About 20 years ago, when I was dirt poor and parking for free at the curling rink on the other side of the Bow River and walking into the downtown, some Canada Cup pre-tournament games were in Calgary.
I was walking along the Bow River, contemplating another day of slavery, when out of the gloom, mist and heavy fog of a cold early morning emerges a man in a loose trenchcoat, a sad, defeated, wistful look across his face . . . . . . . Viktor Tikhonov, the great Russian hockey coach, wobbling from one heavy foot to the other., the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
Just him and me in the heavy fog . . . . passing ships. A glance of acknowledgemnt, no words exchanged.
And then he was gone, back into the fog, swallowed as though he were never there.
A very Russian, Dr. Zhivago, moment.
Another time, as the 1996 playoffs were underway, I was running along the Bow when Chris Chelios and his wife came running from the other way. Chelios gave me one of those "Don't say a frakkin' word to me" looks, which I honoured.
In fact, I've probably only spoken to an NHL'er once, Rick Tabarracci at an autograph table at the Saddledome. He was traded the next day.
Cowperson
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Dear Lord, help me to be the kind of person my dog thinks I am. - Anonymous
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