Grade 8’s Get The Nets!
by Glen Erickson

For those of us who grew up playing shinny on outdoor rinks at our schools, where a good sponge puck was worth its weight in ice chips, there was a rite of passage we’ll likely never forget. It was a crystal clear approach, accepted begrudgingly on occasion. Nonetheless, we’d abide by it’s rationale.

Grade 8’s get the nets!

As kids, all we really needed was a hockey stick, our skidoo boots and a toque. Somebody always had a sponge puck, even if it was orange sometimes. There were only two nets at our school rink and we all knew our place in the pecking order. It forced us to learn to be patient. After all, we knew we’d get our turn. There was an “understanding” back in those simpler times.

During a summer day in June of 2003, as I wandered down Wilson Crescent past Georges Vanier School, I pulled off the main drag on to Clare Crescent. Frankly, I spent some of the worst years of my life in elementary school, but I decided to see if I could take a quick walk through the old stomping grounds.

Georges Vanier School, Saskatoon

I introduced myself to the ladies in the main office, explained I had attended the school in the early 1970’s, and asked permission to stroll up and down the hallways for a few minutes.

There were classrooms I remembered sitting in, that gymnasium with the huge beams hanging from the ceilings, and the remnants of the decrepit old intercom system that arrived on the scene during my year in the fifth grade.

And then, it happened.

I peaked into the old “Skate Room” and as I sat on a bench, I recalled how this was where the action used to start and finish at recess and during our break for lunch. Winter boots would be strewn all over the room. And there was the huge door to the playground that I remember struggling to push open as a kid. But what was this new thing hanging on the wall?

I scanned what appeared to be a schedule of sorts, which outlined the playground equipment on site. There were specific classrooms and grades assigned on certain days to use each piece of equipment. The list included the rink and gulp, the hockey nets.

On my way out of the school, I stopped by the main office again and thanked the ladies for the opportunity to roam around. I also asked what the playground equipment schedule was all about, hoping a cooler head from my generation might admit it was all just a joke. But no, the response was offered in rather a matter-of-fact tone, along with a comment to the effect of “fair play”.

With a shrug and a bit of a smirk, I queried, “You can’t be serious”.

The comment did not receive a reply from the ladies, only that all too familiar facial expression men of the new millennium have become accustomed to when the women in our lives wish to invoke the conclusion to a conversation. As I shuffled slowly through the front doors of the school, I felt a bit like a beaten man.

What happened?

I wondered how the decision had been made in that environment. I imagined some punk kid in Grade 4 running out on to the rink a recess, the first kid out of the building. He pulls his puck out of his pocket and starts rifling shots into one of the nets. When the Grade 8's show up, he yells, "hey, I was here first"!

Yeh, that'll work. The Grade 8 kid probably drifted the kid's puck over the boards into the snow bank on the playground. Maybe the punk kid couldn't even find  the damn thing?

Then of course, the punk kid cries the blues at home. In my day, the answer would've been, "serves you right!"

(photo credit: Live Science)

But not in the new millenium. I can imagine a determined soccer mom racing the minivan to the school to berate the teachers and cry bloody murder. Then in a staff meeting, somebody proposes a shared approach and, geezuz...

Oh the humanity!

Since that fateful day, I have spoken of the experience with a few old acquaintances. For those of us who have managed to make it to and past our 40^th year, we all remember the way it was. It was like a code. And thankfully, I have learned the edict back then was not exclusive to the school I attended. It was common knowledge on rinks throughout the city.

Grade 8’s get the nets!

Seeking some reassurance, I contacted Gerry Weinkauf, my grade eight teacher who keeps busy these days at the Saskatoon Separate School Board offices. “Sir W” we used to call him. We remember him as a good athlete, a guy we liked to include in our shinny games. 

(photo credit: Liam Richards, Star Phoenix)

In fact, back in Grade five, I recall sliding in front of him to block a shot and his stick hit me in the chops. A total of 16 stitches later, the beginning of a hockey road map had been etched on to my face. I call it my reward for poor shot blocking technique. Still, unsure if he would remember me, I introduced myself over the phone.

“Yep,” he said. “One of my grade eight students at Georges Vanier.”

I told him I’d like to throw out a one-liner at him. I hoped he’d recognize what I was going to say, because I really wanted his opinion. Then I blurted, “Grade 8’s get the nets!”

The silence lasted about one second before Weinkauf laughed out loud. And so did I, thankful the memory and the connection were still there. I shared my recent experience at the school with him and mentioned my “rite of passage” notion. And then, as was always the case where Sir W was concerned, his voice of reason commanded my attention.

“I have to admit those were good times for me,” Weinkauf began. “I was young and enjoyed being out there with you guys, playing football or hockey. And sure, a lot of the time was spent with the older kids and the grade eights did control the nets.”

“And you can’t forget,” he said, “it was the grade eight’s who did most of the work maintaining the rink back then. So, it might have been less a rite of passage and more of a reward for being involved with all of the work it took to keep the rink running.”

Oh sure, I thought. Like, we’d earned it?

“Well,” Weinkauf asked. “Isn’t that one way to look at it?”

Admittedly, times change for better and for worse. But thankfully, I have yet to connect with anybody of my vintage who does not respond with a laugh, a smile or a memorable comment. We all remember that place in time we can happily identify with.

There were good times. Occasionally great times. I think it was a fair time, for certain a simpler time, a time where we could be comfortable in our own frost-bitten skin. We all knew where we stood.

It was a good thing.

Grade 8’s get the nets!

(Erickson is an Alberta-based freelance writer.)

©2005