Bill Bryson wrote a great book about growing up in the 1950’s, called The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid. I read it and realized he and I have a couple of things in common.

We both lived in towns with great main streets. We both wore Davy Crockett coonskin hats, we practiced our quick draw like Roy Rogers, delivered newspapers, and looked at our fathers’ dirty magazines which we found hidden in the back of closets.

Both our dads were creative, his being a sports writer, and mine a sign painter, but his dad got to go to baseball games in New York and Chicago, and my dad stayed home and painted letters on store windows.

Bill almost saw a naked girl once when he was about eight years old while playing doctor, but she backed out because she had a crush on him. I made sure I didn’t miss my chance because all I had to do was stand on my bike outside the window of the women’s change room at Couchiching beach and gaze in at the wonders of the world. I was doing great until one of my classmates, Carol Montgomery, saw me and screamed blue murder. Pretty sure I rode away with a smile on my face, though.

Bill’s big job back then was his paper route, and it was mine too. I won a red transistor radio once for getting the most new customers, and would tie it to my bike and listen to rock and roll as I made my rounds. It was the beginning of the end of my world as I knew it, because as soon as my ears made contact with Chuck Berry and the rest of those boys down south, everything changed. Music was sure better than school, and it gave me excellent ideas about girls. It couldn’t have been good for me. I blame my red radio for all the mistakes I’ve ever made.

Like Bill, we used to go to movie matinees and whip popcorn boxes like deadly Frisbees at the the screen and around the room. It was one of life’s great pleasures. If you’ve ever fired off a popcorn box missile and clunked some guy in the head who was making out with his girlfriend, you know what I mean.

Life then seemed to have only a few problems, like hoping the honourable defender of women in change rooms, Carol Montgomery, didn’t squeal on me. Or trying to decide between spending money on pinball or at the new Dairy Queen which had just opened up around the corner. Or straining to listen in school on my new transistor radio, without the teacher hearing, to World Series games which were played during the day while we were stuck struggling with remembering the route Columbus took when he left Spain.

Back then, Greenland wasn’t melting, the NHL only had six teams, and doctors recommended smoking for enjoyment and relaxation.

It was a good time to be young. Although I would’ve become a much better prson later in life if it wasn’t for that darn red transistor radio.

The North American agent for Mats Sundin, above, denies a claim that the centre will play play for the Vancouver Canucks next season. (Adrian Wyld/Canadian Press)A Swedish newspaper has reported that Mats Sundin has agreed to a deal with the Vancouver Canucks, but the centre’s North American agent has denied the claim.

J.P. Barry, Sundin’s North American agent, has confirmed to CBCSports that the report by Dusan Umicevic in Sweden’s Daily News is false.

In an interview with a Vancouver radio station earlier this week, Canucks general manager Mike Gillis expressed confidence that Sundin, who became an unrestricted free agent for the first time in his career on July 1, would still accept the club’s offer of a two-year contract valued at $20 million US.

Sundin has been the subject of intense interest from several other clubs including the Montreal Canadiens, Detroit Red Wings and the New York Rangers. A return to the Toronto Maple Leafs also remains an option.

The Swede has posted 555 goals and 766 assists for 1,321 points in 1,305 NHL games with Toronto and the Quebec Nordiques. He was selected first overall by Quebec in the 1989 draft and traded to Toronto five years later.

Sundin, 37, has yet to play in a Stanley Cup final. He earned $5.5 million last season on a one-year deal that included a no-trade clause.

Maple Leafs general manager Cliff Fletcher had given Montreal and the New York Rangers permission to talk to Barry prior to July 1 in hopes of working out a deal.

The Vancouver offer would make Sundin the highest-paid player in the NHL. Sidney Crosby of Pittsburgh and Alexander Ovechkin of Washington currently top next season’s salary list at $9 million US apiece

Fascinating Fact #1.  I asked my wife who the most handsome player in the NHL is, and she said it’s a tie between Jose Theodore and Sheldon Souray. She also said, however, that Max from Dancing With The Stars beats everybody. Everybody but me, I think she said.

Fascinating Fact #2.   Babe Ruth transcends all sports, so he gets in Fascinating Facts.  Ruth was notorous for not paying attention to the fringe players on his team, the Yankees. One day Tony Lazzeri introduced, for fun, a relief pitcher to Ruth who had been with the team for four years already, only Lazzeri said this was a new player just out of Princeton. Ruth was impressed about the Princeton part and welcomed the “new” player with open arms.

Fascinating Fact #3.    In the early 1910’s, Lester and Frank Patrick pioneered professional hockey on Canada’s west coast, and the first two artificial rinks built in Canada were in Victoria and Vancouver.

Fascinating Fact #4.     Defenceman Noel Price, an important member of the early and mid-1960’s Montreal Canadiens, now lives in Ottawa. He was one shy of playing 500 games, and is also a member of the American Hockey League Hall of Fame. Price won a Stanley Cup with Montreal in 1966.

