A tip of the helmet

I have to admit I’ve become a fan of both the Dukes and the new Essroc Arena. Let me tell you about a few things I like.

I’ll start with the players. Watching the team march through the playoffs has reminded me that no matter how much flash and brilliance you might show, you can’t beat six other players on your own: you have to work with your teammates. On the other hand, a momentary lapse in your concentration can kill your team. So you can do more as an individual to affect the downside than you can to alter the upside. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.

I liked the Dukes’ attitude. They concentrated on getting the job done, kept their cool and took few penalties. They were exuberant when they scored, but unbowed when scored against. Even the healthy scratches —recognizable at the standing rails with their black suits and dyed-blonde hair—were a model of deportment, with no sulking or scowling faces in sight. I also tip my metaphorical helmet to the Oakville Blades for taking their surprisingly rapid elimination with considerable dignity. (By the by, how can dying your hair blonde be a good luck charm, when every team does it? Doesn’t it have to be unique to you?)

I also admire the enthusiastic work of public address announcer David Hurst. While he runs through the visitors’ roster with deference, he spares no dramatic effect in introducing the home team. I can’t understand why he is not hired by other local institutions. Churches, for example. “And now, playing organ, from West Lake, Ontario, Mayyyyyble Greeeeenstock.” “And your captain and preacher for today, the Rrrerevvvvernend Perrrrcy Smmmmmmithers.” The pews, and possibly the collection boxes, would be stuffed.

I’ve also taken a liking to “Cymbals” (his stage name). You know, the guy who shows up at the game wearing a costume that could make him a knight in armour or a glam rocker, and who stands up and clashes his cymbals about seven times when the Dukes score a goal; all at various stations of the cross around the arena.

(A “clash” of cymbals. There’s an appropriate word for you grammarians who are still smarting over this paper’s use of “a herd of swans.” Wouldn’t you clash if a guy dressed up in a gorilla suit and two big brass cymbals came and sat down beside you?)

“Cymbals” is a gentle-tempered Belleville area resident named John Wilson. He has being doing this gig—unpaid, and paying for his own collection of 70 costumes, of which black Elvis and white Elvis are the most popular— for 21 years. He works regularly in Belleville, and has also appeared at Scotiabank Place, Maple Leaf Gardens, and in New Haven, Saginaw and Sudbury. He considers it a point of professional pride to clash for every home team goal. And he is particularly proud that he was present to clash the first goal scored in the new DukeDome.

He is married and has worked for the last 35 years at the Whitney School for the Deaf. Signing is his first language. He is one of seven children—all with normal hearing—of deaf parents. His father lost his hearing when he contracted scarlet fever as a child. His mother lost her hearing as an infant in the Halifax Harbour explosion. So he may have grown up in one of the few households where cymbal practice was looked at benignly.

When I see Cymbals so unselfconsciously at work making himself and others happy, it makes me feel good, even though I know we didn’t invent him. I think to myself: once we see judges and bank presidents doing much the same thing, we’ll know that civilization is on the mend.

Another thing I like is the mezzanine level walking track. You can pound out your frustrations on the track when the game isn’t going well; and, more importantly, you can also use it as your social network point. It functions a little like a large sized lazy Susan. You just stand there and intercept people as they are walking past. If you miss them the first time around, you know that you can catch them on the next lap or the following one.

I can list a few negatives, such as: where are the public telephones? (Maybe the amswer lies in the old Carter Family song—there’s “No Telephones in Heaven.”) Or where’s the traffic control plan for game end? Or how do they plan to recover the increased cost of operating a new facility?)

But this an article about positives, so we’ll park those churlish thoughts. Go Dukes Go—to Huntsville and beyond.

David Simmonds’s writing is also available at www.grubstreet.ca.