Called Home: Our Inspiration--Jim Mahon

Joseph A. Byrne

Description

The book is based on the life of Jim Mahon, who was an outstanding hockey prospect, killed in a farm accident at age 19. His death broke the heart of a whole community. Jim was generally considered to be a young phenom, like a Gretzky or an Orr. His story is compelling even now, forty years after his death not only because of his hockey ability, but more because he was such a great human being.

Sujets

• Sport
• Autour du sport
• Histoire du sport
• Vie de famille
• Relations familiales
• Famille
• Inspiration
• personal Growth

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456606770
• Langue: English

Extrait

CALLED HOME:
OUR INSPIRATION,
JIM MAHON
 
 
Written by Joseph A. Byrne
 
In consultation with John Mahon and the Mahon family
 


CALLED HOME: OUR INSPIRATION, JIM MAHON
 
Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Byrne,
All rights reserved.
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0677-0
 
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
 
For information regarding this publication, please make inquiries via e-mail to:
[e-mail]
 
Or by mail to: Joseph A Byrne
14 Centre Street
Essex, ON N8M 1N9
 
Visit our website at: www.byrnebooks.ca
 


A Personal Note
 
 
When I started to write about my great friend Jim Mahon, I decided that he was much more than a great hockey player. He was an incredibly wonderful human being, a quiet, gentle giant. He made being the best look easy, and always accepted his greatness with humility.
It surprises me even now, 40 years later, how raw the wounds are among those of us fortunate to know him. Hardened business people are still very emotional at the mere mention of his name. The raw emotion remains at the surface.
My goal in writing Jim’s story is to bring his memory back to life within the covers of this book, so that we can again enjoy his company; so that we can again marvel at his immense talent; so that we can again feel the passion that he stirred within us.
But it was not a one-way street. We always mattered to Jim. Although Jim’s funeral is a memory distant 40 years, some things are remembered clearly. I can remember that I prayed that one day God would give back to us the great gift that was revoked, Jim Mahon.
Many questions will always remain unanswered. Would Jim Mahon’s name have belonged with the greats: Gordie Howe, Bobby Hull, Rocket Richard, Bobby Orr, Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, and Jim Mahon? Would Jim have been the most complete player of them all? Would the Mahon family have become the first family of hockey?
I prayed hard that day that God would give us back that great gift, Jim Mahon.
In the meantime, I am ever so thankful that God gave him to us even if it was only for a little while.
 


 
 
 

 
LETTER FROM ROGER NEILSON






 
 
 

 


 
 
CALLED HOME:
OUR INSPIRATION,
JIM MAHON
 


 
 
 

