14

The Great Wayne Gretzky

Source: The Nugget (Northern Alberta Institute

of Technology) By Mike Ox

EDMONTON (CUP) - Some great things only come around once in a while. Others happen all the time. I guess that’s why for 10 years, I took one of the greatest hockey players of our time for granted. I grew up watch- ing him, never fully realizing the history that this man would create. And, oh how, I loved the way he played.

Everyone wanted to be number 99 on the ice or on

the street. He was a hero, an

icon, and a God.

The things of value to me then were not the price tag on my extravagant hockey card collection, but the fact that I surrounded myself with my heroes all the time. From using Jari Kurri in my bicycle spokes for the un- matched motorcycle sound to carrying a tattered Mark Messier card around with me where ever I went, hockey was in my blood. However, there was one player whom I guarded, one player

that I would do anything for.

Wrapped in a protective plastic shell, hidden away in my room, only the worthy could feast their eyes upon

my Wayne Gretzky rookie

card. And only I could tou mas Thanks for the memories,

it. Then, through the

passage of time, my fond Y

faded. I had lost touch wit Cs my heroes. I had lost the [i ¥

memories, but I had not

forgotten.

On October Ist, 1999, my | memories were rekindled. I had the opportunity to feast my eyes on him, and I finally realized that I had witnessed

something great. Here was my hero addressing his biggest fans in the city he loved, and I felt like a kid again. Driving around on that shiny new Dodge truck, I remembered something else: Long ago, when my family went to see the Pope and he was driving down the road waving at all the people, for one instant, the Pope looked me right in the eyes, waved, and smiled. I remember the hairs raising

on the back of my neck and

my skin beginning to tingle.

And in the Skyreach Centre on that cold October day,

where I sat on the second

level, 31 rows up and in seat 13, Gretzky looked

right up at me, and smiled.

Good Riddance; The Gretzky | know.

You know when the hairs stick up on the back of your neck? That’s Gretzky.

by kent bruyneel

When I was a boy y family had season tickets to the Vancouver Canucks hockey games. I became, and still am, a | rabid fan of the sad sack team. It was my pleas- ure to see many of the greatest players hockey has ever seen, in their prime, on, of course, opposing teams. Lemieux, Bossy, Neely, Messier, and of course, the devil him- self, Wayne Gretzky. Mr. Canadian Icon. Mr. Wonderful. Fuck that. For some eight years I watched him and his coke sniffing pals dismantle the Canucks four times a year. Upon arriving at the games my father would say to me, “how bad ya think the Canucks will get hammered tonight?”

Oh but there was one time. The Canucks, after having not beaten the Oilers in five years, or something, led 5-1 entering the third pe- riod. My father, ever the pessimist looked at me and said, “don’t get your hopes up _ boy.” Five minutes in to the third period Gretzky set up Glen Anderson. 5-2.

Three minutes later it was Kurri. Then Kurri again. Then Gretzky himself. And the game was tied. A tie is good, I thought. A tie means we are equal, just as good as the Oilers and their band of future hall of famers. Gretzky counts with

- two minutes left and the

game is over. The air, proverbially, shot from my sail I ride home with my father listening to him cackle. The post game radio show talks about moral victories. About how close the Canucks were this time. If not for Gretzky they most certainly would have won. Fucking Gretzky.

Gretzky scored his first NHL goal and his 802nd goal against Vancou- ver and seemed to always be

playing the Canucks when a significant record was broken. It is an indisputable fact that he scored more often against the Canucks than any other NHL team. And no, the lovefest around him in the past few years has not changed my opinion.

Gretzky will always be an Oiler, with his nancy boy shirt tucked into his nancy boy pants, and his majestic circle just inside the blueline that made me want to tear off his arms and beat him with them. And I will always hate him. Hate, you understand, the way I hate tribute albums, not hate in the way I hate Aerosmith, or Grant Fuhr. He is, unques- tionably, the game’s greatest player; which makes me even more glad he is gone. Go Canucks. END