(Maclean’s cover image by John Little, 1958)
If you were reading Maclean’s through the 1930s, mostly what you were seeing week by week on the covers of Canada’s National Magazine were portraits of happy women, most of them young, all of them white and serene-looking, confident, and free from cares. Sometimes they were packing suitcases (June, 1932) or clutching Christmas presents (December, 1933); they played a bit of ping-pong, too, (November, 1932) and also went after garden pests with malevolence and insecticide (May, 1936). They were aviatrixes, in at least four cases (including August, 1931 and May of ’32). A lot of the time, they sported bathing costumes (Julys and Augusts of 1932 + 1933; Augusts, 1935 + 1936; June, 1938; August, 1938).
That’s not to say that Maclean’s only covered young women in ’30s, but about 35 per cent of the time they did. Babies were also abundant (nine of them across 224 issues), along with young boys (usually up to no good) and golfing men (five). Not a lot of diversity there, either, which is to say, none whatever. In October of 1930, unfortunately, a group of happy kids dressed up for Halloween did include a boy in black face.
Hockey players? They were as abundant through the ’30s as Santa Claus, which is to say they fronted Maclean’s just four times that decade. Whether that’s a big distinction or kind of pitiful, well, I don’t know, guess it depends on your outlook. Hockey players did outnumber kings (just two of them made Maclean’s in the ’30s ) and football players and people playing tennis, so that’s … encouraging?
The hockey covers: first up was artist Joseph Farrelly’s impression, in 1933, of a handsome generic skater poised for action in what looks like Ottawa Senators garb, which is thoughtful, given that the original Senators would be folding within the year.
W.V. Chambers painted hockey’s next coverboy, in February of 1935. That’s it here, above: Toronto Maple Leafs’ defenceman Red Horner in a comical funk, cartoonishly fed-up at having been exiled, once again, to the penalty bench.
Hockey didn’t yet have goons in those years, what it had was bad men, among whom Horner was one of the baddest. For three years running he’d led the league in penalties, and the following year he’d do it again, amassing 167 minutes, which set a new single-season record that stood for 20 years, until Lou Fontinato barged his way to 202 in 1955-56.
A colourful character, then, Horner. There were others, of course, playing in the NHL through the 1930s. If we’re only talking about players who were skating with Canadian teams, what about Charlie Conacher, King Clancy, Hooley Smith, Syl Apps, Lionel Conacher, Nels Stewart, Aurèle Joliat? Howie Morenz! If the life he led on the ice wasn’t worth Maclean’s coverage, then wouldn’t his sudden death in March of 1937 have been news, mourned by so many thousands across the hockey map? No, not even then. The week of Morenz’s death, Maclean’s went with a humorous illustration of a hotel lobby boy on its cover, with nary a mention within of the hockey star’s death. True, it was a different kind of a magazine in those years, heavy on fiction and issue-oriented features. Still, I don’t know how you explain what happened in the very next issue, dated April 1, 1937 (poultry on the cover): in a perky article on NHL players deserving of all-star honours, author Jim Hendy somehow neglected in a passing mention of Morenz to note that the poor man was no more.
It was good to be a Leaf if you hoping to see yourself on the cover of the (Toronto-based) magazine in the ’30s. Goaltender Turk Broda was next up after Horner, photographed for a February, 1938 issue. A year later, separated by covers featuring turkeys, lumberjacks, and no fewer than three swimsuited women, the Leafs’ Gordie Drillon got his turn.
While neither Broda nor Drillon rated articles within the editions they fronted, the same can’t be said for Red Horner in 1935.
Along some flippant racism in the editor’s notebook, the contents for that week features a helpful column suggesting that the stout man — i.e. overweight — stands a better chance of resisting disease than the thinner one. There’s a column, too, about the “coloured races” in France. Amid all the fiction (including a hockey story, “The Not-So-Yellow Kid” and a timeless tale of the theatre called “Gentlemen Don’t Spank”), Horner penetrates the inside pages of the magazine in a serious way, featuring not only in a feature editorial profile but also, alongside his wife, Isabel, in a full-page advertisement touting stoves.
I gather that the new Moffats Electric Ranges were not only beautiful (“soft gleaming finish”) but “staunch and rugged.” Mrs. Horner loved hers, with its Therm-O-Matic Oven Control and Cook-Quik Element; it made her proud.
The Mr. Horner profile, is by Lou Marsh, Toronto Daily Star sports editor, former NHL referee, and all-round Toronto sporting personality. It is, let me say with respect, mostly puffery. A poem, supposing you were determined to extract one from Marsh’s paragraphs describing his subject, might look like this:
the large pleasant looking, red-headed young man
this fighting fireball
this curly-head wolf of the blue lines
a fellow who is just a bit headlong, a trifle strenuous
a heavy man
an excellent team player
a genuinely modest athlete.
