The Rocket tapes his stick during the 1959-60 season, while sons Normand and Maurice Jr. watch carefully.
Normand is the same age as me, and when I was living in Montreal a couple of years ago, I phoned him. Twice.
The first time I called, I opened with “Hi Normand, your dad was my hero!”, or something like that. The second time was more along the lines of, “Hi, it’s that guy again who called that other time.”
Normand was very nice and seemed just fine with the fact that some stranger was calling. I appreciated that.
Both times I called we talked for about 20 minutes or so, and during the second chat he agreed to meet me for coffee, although he said he was driving a friend’s car to Florida the next day and we’d have to wait until he got back.
I was very excited. I wanted to tell him that when I was a kid, I often wondered what it would be like to be the Rocket’s son. And I wondered if we’d need menus.
I wanted to be Normand’s friend back then, and I wanted to be his friend now.
But it wasn’t to be. Mainly because when he got back from Florida, I was back in Powell River.