Fascinating Fact #5.    Toe Blake, a man of great words, once said, “if my son ever decides to become a goalie, I’m going to hit him over the head with a goalie stick.”

Fascinating Fact # 6.    My midget coach was a man named Jack Dyte. In 1943 he played 27 games with the Chicago Blackhawks, and that was it for his NHL career. He managed one goal and no assists during this stint. But the thing was, he chewed tobacco at our practices and spit the juice on the ice. So the surface had dozens of brown spots all over it. I always wondered how he got away with that.

 Just north of Powell River lies Savary Island, called the Hawaii of the North for its beautiful beaches and tropical climate. All you do is drive north to the end of the road, 25 minutes away, hop in a little $11 water taxi, and presto, you’re there. It has a dirt road, a few cars, several dozen houses, but these houses have no electricity so generators, solar/wind systems, or propane are needed to enjoy those hockey games in the evening. Bluesman Colin James and family have a place here, and the word is Kevin Costner does too, but that may or may not be true.

All I know is, the beaches are outstanding.

So after Gaston’s recent ferry ride fiasco, he told me one night he’d like to get away for awhile, away from everything, and I suggested Savary. It’s not far, it’s relaxing, and I figured it was just what the doctor ordered for the little beastia.

I drove him up to Lund and waved goodbye on the water taxi. He needs this rest and relaxation, I figured. Things haven’t been going well for him on the tour lately.

The next day, Delores, a Savary Island local, showed up at my door a litle hot under the collar, and handed over a sickly Gaston to me. It seems he refused to take off his Habs sweater in sweltering temperatures and suffered a massive dose of sunstroke. Delores also informed me that Gaston crashed a womens’ beach volleyball game, propositioned the players, peed on a campfire during a group sing-a-long, threw sand in a couple of 90 pound weaklings’ eyes, stole a bottle of moonshine, drank most of it, and then lit it and set a big tent on fire.

And in his drunken stupor, he proposed to Delores and tried to seduce her by singing old Mel Torme standards with no pants on.

Now he’s got a hangover.

Why do I put up with Gaston? Because he loves the Habs. Because he comes from a screwed up family tree. And because I need him for the tour.

I took a photo of him when Delores showed up at the house. Here it is. Someday I hope he grows up.

A year ago today, July 17, 2007, Gary Lupul passed away. He was 48 years old.

Gary Lupul was an ex-Vancouver Canuck, a proud Powell Riverite, a friend to people from all walks of live, and a great friend of mine. He was a scout for the Canucks when he died, and his beat was Ontario and the northern US, and he would phone me from Kitchener or Ottawa or even while driving through my old birthplace, Orillia, just to check in, to ask how I’m doing, and to say all was well with him.

Gary had lived several lives. Along with being a great athlete, he also had personal demons which ended his career prematurely. He told me once that there were times when he’d get a couple of hours sleep after a big party at his house in Vancouver, get up, walk over a bunch of people sleeping on the floor, and go to his Canucks practices.

He was such a colourful character, and it seems like he was just here a few days ago, and now he’s gone forever.

When I heard the news that Gary had died, for a minute or so I thought it had to be another Gary Lupul. It was shocking. It’s still hard to sort out.

He was the friendliness guy I think I’ve ever met. He only wanted to talk about you, never himself. And he was always genuinely interested. And he could be best friends to the most down and out folks, all the way up to the movers and shakers. Everyone loved him, and he loved everyone.

I would just like you to know that Gary was a real hockey player, not just a fringe player. Drugs and alcohol hurt his career and he never really had a chance to show what he could do.

Here’s some examples;

He was a crowd favourite, and the Pacific Coliseum faithful used to chant ‘Loop, Loop, Loop’ thoughout the game. They loved him.

He was a star from the beginning. In minor all-star, he once notched 70 points in 16 games. At 16 he was rookie of the year with the BC Hockey League Nanaimo Clippers. And he racked up 300 points in three years with the Victoria Cougars of the Western Hockey League.

He was a force to be reckoned with in the 1981-82 Stanley Cup finals against the Islanders.

He played a total of 300 games, with 70 goals and 75 assists. All while he did too much partying.

Mario Lemieux’s first fight in the NHL was against Gary.

Gary played for Canada in the 1979 World Juniors in Sweden.

Twice he was picked as a three star selection in an NHL game. And twice he was interviewed on Hockey Night in Canada.

In a game against the Montreal Canadiens during his first season, he scored twice against Bunny Larocque and I wasn’t happy about that.

And he scored on his first shot in the NHL against Rogie Vachon.

Gary is missed by many people. He was a friend to all.

If you say you’ve never been embarrassed, I don’t believe you.

I have been. Many times. Like this.

I parked my car at the back of the bicycle shop and my son and I walked through the back door and up to the counter. “I want to see about getting my son’s bike fixed,” I said to the guy standing across from me, but the guy looked disinterested and said nothing.

“I want to get my son’s bike fixed,” I repeated, with my voice rising.

