sounding in the distance. Bong—Bong—Bong.
The coach, Roger Neilson, stood guard with them, trying desperately to look strong, composed, intelligent, and in control. He wanted to look that way for the sake of his young men. Roger desperately wanted to look strong for them. He had always sought to represent the higher ideals in hockey, as in life. Roger was always mindful that there were higher ideals in hockey. Now, he was given a chance to demonstrate those higher ideals, to lead his young men, his talented young men, the Peterborough Petes. Yet, even Roger, this deeply spiritual man, this man who loved God, gave in, as both of his eyes misted, forcing him to dry them in plain view with his white handkerchief. Roger would stand there with his white handkerchief in hand, as though in surrender to his world, to his God, to the people who were there, to the greater forces around him. But now, Roger waved it symbolically as though in surrender. Roger would one day use that white handkerchief to great effect in hockey too, symbolic perhaps of that day, that very sad day.
The Petes stood there, handsome on this day, in those two straight lines facing each other; so much so that on another day someone surely would have made remarks about it. All of them looked straight ahead, unable to make eye contact, afraid to make it, except to sniffle, or shield their eyes from their tears that fell, or to imitate their coach and dry them. It was silent that day—far too silent.
This who’s who of hockey stars and stars-to-be were in submission in this bewildering environment.
Still, they waited there, lined up at the foot of the steps outside Kennedy’s Funeral Home, forming their honour guard on the pathway that led to the hearse waiting there quietly, on Main Street. Bong went the bell again. Bong—bong—bong.
Inside, the veteran funeral director, Stewart Kennedy, a leader at sad occasions, couldn’t keep his composure either. He too sobbed, mostly keeping it inside, looking away when he needed to, drying his eyes when he had to, rushing away at times, as though on an important errand, when the emotions were too strong, he too using a white handkerchief to dry his tears, to surrender.
The surrender was more than symbolic that day. It was real, much too real.
It was remarkable by all accounts. Inside, the stifling silence was broken by the suffering of his parents, Ed and Maxine. Both of them were dying right there with their son. They both needed assistance to even be there, yet both of them were unable to leave.
Ed and Maxine both lived through the experience of having their lives ended at the moment their son, their star son, had died. Yet, both of them were forced to continue living for the sake of their other children. Maxine would be the signature of that submission.
“God!” she would say. “I have done my best to raise my children until now, but I am now unable. You will have to raise them for me now for I am unable,” she would repeat.
It would be her heartbroken children, led by the eldest, Judy, and by John, Joan, Dan and Kathy who would pull together to make God’s job of raising them easier.
Ed and Maxine were destined to lead the first family of hockey, but that didn’t matter now. To be with their son Jim, is what mattered. It was all that mattered. He looked handsome there lying in his coffin. How we desperately wanted him to again sit up and let his greatness show. Now, he would again include us in his many victories as he always did, never leaving any of us behind, making it look so easy to win at hockey as at life, and to make it look so easy to bring all of us along with him to share in the joy of those victories, in the joy of who he was—this great man.
The family and all of us too, experienced death that day. We experienced it with our great friend, Jim Mahon. A part of us died with him. We were on our own now, cast out from the cocoon of his greatness, and we didn’t want to be.
Members of the Hayes and Mahon families were there to help Ed and Maxine, but, they too, were stricken by grief, immobilized by it. At that moment, that very cruel moment, when the coffin was closed, they too, were unable to cope under the strain of it. Time would stand still that day, and yet it would move on, cruelly move on.
Ed stared straight ahead, as though looking at his son one last time. And there he was—his boy—his well-loved son. He could see him now in his mind. Now, he was standing there before his eyes, standing on one leg, balancing himself there at the rink as he pulled on a skate. He bent over it, laced it up in the way he always did, then starting with the bottom loop, tightened it, and then each next one in succession, before tying a first shoe knot, then a second to reveal two perfect loops. He then pulled on the other skate and effortlessly tied it. Even in this simple task, his immense power showed. There it was, the muscular frame of a giant of a man, still a boy.
Then in one powerful smooth stride, he glided away onto the smooth ice.
“Man! He’s back!” someone shouted out from the haze as he smoothly skated on. He circled the rink a couple of times, then skated backwards, just as smoothly, just as powerfully.
Next, he did some stretches, before reaching for a puck, fondling it with his stick and doing things with the puck that would remind one of a magician with his wand. He pulled it back and forth, side to side, through his legs before quickly releasing a wrist shot to the bottom corner of the net. Even Ed lost sight of the puck as it sailed through the air, only to reappear when it had bounced out of the net, to settle again on his stick.
There was a magic to hockey, the way Jim Mahon played it. It was there, at that moment, as it had been on most others when Jim played. It was the same magic Jim had shown his father and all others who had watched him over the years. It was a magic Jim had shown them over and over, again and again. Yet, it was so different now for Ed, and for all who were there then. This was the last time they would watch Jim, even if now, they watched him in their minds because until the coffin closed, he was there with them. It was the last time they would watch him in their minds, with his body present. Jim was still there. Jim lay there, still looking like he would get up from his terrible sleep, and resume the heroic role that God had given him until now.
But then, the coffin was closed.
People rushed to help. They tried to help. But, how can you help when there is no solution to the problem?
His old juvenile coaches were there, Lonnie Jones and Jim Barnett, both of them wishing they could help. It had been easy for them until Jim died. The solution in every situation had been so simple. It was as easy as this.
“Jim, get onto the ice,” is all they would have to say, and the solution was at hand. They, too, were heartbroken. They had coached him as a kid playing in a juvenile league, playing like a man would have, despite his tender years. He had made the Maidstone Green Hornets, a super team, a team that was larger than life. They too, were paralyzed by grief, disconsolate in it. They too, had lost in their personal struggle with the grief they felt for Jim. Their suffering was brought on by what Jim had meant to them, to their loved ones, to their community, to their country, to every one of us, to what he was, and to what he would have been.
Each one, that day, had sought to find earthly meaning in this tragedy. Each one had failed to find it, and now, each one was trying to join with Jim spiritually; at least, to join with him in their minds, in another world; at least to join with him as close as they could get to him. All who were there that day at Kennedy’s Funeral Home tried to join with Jim, tried to join spirits with him in that other world, all the while living out their earthly suffering.
Despite the magnitude of the attendance that day, and despite the quantum of dignitaries there, this was not a celebrity spectacle, though celebrity it surely was. It was a spectacle of pure grief.
All the while, a lonely distant bell punctuated the silence. Bong!
