- by John Tamming

The recent plague suspended action at The Bayshore for the better part of two years now, but play is about to resume. Strange how easy it is to recall almost everything about the place.

First, the anthems: the French school nailing lines we had never mastered, the kids from Saugeen with a brass section, and Steve Ritchie making the boys from Erie and Flint feel at home with his star spangled notes. I remember when a high school soloist wavered a bit but no one cared and the crowd simply ramped up its singing to uplift her.

And I recall Dale Hunter, our arch nemesis up from London. The Spitfires or 67’s or some Ice Dogs could visit but they were mere breezes who left little impression upon our barn. But Dale Hunter was inclement weather personified.

Our seats for a time were behind the visitors’ bench. Once, we politely enquired as to the status of his driving charge. He had no comment. For a time, my boys and I would pass slips of paper between the glass sheets with helpful suggestions for Coach Hunter’s special teams. He rudely ignored every single tip so proffered.

I remember the Knights winning. Every. Single. Game.

If your seat is right next to the bench, you hear it all - the energy as they leap over the boards, the outrage at a penalty not called, the laughter as they run up a score against the Frontenacs. I remember one forward as he was dressed down for not blocking a shot from the point. Take the pain was the message delivered by an intense assistant coach, take the pain. The kid nods, knows he blew an assignment and resolves next shift to hurl his face, ribs, kidneys and certain other prized bodily parts in front of a 101 mph slap shot.

I think back to the extended hush as someone from the other team is down in a corner, on the ice, motionless and I recall the relief as players slap the ice with their sticks as he holds onto the trainer and gets to his feet.

And of course, one remembers the April 2018 game which began with the players at centre ice, in a large circle, the teams interspersed with one another - an OHL tribute to a bus crash in Saskatchewan.

I remember leather lunged Dave Moyer heckling in A section, informing the referee that he got a penalty call against us wrong. Minutes later he will commend the same ref for penalizing the other team. But will also remind him that being right now does not cause Mr. Moyer to forget the previous mistake. The zebra pretends not to hear.

I remember the fans around our seats: the lady in front of me with plastic hand clappers which drove us nuts, her daughter chatting with her new boyfriend from The Point, the fan behind me telling the player who whiffed on his pass that he should not have whiffed on his pass, informing the player who missed his check that he ought not to have missed his check, urging one defenceman to shoot forthwith, the next time cautioning him not to shoot so soon.

I remember when we were down a goal and I tried to start a chant. I stood up, hollered the obligatory Go Attack Go (these chants are rarely more complicated than that) and motioned my section to follow suit. I remember the complete absence of response, Wendy telling me to sit down, and the long, painful return to my seat.

I remember the high school girls working their phones, flirting with the guys, the people up in the private boxes, strutting in and out of their sky palaces, the friendly barkeep who was always a little heavy on the Crown Royal pour, the local personality blowing Sweet Caroline on a conch shell, the one section hollering ‘see ya!’ when one of the enemy entered his penalty box.

I remember The Bayshore as a civic living room, showing Grey-Bruce at its best as we remembered the death of prominent citizens, welcomed a crowd of camouflage from the Meaford tank range, awarded some prize to a student from the Cape or Saugeen and played along as Dave Middleton forced apparent strangers to kiss.

And when we really, really needed a goal, I remember Bobby Ryan, starting with the puck deep in our end. I recall the quiet as the crowd braced for what was about to happen next – as he unwound his legs, slowly accelerated through the defence, undressed the goalie and buried it into the net.

Drop the puck please. Soon.