Orland Kurtenbach - Captain 1970 - 1974

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
- Simon & Garfunkel 'Sounds of Silence' (1970) 

My Dad and I were excited when the NHL granted Vancouver a franchise. I was 12.

Toronto and Montreal were light years away from our house on the beach. It was time for us to have a ‘hometown’ team we could call our own. And from the first time ‘Kurt’ pulled the C over his head and skated out onto the ice we were Canuckleheads.

Those first years Vancouver iced a team of castoffs, the dregs of the league nobody wanted or the over the hill players brought up with the team from the Pacific Coast League. It wasn’t pretty, but it was our team dammit. We may have hated the stick and rink logo on the front but we knew a heart bigger than its abilities beat inside every jersey!

Times changed, my Dad and I took seperate paths in life and our chats slipped to once a week, then once a month, then once every few months. Sometimes we chatted about the weather, our jobs, our familes, ALWAYS about our Canucks.

And then we didn’t talk at all – for almost 20 years.

One day out of the blue my Dad called. We talked about the weather, our jobs, our families and of course about our Canucks.

And it was good, very good – even better.

My Dad and I started talking – once every couple of weeks, then once a week, then every few days. We didn’t talk about the weather or our jobs, we talked about family – and our Canucks.

See, my Dad was dying and he was afraid he would pass before I got home. I hung up the phone and packed.

When I got home my Dad and I talked – for hours, days even. We talked about life, the old days, the important things.

We didn’t talk about the Canucks.

After my Dad passed away I stayed out west for a few years, then times changed. We moved back to Ontario, to a small town in a lot of ways like where I grew up. Where people stop to say hello on the street or take the extra few minutes ‘just to chat’.

But a funny thing happened.

I found myself YELLING at the screen during Canucks games, twice as loud as before, like I was yelling for two.

My wife would look at me and remind me that no matter how loud I yell they won’t hear me 3000 miles away in Rogers Arena!

Last night, game 7, Stanley Cup Final, one game winner take all.

It felt different. I started to yell. Then I stopped and watched as 40 years of hope dissolved in two short periods. It was deeply depressing, and yet, oddly uplifting. I put on my hat and went for a walk.

A short distance from my house is the Teeswater Fairgrounds, and as luck would have it there was a ballgame going on under the lights. I sat for quite some time on top of the grandstands and watched – long distance. And I talked.

Not out loud, heaven knows people think I am odd enough as it is. I talked inside, in a place we all have that we keep private from the world.

I talked to my Dad.

I talked about life, my family, my work, about our Canucks – 40 years worth of memories. I let the words tumble – and jumble, and even laughed to myself a couple of times.

This morning the house is quiet, just the Junior General munching on a bagel in the kitchen and Baxter snoring in his kennel. And for the first time in 40 years, when I should feel angry, upset, saddened – all of the above, I don’t.

There will always be next year. Who knows maybe the planets, league and referees will align to allow the boys in blue and green to hoist the Cup. Perhaps the Kestler’s and Edler’s, the Ehrhoffs, Raymonds and Malhotras won’t be carrying around an extra few pounds of tensor bandages or Tiger Balm. Perhaps the Twins will re-find their magic touch.

But it will be different. It won’t be our Canucks. No more yelling for two, or slinking out the back for a pipe. After 40 years of noise we have found another place where we can talk, in silence.

Thanks Dad!