zebra for three days and two nights. We smoked out any threat of Glaucoma, and we drowned any sorrows that may have crept in. Each meal a showcase for the chefs, both amateur and professional. The moveable feast was now anchored, with a veritable smorgasbord of homemade turkey soup, fresh chopped veggies, salads and hearty loaves. Breakfast employed an armada of cast iron, splashing buckwheat one morn and a Vossian Egg-fest the next.
But the Piece de Resistance was Saturday night's Fromage Orgy. Dueling Raclette's pinned the cholesterol meter, with Chorizo and veggies and freshly slaughtered deer meat. It was, appropriately enough, to die for.
The final feast of the weekend was an unforgettable breakfast created by Team Voss. The "Ma" Barker of this gang of nine was in reality a "Mo." Everyone who hunkered down over her Eggs-travaganza loosened their belt two more notches, and piled into their cars for another crack at the fluffy white love.
It's a motley crew, these nine marauders, and a warning to all who dare to join on. No lightweights need apply.
Napravnik, Tuomie and Michaelis Seek U.S. Hockey Glory
Three German national team veterans are trying to make
hockey history playing for an American University (NCAA) in Minnesota.
Seniors Marc Michaelis (Mannheim) and Parker Tuomie
(Bremerhaven) are the leading scorers for #3 ranked Minnesota State University,
while Julian Napravnik (Bad Nauheim) has demonstrated that he is the offensive
future for the team known as the Mavericks.
Minnesota State currently leads all American Universities
with 24 victories. Ever since Tuomie and Michaelis arrived on the campus
in Mankato over three years ago, their Mavericks have won more games than any
University team in the United States. In spite of that success, history has not
been kind to the Minnesota State program.
The Mavericks have never won a game in the annual NCAA
tournament, the 16-team competition that crowns a national champion each
spring. Last March the Mavericks, the top-ranked team at their NCAA regional,
failed to hold on to a three-goal lead in their opening match, suffering a
bitter defeat to Providence College. That painful memory motivates young
Tuomie.
Parker Tuomie, Proud Son of the Fatherland
“Now it’s just fuel,” said Tuomie, who along with Michaelis,
is eager to finish his University career with a taste of glory. “For our senior
class, there is no more second chances. We want to make the most of it.”
Michaelis, the two-time captain of Minnesota State, was
enjoying his greatest offensive season (33 points in 25 games played) when he
crashed into the net during a game at Bowling Green on January 17.
MIchaelis injured his leg and has missed the last five games. His countrymen are doing their best to make up for the loss of their
quiet leader.
“Obviously, with a guy like Marc, you’re never going to be
able to replace a player like that,” said Tuomie. “For me, being in that senior
position, I wanted to make sure I am at the top of my game and do everything I
can to make our team better.”
A day following the injury to Michaelis, his German mates
chipped in with the necessary offense to spark an emotional comeback victory.
Tuomie scored a power play goal and Napravnik assisted on two more, including
the Mavericks’ winning goal in sudden death overtime.
The next Saturday, Minnesota State suffered only their
fourth loss of the year to in-state rival Bemidji 4-2. The Mavericks power play—ranked
#1 in the country with Michaelis healthy—failed to score in their three man-up opportunities.
Last weekend Michaelis assisted on three goals, and Tuomie scored a last-minute goal with an extra attacker to lead Minnesota State to a win and a tie against Alaska Anchorage. But relentless Bemidji shaved another point off the Mavericks lead to 5 points in the standings.
There is no timeline when injured captain Michaelis will
return to the Minnesota State lineup, but sooner is better for Minnesota State
fans. They are counting on German national team veterans Michaelis. Tuomie and Napravnik to lead the Mavericks to their first taste of NCAA tournament success. How
the team copes with the loss of Michaelis, the NCAA’s all-time leading scorer
among active players, is one of the major stories in college hockey today.
All of Minnesota State’s games can be watched via live
stream on FloHockey.TV. Subscribers can view all of Minnesota State’s games On
Demand as well. Next weekend the Mavericks will be playing nationally ranked Northern Michigan. At this writing, there is no official word as to whether or not Michaelis
will be in uniform.
