Murray Howe - Nine Lessons I Learned from My Father

VIKING
an imprint of Penguin Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited

Canada USA UK Ireland Australia New Zealand India South Africa China

First published 2017

Copyright 2017 by Murray Howe

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Howe, Murray (Murray A.), author

Nine lessons I learned from my father / Murray Howe.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 9780735234178 (hardcover).ISBN 9780735234185 (EPUB)

1. Howe, Gordie, 1928-2016. 2. Howe, Murray (Murray A.).

3. Hockey playersCanadaBiography. 4. Fathers and sons. I. Title.

GV848.5.H6H69 2017 796.962092 C2017-900167-1

C2017-900452-2

Cover design by Five Seventeen

Cover image: The Detroit News

v4.1

a

to my parents, for your beautiful example

Dad passed away on June 10, 2016, exactly one year to the day after he moved in with my wife and me.

Many of us have the experience of caring for someone who once cared for us. My wife, Colleen, and I knew it wouldnt be easy. Dad was a 210-pound fall risk whod rather die than use a walker. He prided himself on his appearance, but his eighty-seven-year-old body needed assistance with shaving, showering, dressing, and combing his wavy silver locks. His short-term memory was, as he put it, Not worth sh*t. Not that he would ever use these words in the presence of women or children, gallant as he was, even at eighty-seven.

He would need constant reassurance and reminders of where we were and what date and time it was. This was a man who had done countless personal appearances over the past fifty years. He was always convinced that he was supposed to be getting ready for something. He just didnt quite know what.

For Colleen and me, it was an honor and a privilege to provide a home for Dad to spend the balance of his days. Both of my parents had been so good to all the Howe children and grandchildren, as well as to everyone else they met, that we were eager to repay their kindness as best we could. Im a physician, and Coll and I both adored my dad, so my siblings knew that dad would be in good hands. I felt blessed to be able to make the most of every day, take him on outings I knew hed enjoy, and just listen intently to the stories he was so eager to tell, even though I couldnt always understand everything he was saying. It didnt matter; the substance of the story was in his eyes, his smile, and his laughter. I understood.

I recognize that most boys are in awe of their fathers. I both feared and adored mine. Dad was scary as hell to me when I was a toddler. Grown men were afraid of him, and for good reason. Can you even imagine how big he seemed to a three-year-old who was the runt of the litter? To me, there was no measurable difference between my dad, a rhino, and an adult male silverback gorilla.

Yet I treasured him as much as any son could, because beneath his powerful exterior he was so fun-loving and gentle. He was tirelessly nurturing to me, my siblings, and my mom, and also so warm and welcoming to every person he met. The love he had for othersand his willingness to serve themnever seemed to end. There was no one I idolized more.

Like most sons, I would have loved my father no matter what he did for a living. But not every son gets to see that the rest of the world admires his dad nearly as much as he does. Nowhere was this more obvious than at Dads second home: Detroits Olympia Stadium. I was fortunate enough to be able to ride down to the arena with my father on occasion. Hed always arrive several hours before game time. He loved being early.

At the Olympia, hed take the time to talk to every person he ran into, beginning with the parking lot attendant. Hey, Gordie! called the attendant, his face lighting up the moment he saw my dads big grin. The attendants always offered to park Dads car, and he always declined. He would rather carry his car than have someone else park it for him. He hated having anyone do anything for him. If a hotel porter tried to grab his suitcase from him, the poor fellow would receive a solid elbow to the ribs. Dad would carry his own bags but tip the porter anyway.

We typically entered the Olympia through the main door, avoiding the secret back entrance where players could duck the crowd. The police officers working the game were among the first to greet him. Hey, Mr. Hockey! Hows that elbow? they would joke.

I dunno. You tell me! was my dads usual response. Then he would graze past them, dragging his elbow across their faces as he went. Who else could get away with that?

Id follow in Dads huge wake, and Detroits finest would give me a wink or a thumbs-up. All the Howe kids were so well known at the stadium that we breezed right past the police and the ticket takers.

Once we were inside the arena, everyone was so excited to be around him, it was electrifying. That charged my father right up.

The hot dog lady would say, Gordie, how about a dog? Or a Coke?

Dad would chuckle, Maybe after the game!

Fans recognized him instantly. Thered be an endless stream of Hey, Gordie! or Here comes Mr. Elbows!

Dad always acted like it was the first time hed ever heard that one.

Once hed made it to the dressing room, hed slowly undress, painstakingly folding or hanging each article of clothing and placing his shoes in perfect parallel in their little cubby. Hed then take forever to don his equipment, retape his stick, and sharpen his skates if they werent exactly to his liking.

Even if I had never seen him step out onto the ice, he would be a legend in my eyes. Hes who I wanted to be. I still pinch myself at the realization that he was my father. How many sons are genuinely excited to ask their fathers for an autograph? The older I got, the more my awe and admiration for him grew. He was as huge as I am compact. As legendary as I am ordinary. Perhaps the only things I inherited from him were his nose and his sense of humor. Yet I always considered myself blessed beyond measure.