Humour at the races
Dee Murphy ranks among the list of the great storytellers of Royal St. John’s Regatta history, which included people like Aubrey Mack, Jimmy Crotty, Jimmy Higgins and Jim Clancy.
I remember one particular anecdotal gem Dee once recalled during a meeting of the Regatta Hall of Fame Committee in the 1990s.
As Dee told it, he and his brother, Tom, rowed in the same boat in an early 1950s Regatta.
“We were favourites to win. When the firing gun went off, Tom dropped his oar which caused a slow start for our crew and resulted in us coming across the finish line in last place. When we got back to the boathouse, the members of the St. Pat’s crew were presenting a birthday cake to a fellow rower.”
Tom Murphy, hoping to draw some kidding and laughter at brother Dee’s expense, asked him, “How come you never give me a birthday cake?”
Dee, who was given an opening he couldn’t resist, shot back, “We were going to give you one, Tom, but we were afraid you’d drop it.”
Funeral procession interrupts race
Another of Dee’s gems related to an incident which took place early one Regatta Day in the 1950s. While the crews had lined up at the starting point and were awaiting the sound of the starter’s gun, an unusual occurrence took place.
A funeral procession was about to enter the cemetery adjoining the pond when one of the competing rowers stood up in his boat, to the surprise of fellow rowers, placed his right hand over his heart then bowed his head in respect until the procession entered the graveyard.
This man was known for his outstanding dedication to the Regatta and was totally focused on winning a race. His display of respect for the funeral procession prompted other rowers to join in for the funeral taking place. Even those in the committee boat followed suit.
At the end of the race, the coxswain shook the man’s hand and said, “That was a remarkable thing you did at the start of the race. Everyone was impressed.”
The rower responded, “It was the least I could do. It was my mother-in-law they were burying.”
The inimitable Aubrey Mack
At a time when Aubrey Macdonald (Aubrey Mack) was a household name in Newfoundland, during an easy listening CBC radio show, Aubrey recalled his friendship with then Premier Joey Smallwood.
He said in his authoritative style of delivery, “Yes, I knew Joe long before 1949. Every time we’ve met since, Joe would tell me, ‘Aubrey, if there’s anything you ever need, just whistle.’” As he introduced the next recording artist, he said, “… and now let’s listen to the smooth sounding voice of Perry Como with his latest hit ‘Hot Diggity.’”
As he slowly phased in Como, he could be heard whispering in the background, “You know well Joe I can’t whistle.”
Mack’s first Regatta broadcast
Aubrey Mack’s first regatta radio broadcast was one he wanted to forget.
“It was a total embarrassment, he said.
To find out more about that occasion, I sought out records of the first radio broadcasts covering the Regatta and, after much searching, I located the incident he was talking about. The following is a real gem of Regatta humour which I found among old Regatta day programs and penned by Aubrey himself. Not a word has been changed. He wrote:
“I’ve been watching Regattas in St. John’s ever since I was a tussle-haired kid kicking up my heels with the gang on Bond Street. As a radio announcer, I’ve been closely associated with the annual Water Derby since the early 40s. I have many memories. Some bitter, but mostly sweet. There is, however, one bitter memory that comes back to haunt me every year along about this time.
“In the early days of my dubious career, I was never asked to participate in an outside broadcast. Big events went by, but I stayed at the VONF studios, in the Newfoundland Hotel. It seemed I would never graduate from the “answer-the-phone, make-the-station-announcement” stage. I nursed a grudge against the powers-that-be for not giving me a chance to prove myself as an ad lib speaker at some national event.
“Canadians and Americans who were billeted in St. John’s joined with Newfoundlanders to give the 1948 Regatta a cosmopolitan flavour. Aided by balmy breezes, and a placid course, top-flight crews trained to razoredge keenness were ready for an all-out assault on the fast hands of the clock. Over 20,000 patrons watched and speculated.
“Back at VONF studios, the working crew, under the guidance of manager, W.F. Galgay, prepared to leave for the course. As he was leaving, the boss turned to me, “Be a good boy,” he said, “look after the phone, and take any messages.”
“I sulked all morning. “Imagine,” I pondered, “me a sports announcer, and not attending the biggest sports event of the year. The irony of it!” I decided to do something about it. I’d go to the Regatta! The operator on duty questioned my judgment, but agreed to look after things at the studio. “You’ll get into trouble,” he warned.
“Pushing my way through the milling crowds, I reached the wharf near the committee tent. I came face to face with the boss. His voice sounded ominous, “And what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the studio!”
“My voice came from the depths. “Sir,” I managed, “I just had to come. I want to see how it’s done.” Motioning to the radio boat, he said icily, “Get in!”
“The Truckmen’s Race was coming up on the program. Always a thriller, 10,000 eyes and ears would be focused on the event. VONF would carry the description to untold thousands, and loudspeakers were placed along the bank.
“Our little boat chugged its way towards the lower end of the pond, so that an observer would be in an ideal position to describe the boats turning the buoys, usually the most crucial part of a race.
“I didn’t particularly like the way Mr. Galgay was looking at me. Finally, and with fearful suddenness, he said, “Why should I describe this race? You’re the sports announcer. You do it.”
“Did I hear him right? Was he asking me to describe the Truckmen’s Race? Good gracious, he was! I pinched myself. I couldn’t feel it.
“I’ll give you the big buildup,” he said, “one that would do justice to a Bill Stern or a Mel Allen!” He proceeded to heap paeans of praise upon my hapless head. Reaching great heights of oratory, he intoned, “And here to describe the turning of the buoys is the one and only, Aubrey Mack!”
“Groping for the power of speech, struggling for expression, I blurted, “Laaaadees and geen-tle-men. The ... the … the bo-ats ... the ... the b-b-boats ... the ... the Red Li-li-lion ... the Blue P-p-peteer ... the ... the...”
“My voice trailed off. I struggled, gasped, choked and prayed for inspiration. Everything went blank. I passed the mike back to Mr. Galgay.
“I couldn’t say another word. I couldn’t tell one boat from another; might just as well be Harvard and Yale, Oxford and Cambridge.
“Mr. G. continued with the description of the race, while I cringed — a tragic figure — in the bow of the boat … a harassed, harried actor in one of radios most ignominious moments.
“Another observer took over to describe the finish. The boss glared at me, “Don’t speak to me again,” he sneered. “You have placed a stigma on the body radio that shall never be erased in our day!” To step over the side, into the wild, churning waters of Kitty Vitty seemed such a beautiful escape. It’s dead easy to die. It’s the keeping on living that’s hard.
“When I dragged myself on the wharf a wise acre greeted me with, “Make way for Bill Stern, the great sportscaster!”
“The turning of the b-b-buoys — they say — is an oarsman’s dilemma. It can be an announcer’s too! Mine. Now, that I think of it, I might have done better on that black Wednesday had Mr. Galgay passed me an oar rather than a microphone.”
This episode did not end Aubrey’s career as an announcer. He became one of the finest broadcasters in Newfoundland’s sporting history, and up until his passing was among the most sought after after-dinner speakers in the province.
In his retirement, I had the pleasure of dining weekly at a downtown restaurant called “Fat Henry’s” with Mack, Mayor Dorothy Wyatt and another great story teller, Frank “Toe” Byrne.
In a matter of minutes, the trio’s wit and humour rocked the place. Fat Henry would join in shaking his head and commenting, “It’s like the popular ‘Passing Parade. (a weekly radio show in the 1950s.”
And with that I’ll call it, in newspaper lingo, a -30-.