THE ABBOTSFORD VIPERS
On this team, earning a nickname means you’re officially part of the family!
We all had nicknames. That’s the way it seems to be in the dressing room of a beerleague hockey team. We had “Big Lyle” and we had “Little Lyle.” We had “Short Bob” whose last name was Long, and we had “Long Al” whose last name was Short. We had “Rick the Hooker,” a defenceman who would instinctively hook anyone who tried getting around him. He once horse-collared a spare player, leaving a gash from ear to ear. We also had another defenceman named “Elbows White,” who made you regret parking yourself in front of his goalie, as you’d be nursing black-and-blue ribs after the game.
Moving further down the list, we had “Choo-choo” Perdue, who was a train operator, and “Crusher” Chretien, who could crush a golf ball 300 yards down the middle of the fairway pretty much every time! “Crusher” also has a brother, “Pyro Dave,” who was a fireman for the City of Abbotsford. Grant “The Horsethief” Healy was a gentle giant of a defenceman, until he bore down upon you during his once-a-game, end-to-end rush. “Coleman” was another key guy who’d bring his cooler into the dressing room full of ice-cold beer. Two bucks a pop.
Those are some of the guys I skated with for the better part of 20 years. We’d step on the ice every Friday night at 10:30 p.m. and, depending on our relationship with that night’s Zamboni driver, we’d be forced off at midnight...or we’d skate until we could skate no longer.
Terry “The Hipster,” a plumber by trade, had three hip replacements—since the second one healed poorly. Steve “The Garbageman,” who wasn’t the best skater on the team, would set up in front of the net and pot a lot of garbage goals. Steve, whose occupation is that of a renovator, snapped his leg one night when the blade of his skate got caught between two boards. The leg healed so badly it ended his hockey career. “Hank the Calculator,” an accountant by day, scored a goal early in the first game of one season, and then he broke his wrist near the end of that same game. It too healed badly. He never came back.
Four of us shared a season-ticket package for the Vancouver Canucks. I was at that awful Game Seven in 2011 with “Diesel,” a rock-solid defenceman, when the trium
phant Boston Bruins raised Lord Stanley’s holy mug, the night the city of Vancouver lost its sanity. We grieved the defeat at an outside bar near the arena and watched the madness unfold before our eyes.
Our Annual General Meeting always took place in the man-cave of “Billygreenpants,” who wore the green hockey pants of the long-since vanished Minnesota North Stars. Once there, we’d decide how to spend the money from the beer profits and the spares’ fees. We’d also debate by-laws. One year, the main issue was wearing visors. A lot of guys didn’t want them but “Rick the Hooker” only had one eye, so we finally decided that no one was forced to wear a visor, unless they were missing an eye.
“Firm Vern,” from New Brunswick, was a machinist who had arms like steel. In 1993 he pinned up notices in every arena in town. Twenty guys ended up responding, thus forming the birth of the Abbotsford Vipers. Vern had taken on the role of General Manager. I was called “Coach” because I was the oldest guy on the team and, being a minor hockey coach, I owned a whistle. Ours was a form of pond hockey. I’d blow the whistle to signal the end of the pre-game warm-up, and I’d blow it when there was a very obvious offside. Most of us were pretty good skaters and everyone understood what an offside was, so I didn’t blow it often and certainly not on the close ones!
We unfortunately have had to endure a fair share of tragedies and difficult times. “Little Pete,” who skated with the fluidity and smoothness of silk, unfortunately passed away when his garbage truck rolled on a wet and slippery road. There was a big funeral ceremony held for him and about 30 gleaming garbage trucks were in attendance that day as well, with the drivers showing their support. Pete was also a biker, so dozens of Harley Davidson riders roared into the parking lot to pay their respects. Tough-looking guys. All grieving. Pete’s three sons played hockey, and he was a coach, so the facility was full of kids in their hockey jerseys. And of course, we were there too: the Friday-night Vipers...his teammates.
Then there was “Pepper” from Quebec, whose skates would whisper over the ice. He was a great golfer, too. He was a roofer by trade and, one day, he fell off a roof that he and his crew were shingling. He didn’t make it.
Firm Vern’s wife also died young and unexpectedly, as did Little Lyle’s. Cancer.
As with all beer-league teams, we got older, guys moved away, and the young replacements were pretty quick, and things weren’t quite the same. So, after 20 years of being together, we folded. For a few years afterwards, we got together for an annual Vipers golf tournament. But that too has now faded away.
Some of those guys are still among my closest of friends and I remember the others with nostalgic fondness. They all shared and shaped an important part of my life for about a quarter-century. Special!