By late February in Chicago most of us are barely hanging onto our sanity after spending several months in the Siberia of the Midwest. We’re all looking forward to those precious few days in April when we don’t risk frostbite and summer’s promise of brutal heat and Cubs futility are dimly acknowledged but not yet endured. Springtime in Chicago lasts about two weeks, and then it's into the blast-furnace until once more we find ourselves hip deep in snow wondering why we don’t just pack it up and move somewhere warmer in winter and cooler in summer.
Everyone here copes with winter differently, and Methodists react (as they do to almost all things) by holding pot luck dinners. Of course by February, even the most hard-core Methodists need a little extra stimulation to make it to springtime, so we recently held a Luau featuring a pulled pork dinner and an auction which pulled a few bucks from the congregation’s wallets for some good causes.
I find that volunteering for church functions is spiritually rewarding and virtually painless-- since my wife attends all the meetings, and then tells me what I’m expected to do, and what I should wear while I’m doing it. In an incredible leap of faith by the head of the Luau committee, I was given the responsibility of auctioneer third class, which I discharged with the optimism unique to those who are willing to foist pies on folks who’ve just gorged themselves on mounds of pork.
Before the live auction started, various other items were displayed and bid on silently, including sports memorabilia. During this time, the head of the auction committee approached me with a look of concern. “No one is bidding on the pucks, Gary.” My initial reaction was panic, since my wife had neglected to prepare me for the scenario of no bids on pucks.
Carol, who was in charge of the auction, is one of those wonderful women who can coordinate a function involving both pulled pork and bumbling guys like myself for the higher good of both pigs and men. I didn’t want to let her down. “I’ll bid on a puck,” I told her. The relieved look on her face was well worth the bid I placed on an autographed puck signed by Elmer Vasko.
“Who the heck was Elmer Vasko?” I wondered.
Before the night was over, I was the new owner of a puck, signed in gold by #4, Elmer “Moose” Vasko, who, I just learned, was one of the most popular players in hockey when the NHL consisted of only six teams. (Coincidentally, that was also the last time the Blackhawks could rightly claim they were one of the top six teams in the league). What I didn’t know was this: When I was a kid I probably saw Moose Vasko play some of his last games as a professional.
I grew up in San Diego, where the local hockey team was the Gulls, a minor league franchise featuring upcoming stars competing against old guys like Vasko who were finishing their careers on teams like the Salt Lake Golden Eagles, the Portland Buckaroos, and the Seattle Totems. (Naturally, as a Gulls fan, I hated those teams). Mostly though I hated Connie Madigan of the Buckaroos, who was a real goon until he was traded to our team-- and then he was OUR thug so we quit taunting him with rubber chickens and welcomed him into the family.
I’m glad I never hated Moose Vasko, who by all accounts was well liked, a hard worker and probably never deserving of a rubber poultry taunt. His golden puck now has a place of honor on my desk, and the money I spent is now on its way to someone who could use a break. To whoever’s in charge of keeping hockey records-- give the old Moose one more assist, eh?
Everyone here copes with winter differently, and Methodists react (as they do to almost all things) by holding pot luck dinners. Of course by February, even the most hard-core Methodists need a little extra stimulation to make it to springtime, so we recently held a Luau featuring a pulled pork dinner and an auction which pulled a few bucks from the congregation’s wallets for some good causes.
I find that volunteering for church functions is spiritually rewarding and virtually painless-- since my wife attends all the meetings, and then tells me what I’m expected to do, and what I should wear while I’m doing it. In an incredible leap of faith by the head of the Luau committee, I was given the responsibility of auctioneer third class, which I discharged with the optimism unique to those who are willing to foist pies on folks who’ve just gorged themselves on mounds of pork.
Before the live auction started, various other items were displayed and bid on silently, including sports memorabilia. During this time, the head of the auction committee approached me with a look of concern. “No one is bidding on the pucks, Gary.” My initial reaction was panic, since my wife had neglected to prepare me for the scenario of no bids on pucks.
Carol, who was in charge of the auction, is one of those wonderful women who can coordinate a function involving both pulled pork and bumbling guys like myself for the higher good of both pigs and men. I didn’t want to let her down. “I’ll bid on a puck,” I told her. The relieved look on her face was well worth the bid I placed on an autographed puck signed by Elmer Vasko.
“Who the heck was Elmer Vasko?” I wondered.
Before the night was over, I was the new owner of a puck, signed in gold by #4, Elmer “Moose” Vasko, who, I just learned, was one of the most popular players in hockey when the NHL consisted of only six teams. (Coincidentally, that was also the last time the Blackhawks could rightly claim they were one of the top six teams in the league). What I didn’t know was this: When I was a kid I probably saw Moose Vasko play some of his last games as a professional.
I grew up in San Diego, where the local hockey team was the Gulls, a minor league franchise featuring upcoming stars competing against old guys like Vasko who were finishing their careers on teams like the Salt Lake Golden Eagles, the Portland Buckaroos, and the Seattle Totems. (Naturally, as a Gulls fan, I hated those teams). Mostly though I hated Connie Madigan of the Buckaroos, who was a real goon until he was traded to our team-- and then he was OUR thug so we quit taunting him with rubber chickens and welcomed him into the family.
I’m glad I never hated Moose Vasko, who by all accounts was well liked, a hard worker and probably never deserving of a rubber poultry taunt. His golden puck now has a place of honor on my desk, and the money I spent is now on its way to someone who could use a break. To whoever’s in charge of keeping hockey records-- give the old Moose one more assist, eh?
2 comments:
Bored with winter?
While church functions are certainly a rewarding and usually safe way to share your life with others there is no reason to be bored in the frozen north.
Find a lake that needs a hole bored into it and yank some crappie, walleye and perch to your dinner table.
Grab a buddy and some shotgun shells, a beagle or two and chase some snowshoe hares through the frozen pine forests.
Thank God we are free to follow our passions, even in the frozen north lands of the U.S.
Soon, in spring, will be time to go bird watching. Ha Ha Ha. Dream of the days ahead when you can once again chase a hockey puck across a frozen pond. Sign it in gold and sell it at next winters church auction. Nobody will know but you.
Thank you for your story. As I was reding it I chuckled at what my father would say. He was Elmer Moose Vasko and I know he would be grateful for your potluck story. He had a great sense of humor and is probably very happy the money you spent went to help someone. He was a humble man and yet so big and strong on the ice thats why they called him moose. I enjoyed your story and I am glad your puck has a nice resting place Dan Vasko
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