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Some hockey wisdom from hockey giants

My dad, Bob Dunn, used to be a sports journalist. He had the 1960s storybook experience of starting as a paper boy in Winnipeg at the Tribune, getting on doing odd jobs in the news room, and managing to work himself into a desk job and, eventually, up to a position as a columnist not only at the Trib, but also at the Vancouver Sun, the Montreal Star, Sports Illustrated and for Reader’s Digest, if you can imagine. He now writes a cruising blog six times a week, and he’s still a talented writer.

Since Gareth, who’s now eleven, is a thrice-weekly hockey player, we’ve had our share of experiences of the hockey mom/dad/coach, though thankfully few. Dad sent this old article he wrote, somewhere around 1985, with some opinions on hockey fundamentals from legends of the game, Scotty Bowman, Howie Meeker and Ken Dryden, three men who my dad had the opportunity to interview a number of times over the course of his career. While some of the info is dated, I thought it worthwhile to share…

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Cool Kid Moment of the Day

Yesterday afternoon, I was getting ready to go for a run down the River Road in Emo, and, inspired, I asked Gareth if he wanted to come for a run. I really, really want to make sure that Gareth and Naomi both build a healthy, active lifestyle now, to make it easier to continue doing so as they get older.
In my head, I was frantically doing recalculations of distance and what route to take, so that Gareth could run a part of the distance with me, I could drop him off at home, and continue my run. He was a little hesitant to run with me, mostly because “I get out of breath when I run, Dad.”
Then his eyes light up, and he says, “I could ride my bike with you, Dad!” *slap* Stupid dad. Great idea, M

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Planet Baobab

In the tradition of Valentine’s Day, we did dinner and the theatre tonight. At least, that’s how I can technically describe taking the two beans to Pizza Hut and going to the Kids & Company presentation of Planet Baobab, an adaptation of Antoine de Saint-Exup

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“Rudolph is REAL!”

December 23 — 4 miles, -34C
December 24-27 — Off
December 28 — 3.5 miles, Treadmill

Christmas was a *lot* of fun in our house this year.
Two moments from this year stand out for me. The first was Gareth’s response to the note Santa left in place of the shortbread, chocolate milk and reindeer food left behind. Upon seeing that the letter was signed, “Love, Santa and Rudolph,” he ran down the hallway, yelling, “Grandpa, Rudolph is real!
The second was the two of them coming downstairs to see what was under the tree. Naomi saw the doll and doll activity centre (no gender bias — she adores dolls, even though she has access to all sorts of non-gender-specific toys), and ran across the room to grab the doll in a bear hug. Gareth, however, came down and immediately was looking for the gift that he and Grandma had picked out for Frances and I at Tompkins Hardware, because he was so excited over it — no thought or attention at all as to what he got from Santa. It was one of those “Maybe we’re not such bad parents” moments. Of course, seconds later, he discovered the Rescue Hero Command Centre (Santa was, I’m sure, cursing as he put that toy together), and all thoughts of anything else were banished from his mind.
Other than that, we are and drank too much good stuff, and it was fscking cold — minus-43 C on Christmas Eve day. The grandparents are now on their way to meet and greet the extended family in Winnipeg with their newest granddaughter (Alexsis). Sadly, they’ll also be attending the funeral for my wonderful great-aunt, Eva Rowe, who passed away Christmas Eve at the age of 97.

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Gross, but funny as hell

December 1 — 3.5 miles, road run, -10C
December 2 — Day Off
Okay, stop reading now if you’re easily disgusted.
Gone? Ok, good.
Frances and I woke up at 2:30 this morning to a certain almost-five-year-old crying beside the bed.
“I have a nosebleeeed,” wails the child.
My response was (approximately):
I hear Frances get up, and exclaim, “There’s blood everywhere!”
That’ll wake you up in a hurry. I open my eyes, and survey the trail of drops of blood that runs from Gareth’s room, across the hall, around the side of the bed, back into the bathroom…
Crap. Well, no, actually, blood; but you get the point.
As I’m wearily pouring vinegar on the bloodspots, and helping Gareth to quell the drops from his nose, I ask, “How did it start, pal? Were you picking it?”
“Yes,” was the tearful reply.
Exasperated, I ask the fateful question, “Why did you do that?”
“Because I was hungry.”
Funniest. Grossest. Gareth Story. Ever.

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