Gordie Boy: “Don’t throw out my old hockey gloves”

I have a long list of items that should go into a box for the curb. Some day I’ll get around to throwing these things out. I won’t miss them a bit.

I have another long list. On it are things long gone that I should have set aside for some sort of museum. E.g., my dad’s Navy duffel bag (circa 1940s); his yellow and black hockey pants lined on the inside with wooden slats; my baseball cards from the 1950s and ‘60s; my comic book collection from the same era; family letters; my first pair of leather CCM Tacks (skates), etc. Occasionally I shake my head about my losses.

And I have another list that includes things I won’t throw out for a long time. Maybe my sons will appreciate them - just for a year or two, that would be fine - after I’m gone.

On that last list appears the following entry - Gordie Boy’s first pair of new hockey gloves.

They are one of my favourite things. They were a Christmas gift from my mother, circa 1964 (Dad didn’t buy many gifts and I’m now much the same way). Once the gift was opened I whooped for joy. They currently hang in my workshop and wood dust becomes them. And members of my immediate family know they must not throw the battered gloves out with the trash.

I hang onto the old leather gloves - in part - for the following reasons:

They link me to my mother. She scrimped and saved for those gloves much like she did for my first new bicycle.

The gloves and I travelled a lot of miles together in the 1960s. I played in an intercounty league, got used to losing by wide margins, but learned to love the sport of hockey.

My gloves and I were seldom parted, but in case we were, I put an ‘X’ on them - with white adhesive tape - so I could find them easily after any melee.

When I look at them I am taken back 4 - 5 decades in the blink of an eye.

They help me recall a few glorious games and funny stories.

They are old warriors and are perfect companions for my first leather helmet (also hanging in my shop).

They smell like cramped dressing rooms in small town arenas.

They smell like hockey. 

And so it goes.

I’m certain I have a few more years of hockey in me and I’m pretty sure when I hang up my skates they won’t owe me anything, much like my first new pair of black leather hockey gloves.

Score one for Gordie Boy.

Photos by GH

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