Lanky law student was an epithet applied to Ken Dryden in 1971, the year he burst into the NHL by way of the Montreal net, helping the Canadiens to win the Stanley Cup. Phil Esposito was one prolific shooter he stymied that spring and he’s the one generally credited as the first to call the 6’4” Dryden an even-toed ungulate. Stan Fischler told the tale in Boys’ Life in 1972:
Somehow, Dryden managed to blunt Esposito’s best shots with his 42-inch arms or block them with his enormous chest. At one point the enraged Esposito crashed his stick against the protective glass, glared at Dryden and shouted: “You thieving, four-story giraffe!”
Born on this day in 1947, Dryden turns 69 today. That seems like reason enough to excerpt an interview he gave in 1976 to an unnamed writer for Maple Leaf Magazine, Toronto’ game-day program:
Q: Is there anything about hockey that is not so much fun?
A: Practices are not much fun. The least fun of all is being inactive. There is very little satisfaction in being a non-participant; those games I can do without. I watched a couple of games from the press box this year and I couldn’t stand it. Jeez, I felt like an idiot.
Q: Is that a comment about sportswriters, with their hot dogs and beer?
A: What I’m saying is that I felt uncomfortable, partly because I don’t enjoy sitting out hockey games and partly because the press box has got to be the worst place in the world to watch a hockey game. It is so far removed from the action. Very few customers, I think, would pay to sit there. You can’t blame the club owners for sticking the press way up at the top, back out of the way. You wouldn’t want all the press guys taking the expensive seats. But I have never yet seen an exciting game from the press box. You’re so far away that the game is slowed down to nothing. Cournoyer looks like a dump truck idling down the ice.
Q: You seem to be the original Cool Hand Luke, one of hockey’s great unflappables. Don’t you get just a little nervous down there, or are you good at hiding it?
A: Cool Hand Luke. You gotta be kidding me. He ate 50 hard-boiled eggs. Are you trying to say I’m one of hockey’s great egg-eaters? Or do you mean I play hockey with egg on my face?
Q: No, no. I was just trying to find out if you get nervous.
A: I rarely get nervous anymore. Very infrequently. Sometimes a bit nervous during the day of an important game. Most of the time I feel like I’m prepared, ready to play, without the physical elements such as butterflies or throwing up that are a part of being nervous. The most nervous I’ve ever been in my whole life was a few minutes before the end of Game Seven in Moscow in 1972. Paul Henderson had just scored the goal that had put us ahead of the Russians 4-3. I was watching from the stands. I already knew I had the starting assignment for Game Eight. The seconds ticked away. I realized that if we could hold on, Game Eight would be the decider. Were my knees jelly? Were my legs shaking? You bet they were. I had no idea what it was like, even though I’d already played in the Stanley Cup playoffs. From that point on and for the next two days I began to feel worse. My stomach started to churn. My legs got weaker by the hour. It stayed with me right up until game time.
(Maclean’s cover painting by Peter Swan)
Hard news this week about Gord Downie, Kingston’s own poet, songwriter, singer, dancer, Great Canadian. The Tragically Hip woke the country up early Tuesday morning with the startling announcement of Downie’s terminal cancer; for the rest of the week, the country I inhabit tried to settle itself within the shock and the sorrow, even as we were celebrating the genius of the man, his words, his music.
Downie’s love of hockey is no secret. It’s there in the songs, “Fireworks” and “Fifty-Misssion Cap,” “The Lonely End of the Rink.” For the fullest account of Downie attachments to the game, you’re advised to read the fond chapter TSN’s Bob Mackenzie included in his 2014 book Hockey Confidential, which he reprinted (here) this week.
Downie has long been a devoted goaltender of park and pick-up rinks, though he told a Toronto magazine in 2010 that he’d pretty much hung up the blocker.
“I lived across from the rink, and I’d come out and the kids would go nuts, like the ice cream man had shown up. That winter, toward the end, I realized guys were coming in and firing it high on me, doing all kinds of stuff. There were little kids around, all ages. I was worried they’d blister one at me… I’m sort of retired altogether.”
In 2005, he auditioned for the CBC mini-series Canada Russia ’72, showing up at Fredericton’s Aitken Centre in vintage pads to bid for the part of Ken Dryden. A reporter who sought out number 29 for comment heard him say he’d be honoured to have Downie wear his mask.
“I like Gord,” Dryden said. “I love the Hip and he’s just a really interesting guy. The only thing I recall that might be a problem for him is that I know he’s a Boston Bruins fan.”
It’s true —before he lost out on the Dryden role to actor Gabriel Hogan, Downie even intimated that he’d be just as happy to play Canada’s third (non-playing) Summit Series goalie, Boston’s Eddie Johnston.