 
1
GREATER FORCES
They were quite a sight those Peterborough Petes of 1971, as they formed their honour guard, there, in front of the Stewart L. Kennedy Funeral Home, in the Town of Essex. The Petes were a legendary team, loaded with talent. They were, after all, the team of Jim Mahon. Their appealing maroon colours would have flown high on another occasion. Now, they served as mere backdrop.
The veteran sniper, Rick McLeish, was there. He was by now, a Philadelphia Flyer, a team that coveted his well-known toughness and scoring ability. He looked strong and handsome there in front of Kennedy’s; fitting for the lot he had been given in life. Yet, even he was somehow dwarfed by these circumstances.
The goaltender, John Garrett, was there. John would recall through the mist of his thoughts, how a Jim Mahon shot would hurt even when it hit on the center of the goal pad. But nothing had ever hurt like this.
Doug Gibson was also there. This man, known as an artist with a puck, who together with Paul Raymer, were line-mates with Jim, men who were determined to let the full extent of Jim’s talent show, were now called upon to give him their greatest assist. Future NHL’ers Ron Lalonde and Danny Gloor, stood attentive.
Inside the funeral home, the captain Craig Ramsay, at times exhibited his legendary leadership abilities, remaining strong and composed. His leadership was vital now for the sake of his teammates, who were completely bewildered in this sad environment. At other times, Craig would lead in a very human way, his overwhelming sadness showing through. He and the stalwart defenceman and future captain Colin Campbell, a player toughened by years of hard work on his family’s tobacco farm near Tillsonburg, would, at times, exchange glances. Both of them welled with tears, unable to speak at times, as they stood there in this environment of complete shock.
Jim’s roommate, Bruce Abbey, who had been to the Mahon farm many times, and who was there on Jim’s last day, training with him, was transfixed. He had been a tower of strength to the Mahon family in the immediacy of that cruel day, not allowing himself to properly grieve, staying as strong as he possibly could, for the sake of the Mahon family. He had earned his moments now.
These men were joined by teammates Ron Plumb, Paul Perras, Dennis Patterson, Coach Roger Neilson and Maidstone teammate Bill Bellaire, who had gone with Jim on that great journey to Parry Sound to try their hand at junior hockey.
By all accounts, these were remarkable men. They had earned their accolades, and they wore them well. Now, they took on their greatest job. It was left to them to carry Jim’s body toward the honour guard, which had been set up by their Peterborough teammates. All of them were stars. They had sought stardom. They had earned it, but not this kind of stardom. They all had, indeed been cast in this enormous spotlight, a spotlight which now shone on them, but not of their choosing. None of them had ever experienced anything like this. Nothing they had ever done had prepared them for this.
There was an eerie silence then, there, broken only by muffled sobs and a solitary bell sounding in the distance. Bong—Bong—Bong.
The coach, Roger Neilson, stood guard with them, trying desperately to look strong, composed, intelligent, and in control. He wanted to look that way for the sake of his young men. Roger desperately wanted to look strong for them. He had always sought to represent the higher ideals in hockey, as in life. Roger was always mindful that there were higher ideals in hockey. Now, he was given a chance to demonstrate those higher ideals, to lead his young men, his talented young men, the Peterborough Petes. Yet, even Roger, this deeply spiritual man, this man who loved God, gave in, as both of his eyes misted, forcing him to dry them in plain view with his white handkerchief. Roger would stand there with his white handkerchief in hand, as though in surrender to his world, to his God, to the people who were there, to the greater forces around him. But now, Roger waved it symbolically as though in surrender. Roger would one day use that white handkerchief to great effect in hockey too, symbolic perhaps of that day, that very sad day.
The Petes stood there, handsome on this day, in those two straight lines facing each other; so much so that on another day someone surely would have made remarks about it. All of them looked straight ahead, unable to make eye contact, afraid to make it, except to sniffle, or shield their eyes from their tears that fell, or to imitate their coach and dry them. It was silent that day—far too silent.
This who’s who of hockey stars and stars-to-be were in submission in this bewildering environment.
Still, they waited there, lined up at the foot of the steps outside Kennedy’s Funeral Home, forming their honour guard on the pathway that led to the hearse waiting there quietly, on Main Street. Bong went the bell again. Bong—bong—bong.
Inside, the veteran funeral director, Stewart Kennedy, a leader at sad occasions, couldn’t keep his composure either. He too sobbed, mostly keeping it inside, looking away when he needed to, drying his eyes when he had to, rushing away at times, as though on an important errand, when the emotions were too strong, he too using a white handkerchief to dry his tears, to surrender.
The surrender was more than symbolic that day. It was real, much too real.
It was remarkable by all accounts. Inside, the stifling silence was broken by the suffering of his parents, Ed and Maxine. Both of them were dying right there with their son. They both needed assistance to even be there, yet both of them were unable to leave.
Ed and Maxine both lived through the experience of having their lives ended at the moment their son, their star son, had died. Yet, both of them were forced to continue living for the sake of their other children. Maxine would be the signature of that submission.
“God!” she would say. “I have done my best to raise my children until now, but I am now unable. You will have to raise them for me now for I am unable,” she would repeat.
It would be her heartbroken children, led by the eldest, Judy, and by John, Joan, Dan and Kathy who would pull together to make God’s job of raising them easier.
Ed and Maxine were destined to lead the first family of hockey, but that didn’t matter now. To be with their son Jim, is what mattered. It was all that mattered. He looked handsome there lying in his coffin. How we desperately wanted him to again sit up and let his greatness show. Now, he would again include us in his many victories as he always did, never leaving any of us behind, making it look so easy to win at hockey as at life, and to make it look so easy to bring all of us along with him to share in the joy of those victories, in the joy of who he was—this great man.
The family and all of us too, experienced death that day. We experienced it with our great friend, Jim Mahon. A part of us died with him. We were on our own now, cast out from the cocoon of his greatness, and we didn’t want to be.
Members of the Hayes and Mahon families were there to help Ed and Maxine, but, they too, were stricken by grief, immobilized by it. At that moment, that very cruel moment, when the coffin was closed, they too, were unable to cope under the strain of it. Time would stand still that day, and yet it would move on, c