What a Real Hero Looks Like

The NHL is currently kind of akin to my laptop when it comes to leaving it on for too long without punching any keys – enter sleep mode.

With that in mind, I’d like to revisit a story I’d penned on here a few years previous but bears re-telling. It concerns a summer I’ll never forget. And yes, it has to do with hockey . . . and, most importantly, with life.

As a kid, my family and I lived in the northern part of Montreal in a fairly affluent neighbourhood know as the Town of Mount Royal.

It was a fantastic place to grow as a kid. There was baseball in the summer, pick-up games of touch football on the grounds of Carlyle School in the fall, and of course, hockey, hockey and more hockey in the town’s one and only indoor rink, and even more hockey on the countless numbers of outdoor pads that dotted the town’s parks and schoolyards.

My NHL team at the time was Boston.

The mighty Bruins were perennially at the top of the heap. I mean, how could you go wrong with the likes of Phil Esposito, Johnny Bucyk, Gerry Cheevers, Wayne Cashman, Derek Sanderson and some other skater who went by the name, Orr.

One springtime day our parents approached my brother Andy and I and surprised us by asking if we’d like to enlist in the Bobby Orr-Mike Walton Sports Camp on the shores of Lake Couchiching near Orillia.

We started packing immediately.

I mean, Bobby freakin’ Orr? Come on. Easy choice.

Orr had been my hero since he’d broken into the big leagues a few years earlier. (In my vaunted House League days, I’d scramble to the dressing room first to try and nab Bobby’s No. 4 before any other kid could).

We’d be going for two full weeks. My one and only trip to a summer camp. Ever.

After a monumental drive from Montreal, we were dropped off. Hundreds of other excited kids hustled out of cars and buses at the same time . . . hoping Mr. Orr would be there to greet us.

Unfortunately, it was only the camp counselors there to help us with our hockey bags and luggage and slot us into communal cabins.

But the anticipation was palpable.

Day 1 (as I recall it here, about a million years later) was about registration and programming, baseball and a swimming session in a very chilly Lake Couchiching. But Day 2 loomed with promise.

That day arrived and shipped out without an Orr sighting. Sure, we’d finally been able to hit the ice, but no certain superstar in sight. And sure, there was Darryl Sittler and Marcel Dionne, Mike Rutherford, John Garrett and, of course, Mike “Shaky” Walton; Bobby’s business partner, but no Bobby yet.

When No. 4 did show up it was in a flashy sports car (Corvette?) with an even flashier girl on his arm.

His on-ice presence was jaw-dropping for all of us, after all, here was the best player in the world and, arguably, the best player to ever lace ‘em up. And here he was, teaching us moppets how to play the game right.

We didn’t see much of Bobby those two weeks, but we did see plenty of a young skater for the Vancouver Canucks. A young skater who was picked No.2 overall, just after the great Gilbert Perrault, back in the 1970 draft.

While Bobby was my hero heading into camp, this young man became my hero when my brother and I exited later that July.

His name was (and is) Dale Tallon.

If you’re remotely connected to hockey, you know the name.

Dale played 10 seasons in the NHL as a defenceman then moved on to a successful stretch (with some controversy) as a team executive. He won a Stanley Cup with the Chicago Blackhawks in 2010 and was responsible for the drafting of stars Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane.

But back to our story.

I was warned by my mom while we were packing up for the trip that “you’re probably going to get homesick during your time there.”

I scoffed.

In the end, she was right.

Big time.

By Week No.2, I was miserable.

I was a small kid and quite skinny, so then, a target for bullying and taunting. I also wasn’t a particularly good hockey player, even though I adored the game.

Mr. Tallon quickly saw what I was going through and acted. He became a bit of a guardian angel, ensuring I was eating properly and not isolating.

He went out of his way to chat with me on a daily basis. “How are you feeling?” “How’s your day?”

He was a life-saver.

Mental health is rightfully at the forefront – in most instances – these days. Back in the 1970s? Forget about it.

But Dale Tallon was raised right. He never pitied this little kid but he sure as hell gave him a boost. Every day.

The day – finally – came to leave.

I was ecstatic to be going home but sad I was leaving my new friend.

When my parents’ car pulled up (a Volare station wagon, no doubt!), my brother Andy, who’d gotten through the camp in a far better state, and I were waiting.

So too was Dale Tallon.

He’d help me haul my hockey gear and luggage over to the parking lot.

When mom got out, I gave her a huge hug and was near tears.

She knew.

But what she and dad did not know was, who was this exceptionally large man holding their son’s bags?

Dale dropped the bags, introduced himself to my parents and shook their hands. He also put in a few encouraging words about my progress.

Dad, an enormous hockey fan, was pretty blown away.

And me?

For the first time in nearly 14 days, I felt a tad proud.

I’d made a friend here; an important one and one that clearly, I’ll never forget.

I’d also learned a life lesson.

Heroes aren’t necessarily the ones who win Cups, make all-star teams, wear the captain’s “C” and score 50 goals.

True heroes are the ones who show character, compassion and genuine care. Heroes are the ones who pick you up when you’re down. Heroes are about . . . people.

That’s what counts and still does today, in this man’s heart.

Childhood forms who we are; who we become.

Thank you for that lesson, Dale Tallon.

thegrossgame@yahoo.com