The guy looked at me again, then said maybe someone over there would help.

“Look,” I said. “What kind of an employee are you? This is ridiculous. What are you getting paid for, anyway?”

I was really pissed off, my son was looking uncomfortable, but there’s was no way I was going to take this incompetency from this no-good, lazy employee. Employees can’t treat customers like this.

“Where’s the manager?” I yelled. “This is bullshit. Where’s the manager?”

The fellow looked at me, as did everyone in the store.  “I’ve no idea,” said the guy. “I’m just a customer like you. You’re standing on the wrong side of the counter.”

My son didn’t talk to me for several days.

It’s similar to a story I heard years ago. A guy was sitting in a restaurant drinking a coffee, and got up and went to the bathroom. When he returned, there was a guy sitting at his table drinking his coffee.

The guy from the bathroom was obviously upset and said, “Hey buddy, you’re sitting in my seat and drinking my coffee.” The guy at the table just sat there and said nothing, but continued to drink the coffee. 

“Hey buddy, you heard me. You’re at my table, drinking my coffee. Beat it. Get lost. Get your own coffee.”

The guy at the table just looked at the other guy and sipped a little more coffee.

So the fellow standing up had had enough. He went over, tipped the table over, and the coffee, of course, went flying. He was just about to slug the guy when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his own, empty table a few feet away with his coffee sitting there getting cold.

I was reading a year-old Maclean’s magazine yesterday while waiting for my car, and there was an article about the NHL’s greatest fighters, with matchups of serious bruisers over the years and then the ultimate winner. They had Gordie Howe, Stu Grimson, Bob Probert, Stan Jonathan and about ten others, did an elimination thing, and in the end, Montreal’s Georges Laraque beat Bob Probert to win Best Fighter Ever in the NHL.

Isn’t that good? Bring ‘em on, tough guys around the league. Big Georges is gonna kick you to kingdom come. And Saku and Tomas and the rest can now sleep just a little more soundly.

In other news:

I don’t know if you ever read these hockey forums where guys give their two cents worth and most are only worth one cent. It doesn’t matter what team site it is, they’re all the same. One guy on the Habs site, for example, will go on about how Bob Gainey has lost his mind, another will show how smart he is by listing a bunch of minor leaguers Bob should either bring up or deal; another will say he’s heard through a legitimate rumour that Mats Sundin is on his way to Vancouver. Etc, etc.

These guys are the absolute definitive armchair quarterbacks. And they get nasty if someone decides the other is full of it.

I’ve offered my two cents from time to time, but I think I come across as boring because I don’t make the outlandish predictions or use players’ nicknames like I know them personally.

I think I’ll stay away from these forums. They upset me.

Or I could just say that Mats Sundin has bought the Montreal Canadiens and will become player-coach, owner, and announcer, but can’t right now because he’s dating Madonna and it’s complicated because Madonna is a Rangers fan that stems from her old relationship with Mark Messier. (Was there a love-child?) And now A-Rod is on the warpath because he’s lost both his wife and Madonna, is now looking for Mats, and apparently Bob Cole and Britney Spears were seen dancing the tango at Spago’s in Hollywood, and the whole thing’s just a big mess.  

My dad was born in 1920. He’ll be 88 in a couple of months.

He told me yesterday he really misses hockey from days gone by. About Foster Hewitt on the radio on Saturday night, telling him how Turk Broda was making a sprawling save, about Blake and Richard, Bill Barilko and Busher Jackson and all the grand old players from way back when.

Saturday night was a big night, he said. And when television came along, the only problem was the game started at the beginning of the second period.

After that he said he didn’t understand all the money players are making now.

Then we changed the subject and went on about chasing Nazi war criminals in South America.

I just watched game three on the NHL Network of the 1962 Stanley Cup finals between the Chicago Blackhawks and the Toronto Maple Leafs ( the Hawks won 3-0 but the Leafs eventually won the series in six games).

I love watching the old stuff. In this game, a young Bobby Hull, wearing number 7 (he first wore number sixteen, then went to nine), skated like the wind and blasted away with that cannon he had. Goalies Glenn Hall and Johnny Bower weren’t wearing masks. Frank Mahovlich skated in big swooping strides. Reg Fleming and Tim Horton got in a scuffle, then went and sat side by side in the penalty box, which players did in those days, even after major scraps. And big, heavy bodychecks were the order of the day.

The game was at a jam-packed Chicago Stadium, and when Stan Mikita scored, fans tossed balloons and the odd fedora on the ice. Toronto announcer Bill Hewitt (Foster’s son) did the play-by-play, and in 1962, he was still a little rough around the edges. He got smoother in later years. And he worked alone, without a sidekick.

Watching games like this is a joy for me. It reminds me of when I was a schoolboy, collecting hockey cards and hockey coins, and dreaming of someday playing in the NHL just like these guys.

I wish they’d show more of these old games. And this is what should’ve been on during those long breaks between games in this year’s playoffs.

Really old games are a beautiful thing. We need more of them.