Downie talked about the roots of his love of Bruins in a spritely 2009 conversation with a friend, novelist Joseph Boyden. Maclean’s has resurrected it, this way. It’s a marvellous thing in its entirety, and includes this hockey-talking:
Q: Many of us know you as singer, a poet, and even an actor. But a championship hockey goalie?
A: When I was a kid, Bantam age, our team, Ernestown, went all the way to the provincial “B” championship. We had to beat four teams in four series to get there. The crowds were huge, the stakes brutal and crushing. I was the goalie. Teen hero or teen goat. It teaches you things.
Q: Was [producer] Bob Rock your coach?
A: I wish. He knows what to say to a goalie. And goalies are strange. You do want to play but there’s also a part of you that kinda hopes a compressor will blow or that there’ll be too much snow on the roof and part of it will cave in and they’ll have to cancel the game.
Q: You’re a big fan of the Boston Bruins. This could be considered a travesty, even treason with many Canadians.
A: I have loved them since the early ’70s. All of my siblings were big Bruins fans. It was a certain type who liked the Bruins. They were known as a “blue-collar” team. They seemed to me like an outlaw team. You were a bit of an outlaw if you liked the Bruins.
Q: Why not the Leafs?
A: My grandfather liked the Leafs. Because of him I always carried — and still do — a place in my heart for the Leafs — albeit a small place. I should mention, also, that Harry Sinden and his wife, Eleanor, are my godparents.
Q: The Harry Sinden, godlike Bruins head coach and coach of Team Canada in the famed 1972 Summit Series against the U.S.S.R.?
A: I didn’t like to make a big deal of it when I was a kid. But I was very proud of our connection and I still am. My brothers and me defended every move he made, and loved the Bruins fiercely, spiritually, as any number of our friends will painfully attest to.
The Chicago Black Hawks were tenanting the NHL’s basement when GM Tommy Ivan announced in late December of 1957 that the old coach was out and a new coming in. That can’t have been easy — unless there was nothing easier. Ivan was himself the incumbent, having taken on the job when Dick Irvin relinquished the helm in October of 1956 due to poor health. The new man now was Rudy Pilous, late of the Junior A St. Catharines Teepees, where he’d been both coach and GM. He had one practice with his new players before heading into his first NHL game, early in January, in Toronto. With a smile, he asked a reporter for a program before the puck fell: “I’d better see who’s on the team.” The Black Hawks won that game, and the next one as well, at home to Boston. Chicago didn’t make the playoffs that year, though they had climbed up to fifth, ahead of the Leafs, by season’s end. And with Pilous aboard, they kept climbing, winning the 1961 Stanley Cup.
Pilous persevered with the Black Hawks until 1963, when Tommy Ivan fired him in favour of Billy Reay. Herewith, from earlier days, an excerpt from “Rudy Pilous’ Recipe For Enjoying a Headache,” Trent Frayne’s profile for Maclean’s, published March 28, 1959:
The coach in question is Rudy Pilous, a forty-four-year-old, bulky shambling man of six-feet-two, with a shock of black hair, dark eyes in a moon face, and no previous NHL experience whatever, even as a young player seeking a tryout. Pilous, never quite as graceful on skates as Barbara Ann Scott, played only pseudo-professional hockey — with the New York Rovers, the St. Catharines Saints and the Richmond Hawks in England. It is probably only coincidental that all three of these teams have long since quietly collapsed. Before these peregrinations Pilous endured part of a season with the Selkirk Fishermen, in Manitoba, whom he abandoned when he hadn’t been paid a penny of a promised twenty-five dollars a week.
But he has more than compensated for any lack of professional experience on the ice by the scope and variety of his activity off it. If the bewildering Black Hawks need a coach of bewildering background to get them out of purgatory Pilous (pronounced Pill-us) is their man.
Pilous, who left school at fourteen in Winnipeg to help his father support the nine children in the family, has been a chauffeur, a telephone lineman, an ice-cream salesman, a carpenter, a pipe cutter, a truck driver, a beer waiter, an inventor (General Motors paid him fifty dollars for a safety device), a receiving-department supervisor, and a publicist for ice shows, roller-skating derbies and race tracks. And, to top it off, he has coached hockey teams in such improbable places as California, Kentucky and Texas.
From this vocational mélange there has emerged a deceptively gifted, acutely observant man quite inconsistent with the bumbling, amiable, even naïve façade he often affects. Pilous’ public reputation stems partly from his tendency to link singular verbs with plural subjects and through in a mangled polysyllable now and then. When he succumbs he’ll laugh too quickly and refer to himself as “a big dumb squarehead.” Actually, he has an insight into many kinds of persons besides himself, and as a practicing psychologist it has appeared this year that he’s often been able to get blood out of a stone.
(Photo, from January of 1961: Louis Jaques/ Library and Archives Canada/ e002343755)