The Begininning of the End, or the End of the Beginning

By: Fiorenzo Arcadi, Toronto Hockey Repair

I don't know the name of the guy who found me and brought me home, but I knew I had arrived. In that one moment my soul seemed to stand bleakly, alone, desolate recalling ancient memories to a lost warrior. Part of my past mirrors the future, although my movements are prohibited in an area that is familiar to my existence. He found me and told me he had come to take me home

Death could only claim me once. Then the journey unfolded, differently, in the memories of others. I can't see the changes that have taken place in hockey. But I know deep down that it has changed. I was born in 1880 in Ottawa. At five my Dad l handed me a stick and told me to play with the other boys at Silverhood Pond. But in order to play, I had to assume their chores and on occasion would surprise my parents with the vigorous work that I had done.

Folks, I was there. I saw it happen with my own eyes. My best friend Phil made a few attempts to structure the games on the pond, but nothing ever came of it. The shape of the game started to come together on its own. Everyday we played the game. The community thrived on hard work. It was the centre of my world. I never used to venture outside. It was safe and comforting and the sole interest in my life was the game.

My Mom, God bless her soul told me that the hardest thing in life was the choices we make. Her words seemed so distant at the time. Youth has a bad habit of forsaking everything, especially the wisdom that age brings to our elders.

However, her words never pounded on my heart like they do now. She often told me that the world cannot be righteous all of the time. But if one man is righteous among the many who are not, his becomes a clear path, scripted in stone that forces his soul to make the journey back home.

I cried myself to sleep that night. I feared the unknown. My Dad told me you can't fear things that you have never experienced. My mind was racing. How about the fear that causes men to seek vengeance against other men in other countries who are different from us?

I can say now that fear binds no man to do what is just. Fear finds the most vulnerable part of a man, where every memory treasured is disfigured. In war, of all the faculties of the mind, memory is the first to flourish and the first to die. A dark memory is like a dark cloud, unable to guide a man home.

Experience taught me that there is no fear in God. The distance between me and my maker was created by the fear of a man.

If my memory is the diary that chronicles what I have done, it will play an old tune on the hearts of my teammates.

On January 16, 1905 I scored 14 goals in a Stanley Cup as my teammates and I, known as the Silver Seven trounced a wary team from Dawson City. When I count the rare minutes in that game, it was that sort of beauty which called natural. Though I had lost the sight in one eye, prior to joining the club, my vision didn't change. I knew hockey was a pretty rough game.

That day, I had a bet with my left winger, Sid, as to who would score the most goals in one night. Of course I had advantage of being the centre on his line. After scoring 8 consecutive goals, over a span of 8 minutes and 20 seconds, Sid, being the perfect gentleman came up to me and said I thought I had you beat with your one eye. I told him I had to score quickly to beat him. I scored three goals in 90 seconds and the fourth came 50 seconds later. I told Sid to catch me if you can. That day I set up Sid three times, which were his only goals. He never did catch me.

When the game was over, the crowd went nuts. They chanted my name for fifteen minutes. The applause was thunderous. My teammates surrounded me and their faces became a gallery of pictures that endures in the joy of the game.

I was exhausted that night, and went to sleep thinking that this is a good world. We need not approve of all of the items in it, nor of all individuals. Sure, the world is divided into people who think they are right and sometimes our world ends by condemning those it accuses. Sure enough, when I woke my world had ended.

People have said that I combined exciting speed with extra ordinary puckhandling abilities to average three goals per game. I finished my career with 71 goals in 23 games and had another 63 goals in 22 playoff encounters. Ottawa won the Stanley Cup in my first season. But, I did not play a prominent role until the 1903-04 season when I scored 21 goals in 8 games.

My scoring spree against Dawson City came the following year, when I was a Lieutenant in the Army. My teammates always pestered me that a good uniform will always attract a good women. I only wish that I could have used the uniform a little longer.

The army ignored my disability. After all, I was the greatest hockey player to have ever played the game. I was sent to France and in September 1916, I was killed in action at Courcelitte. I knew I was hit. It was a piercing pain in my chest. I thought I would live, until the mud was piled on top of me suffocating me. Under those conditions death is the only mercy I craved. I thought it was easy to shed human life in this pan of the world. This war was cruel to me, as it had been to so many others. It separated family and friends and marred the purest joys and happiness that I had in this world.

I could remember my folks telling me that hope will never leave man who seeks her. Mom and Dad, I heard your cries, felt your tears, like those of so many other parents, stand as monuments to the deaths of their children.

Mom, this gentleman has brought me home. Little did I realize that I achieved something for the world to look at. The gentleman calls it the Hockey Hall of Fame. He points to my picture and told me to take my rightful place under my name. One Eyed Frank Magee. I am standing looking at the monument to my achievements on the ice, when I sense my companion has left me.

My job was done. I put on my coat and hat. My schedule is tight. I have to go back to France and England and then to North America. At the doorway, Scotty Davidson, one of Magee's teammates acted as a look out. Davidson served with the first Canadian contingent. He died June 6, 1915. He was smoking a cigarette. I asked him for one. He thanked me for bringing Frank home. I told him that it was my job. Scotty smiled and said, "I guess it is the kind of job that never ends." I looked at Scotty and told him that I was exhausted and the pain never goes away, even after all of these years. Scotty put his hand on my shoulder and said "l know that. But tell me the story, once more, before you head out. It may be a long time before you come back.

The story is I lost my son long ago. I asked God to grant me one wish, which was to help me find my son and bring him home before I could rest in peace. God told me there is a mountain built out of the tears of all of the other parents, who like me had lost children. Each tear held a child's name. Those tears reached the heavens and touched the palm of his hand. I had to take each tear that built that mountain and bring each of those tears home. I would find that my son is the last tear on that mountain. I knew my wish would not be granted, nor the other wishes of mankind until this wretched mountain was gone. Scotty started to cry and opened the door to allow me to leave. He told me to bundle up. It is cold in France this time of year. I was off to bring another tear home.