Croquet tomorrow

It's off to the British High Commission tomorrow for the annual Alumni of British Universities' Croquet Tournament -- which I attend as a lowly hanger-on because B went to a British University to do post-graduate work. As a graduate of Carleton, I might get together with a few other ex-"party animals" at a dingy tavern in Hull now and then to remember our lost youth and missed classes back-in-the-day, but these folks take it up a few steps. Anthony Cary, the High Commissioner, is a lot of fun and always appears magnificently attired in pure wool, green and white striped original Cambridge trousers -- which still fit him perfectly, he brags. I can never quite figure out what to wear because some play croquet, while the rest of us watch. It seems croquet -- or "crow-key", as Anthony pronounces it (he also says "bally" for "ballet") -- is not for the great unwashed, of which I am a charter member. No, one must actually know how to play. As to the outfit, high heels will certainly figure in the mix -- regardless of how much pain I have to endure to stand on my tiptoes and not sink into the grass. Happily, I usually comandeer a bench and settle in to bore its other occupants.

The first time we attended I gamely grabbed a mallet and started lining up, only to be asked by Anthony if I knew how to play. "Well, I played as a child in our neighbour's garden on Sundays now and then." No, no, you must actually know how. I meekly beat a hasty retreat to the refreshment tent, where I really am an expert. Sides are chosen and the game gets underway with the seriousness of a professional match. A word about the guests. They are a motely crew of weirdos and professors and graduate students and old retired people and ladies of various ages and varieties. Any conversation I crash is always a facinating mix of bizarre theories and warm remnicences of the glory days back in England. And the competition among universities is a fierce as it gets. More about this after it happens.

When I was about 18, a girlfriend and I went to Montreal for the day to recklessly spend our fathers' money on a little shopping spree. Montreal, being the fashion capital of Canada at the time, was a mecca for those of us who lived in hope that a little of that French "mode" would touch us as we sauntered along Sherbrooke and Ste. Catherine streets. Outside Windsor Station (we always took the train to add a little sophistication to the excursion) an old man sitting on a bench began to chat with me. He told me his name was "Newsy Lalonde", an ex-Montreal Canadien hockey player. The name meant nothing to me, but he was very proud to tell me about his exploits, his records, how he was captain of the team and other remarkable achievements. I thought he was probably a crazy old fake, but when I came home and asked my father if he had ever heard of Newsy Lalonde he went wild. "Do you mean to tell me you actually met Newsy Lalonde! The guy was fabulous, famous, the best Hab ever. Just as famous as The Rocket.!" My Dad went on and on. I have never forgotten the encounter and my Dad's reaction. I googled him yesterday and his record is truly remarkable. He was also a champion lacrosse player and is in both the Hockey and Lacrosse Halls of Fame. He was captain of the Habs from 1915-21 and had a playing career that stretched from 1904-27. His scoring record held until Wayne Gretsky broke it. Unbelieveable.

I felt badly I hadn't told the old man that of course, I knew who Newsy Lalonde was and of course, you are very famous.........but I hadn't and I didn't. Last night an item came on the news about a statue they have erected in Cornwall 40 years after his death to the memory and honour of one of the greatest NHL players of all time: Newsy Lalonde. Well, I sat up and took notice and there followed a remarkable story about his exploits and fame. Some of the most famous Habs of all time were there to honour and remember Newsy and how great he was. I was floored! His aging grandson also went on about what a wonderful person he was, kind and loving. The memory of meeting him outside the Windsor Train Station came flooding vividly back, as I pictured a kindly gentleman, well-dressed, wearing a fedora and a suit and tie and an overcoat. The next time you meet an old man, remember this tale. Who knows who he was and what he accomplished? I feel lucky to have met him.