A Season on the Racetrack Special

WHY would a former hockey player remember Ronny the Boxer or The Racetrack Special as well as he recalls a solid body check or a goal in the RPI Christmas tournament? Or at all?

Once a player hangs up the skates for good, the hockey season becomes more than the product of won-lost records and even goals-assists-points statistics. Remembering that championship season (or, in our case, that winning season) involves reflections on road trips as well as who scored the winning goal against Harvard in 1974.

The players would straggle into Davis Field House around 11 a.m. before a trip. The studious had gone to class that morning; the fastidious had steamed, curved, and filed their sticks to perfection. The masters of this fine art (curving sticks, not cutting classes) were Tom Fleming, Ken Pettit, and Bob Hayes. Since these players usually led the team in scoring, it gave the rest of us an excuse for our lagging point production — we obviously couldn't curve our sticks as well. A skeptical coaching staff thought otherwise. They put us through drills to shape our skills, not our sticks.

Sticks curved and filed, bags packed, and skates sharpened, we would climb into the bus. Some players were always late, at least one of us always left his skates on the couch in Davis Field House. It usually occurred to him as the bus passed the Super Duper in Hanover.

Manager Dick Donahue once threatened to leave exactly on time, no matter how many players were late. He would have carried out his threat but for the fact that hockey requires six players. At the announced departure time the bus held a quorum, but trainer Irv Fountain and coach Grant Stanbrook did not have intercollegiate eligibility.

On time or not, we did adhere to the road-trip dress code. The team interpreted the College's broad guidelines with an equally broad range of clothing styles and attitudes. The extremes were Fred Riggal and Jim Edgeworth.

Riggal, the model of mid-Manitoba conservatism, displayed navy blue sport coat, subdued shirt, quiet tie, hair neat and short. He looked as if he had just come from a board meeting. He was, after all, an economics major and his mien perhaps foretold a career in the Great West Life Insurance Company. Edgeworth was somewhat more casual - beat-up sport coat, golf shirt, tennis shoes, khaki pants, and stubby tie half over his collar. No one was sure what Jim's career would be. He considered the dividing line between acceptable attire and disgrace to be a tie. No matter what the condition of his clothing, it was acceptable, he insisted, if he had a tie.

One player wore a tuxedo for important away games. Purchased for a dollar at the Norwich fair, it was tailored for a man with a gigantic belly. Still, with satin lapels and leg stripes, it was a steal for a buck. A cummerbund was thrown in for a quarter. For important games it brought mixed luck — one win and one loss. For the win, the tuxedo was a good joke; the loss made it a bad joke. So with this motley crew on board, we set off for the game.

At the helm were the unsung heroes of the road trips, the bus drivers. Vermont Transit screened these men carefully before permitting them to drive the varsity, and for good reason. Many drivers apprenticed by driving the freshmen first. If they completed the trips and still didn't hate hockey players, Dartmouth College, or driving in general, they were ready for the varsity.

The bus drivers had to combine the patience of an alumnus waiting for the next Ivy League hockey title with the daring of a kamikaze pilot. The patience was necessary to tolerate the team's occasional hijinks and the daring was needed to navigate the sinuous streets of Boston.

We nicknamed one of the most popular drivers "John Glenn," as much for his likeness to the astronaut as for his driving speed. Road trips always seemed shorter when John was at the helm, and they were. He had a sense of propriety. If things on the bus looked as if they were getting out of hand, he changed the bus destination sign from "Dartmouth College" to "The Racetrack Special."

On trips so long even John Glenn couldn't shorten them, we managed to find various activities to keep us amused. The minute the bus pulled out of Hanover the cards appeared. Charlie Solberg and Fleming were the most avid players, and they always cornered the seats with the studying tables. One could hardly blame them for their poker. Even if mid-terms loomed large, it was difficult to study on the bus.

Sleep was also difficult. Bus riders have tried every variation of stretching and contorting to fit comfortably in the seats, but there are few positions that permit sleep. And those that do result in a stiff neck. Edgeworth had the best method for sleeping on the bus: tucked in among coats, books and hockey skates, he found room to stretch out in the overhead luggage rack.

The bus had a radio but the reception was often poor. So for the long trips Steve Johnson donated his portable tape deck. We attached the speakers to the luggage rack, proving that hockey tape can be used for more than just taping sticks or shin pads.

We usually stayed in Holiday Inns. These places must have had bad experiences with teams, especially with big parties after tournament victories. After looking at our won-lost record, the hotels probably expected us to be a very quiet group. We fooled the Hotel Sonesta in 1973 by winning the ECAC tournament in Boston Garden.

