as strong on my clothes as on Dad’s.
From there I moved on to being a computerized-panel-saw operator. It was in this position that I settled in and began to become comfortable. While sports had always been one of my obvious gifts, I’d also developed a knack for math and puzzle-solving. When operating a computerized panel-saw the purpose is to take a large sheet of particleboard and cut it into smaller pieces for use in furniture. This could be any size of rectangle that had to be cut precisely, including taking the grain into account. A bedroom set could easily require up to 60 different pieces. They had advanced (at the time, anyway) computers for figuring out the most efficient way of cutting the particleboard. In other words, how many pieces can you get out of a single sheet? The computer would figure out a pattern, and we would then make the cuts. In many ways it was like trying to play Tetris, like fitting the “T” shaped piece in—should it go sideways, upside down or right side up? It didn’t take long before I was disagreeing with what the computer readout was telling us about the way to cut the particleboard. I grabbed a piece of paper and pencil and began to sketch, doing the math and subtracting the lengths and widths from the overall particleboard dimensions. Within a few tries I had come up with a more efficient way of cutting the particleboard that outdid any computer program at the time.
This kind of initiative—and skill—had me promoted to lead hand after a while, and from there it was on to foreman, supervisor and then middle management over a department. Working hard and having a keen eye for increasing production enabled me to do exactly what I had promised the general manager—work my way up the company, eventually becoming the manager myself, though many years later.
I was the plant manager, and my responsibility included the starting of the particleboard plant, sawmill and veneer operation. Eventually I became the vice-president of operations for particleboard, sawmill, veneer and finished goods manufacturing. It was a vertically integrated manufacturing complex with a payroll of about 1,000 employees and a finished goods sales budget of $70 to 80 million. In an industry populated by overseas manufacturing, it was extremely uncommon to go from sawdust to completed furniture in one manufacturing location.
Before becoming the vice-president of operations, I had been general manager in title but VP in responsibility. While I wanted to work my way up in the company, I had hesitations about accepting the title. The amount of stress, responsibility and time that came with the title was not something I wanted on my shoulders. It was, however, being hoisted onto my shoulders regardless of what I wanted.
While this is the picture of my working career, much had changed in my life. By the time 2006 rolled around, I was prepared to be done with the corporate world. Besides, a passion had grown within me that made it easy to leave the company I had dedicated my entire professional career to—but that’s getting a little ahead of myself.
* * *
Rewinding to the beginning of this chapter, I found my soccer career on the decline just as my working career was gaining traction. Suffering the consequences of many collisions from holding my own in the soccer world, my playing ability just couldn’t keep up with the intense pace of the level of soccer I was accustomed to playing. Just being hit with a ball during warm-up would bring on concussion-like symptoms, and I knew this couldn’t last.
Attending the church we had grown into as soon as we came to Canada, I had my eye on a young woman a few years younger than me. Her name was Ruth, and though we had never met (and she probably didn’t know I existed), I knew that she was the one for me. Whenever possible I would sit behind her in the church balcony. I was always very impressed—she sat beside her mom and dad, unlike so many of the other youth. I figured she was a “good girl,” and I got nervous every time I got near her. I don’t think I heard a single sermon when she was sitting in front of me (don’t tell Reverend Neufeld).
Imagine, then, my horror and shock when one day she decided to sit with her friends. All my dreams had been shattered, and I wondered if I was misled in believing her to be my future wife. Nevertheless, this quiet crush lasted for years.
When she decided that she would go to Bible school in BC the year after high school, I was completely crushed. Having liked her for so long, I was somehow disillusioned that the feeling and attraction was mutual—when she had never even talked to me. Though I had not made a single move or even made my presence known, I gave up on her while she was away. I figured she would meet someone else out there and never return.
That didn’t happen, and she did return. When she came back, however, she was so confident and outgoing that I, a timid and shy adult, knew that I had no chance.
I decided that I had to give it a shot. I knew where she lived and the way she would usually walk to get to church. I decided that I would go to a college and career event (my one and only), and, even though my house was closer to the church than hers, I would somehow be driving by in my bright orange two-seat convertible sports car—a 1975 Spitfire MGB. When I drove down the street she was exactly where I expected her to be. I asked her if she wanted a ride (my first real words to her), and I was completely surprised when she agreed.
Our relationship consisted of a slow start (my fault), though we often went on rides in my convertible and I would invite her to soccer games from time to time. Not exactly a smooth boyfriend, but she was gracious, and the rest was, as they say, history.
In the fall of 1980 we got engaged, and I finally decided to retire from soccer. That next spring a team begged me to come back out of retirement for a tournament in Thunder Bay. The itch to play hadn’t stayed away, so I went. At the end of that season, I officially retired.
Those who have played or competed at an elite level know just how difficult it can be to retire. Perhaps it’s why we see such high-profile athletes return to their sport (or another). There’s just that competitive buzz in their bones that they can’t get rid of. They sit on the couch, and their legs shake when they see others competing on TV; they hear a ref blow a whistle and wish they were in the game again. Being a goalie had taken its toll on my body, so I came back for a season as a left-wing for a team called Brazilia. Soccer took a backseat as a priority, especially now that I was newly married, but I was still good enough to play one division lower than Premiere.
* * *
The sound I heard was worse than the feeling I felt. I’d had my share of falls and crashes throughout my career, but this was much worse. It was a tearing noise that alerted my ears that something was wrong as I fell to the ground. I couldn’t support myself, as my right foot was stuck in a hole. It wasn’t even during a game—only a practice—but damaged cartilage and partially torn ligaments are not forgiving.
As I lay on the ground, pain coursing through my body, I realized that something seriously wrong had happened. This could be—would be—the end of my competitive soccer playing. While some of my teammates rushed over to check if I was OK when I didn’t stand up, I could feel the blood pounding in my ears as the adrenaline raced through my body. The sounds of the practice going on around me were muted and somehow distant, as if someone had turned the speaker down. All of my body’s resources were focused on the pain and repairing what had gone wrong—only it couldn’t.
Neither would the doctors. I was put into a cast and forced to walk with a limp. Due to my high pain threshold, they didn’t believe it was that serious. If my income wasn’t dependent on my knee’s health, then they wouldn’t do surgery. “Wrap it up and rest it” is what I was told. I am fully convinced that this was the onset of the limp that I still have to this day.
Living with a severely damaged knee for a year and a half could also have been the start of the onset of my osteoarthritis. Forced to climb stairs like a kid—my left leg first, one step at a time—it took that year and a half before I could convince a doctor that I needed surgery in order to live anything resembling a normal