Television seemed as necessary to a hotel room as clean sheets and a pillow. With a rigorous athletic schedule and a demanding academic curriculum, we felt this relaxation was justified. There were, however, suspicions that soap opera aficionados didn't limit their viewing to road trips. Even those who claimed to be the most casual followers of the soaps could recite the entire history of Mary's lovers, John's shady legal dealings, and Bob and Sally's marital problems. The cartoon viewers were as faithful. The other players continued to play cards in the rooms. After all, love and romance or Quick Draw McGraw might be fine for the TV viewers, but cards involved cold cash.

Those who studied were a minority and need not be discussed here.

With our intellects satisfied by a television heartbreak, a straight flush, or (infrequently) a paragraph of reading, we would head for dinner. It was as if we hadn't seen food for weeks and would never see it again. The objective of the meals seemed to be to consume as much food as quickly as possible. If the management was alert, we were usually isolated from the rest of the guests.

Bartering was rampant during the meals. Baked potatoes, unwanted steak, and salads were traded like draft choices. Future considerations might be given to dessert or fruit cups. Rolls, honey, and sour cream were always in demand.

The maximum time for ingestion, mastication, and conversation was approximately 20 minutes. Those with ulcers or big appetites stayed behind in the quiet wasteland of the training tables, finishing dessert or searching through the debris for another roll while morose busboys surveyed the ruins. Sometimes we lingered in the dining room for lessons on our opponent's strategy. If no chalk board was available, the coach simulated various situations by using items on the tables. He had an amazing ability to explain plays using almost any object. A wrinkle in the table cloth became the blue line and a baked potato became the goalie. The dispensable player could be a left-over roll, while the egotistical player might be a large water glass. Salt shakers back-checked while swarms of knives peppered shots at the baked potato. If Cornell had skated like the ice-cream dishes they were, we would have beaten them every time. Unfortunately, we often backchecked like empty fruit cups, so we didn't.

One of our defensemen provided occasional after dinner piano entertainment. Amid the accompanying tinkle of tiny spoons in ice cream dishes poured forth "Rocky Raccoon," a tune revived by the Beatles. Our Rocky was Brian McCloskey, a diminutive center who, because of his appearance and speed, bore an unfailing resemblance to the flying squirrel of the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. The nickname was understood by all the cartoon lovers on the team. They explained it to the soap opera viewers and the card players.

All voices joined in tribute to our popular little center. When the busboys came in to clear the tables, they thought they had interrupted the musical interlude of a Kiwanis meeting.

After the game, we had soft drinks and sandwiches on the bus. Bartering again took place as roast beef sandwiches were swapped for ham and cheese, or Cokes for Seven-Ups. If the freshmen were along, it was a mad scramble. The fittest, quickest, or wiliest got watered and fed.

If the freshmen won and the varsity lost, the back of the bus was noisy and the front, quiet. Occasionally both teams won, so the freshmen didn't have to worry about the varsity's sensibilities. The varsity never worried about such matters if the freshmen lost.

The overnight trips without the freshmen were the most fun. These long trips developed camaraderie and cohesion. Saturday night after the game we explored cities that were unfamiliar to most of us. With the possible exception of Troy, New York, we found them all interesting. Philadelphia was a favorite. As if to assuage the team's scoring impotence d uring the 1974-75 season, we stayed at a Holiday Inn in Philadelphia near a district catering to prurient interests.

In the same way Ben Franklin had counseled against venery in that same city some years earlier, the seniors warned the youngsters that the nearby porno shops would divert their minds from the real purpose of our trip. If they went near the shops, lechery would replace industry, slothfulness would replace diligence. Franklin did not follow his own advice, and the underclassmen did not heed ours.

Philadelphia also offered an all-night bowling alley, and bowling was a good way to relax after a hard-fought game. The management and clientele often did not approve of our crude techniques, however. Dave Walkum became the team's champ. He had honed his skills over many years in Shakespeare, Ontario, after the only pool hall in town closed down.

Other cities also offered interesting evening entertainment. We were forced to stop in Bridgeport, Connecticut, on the way home from the Princeton game because of bad weather. Bridgeport on Saturday night might have proved somewhat dull had it not been for Ronny, an old prizefighter, and two gorgeous singers named Anna and Eva.

We heard the singers while getting our keys in the lobby. After stowing our gear, most of us went down to the lounge for the girls' floor show. There we met Ronny the Boxer. He insisted we sit at his table. He bought the drinks, thereby earning license to tell boxing stories and show his clippings.

Dressed in a while silk shirt and black tie, Ronny looked as if he'd just come off the set of an old Cagney movie. He might have been interesting — though perhaps not as interesting as Anna and Eva — if we could have understood what he was saying. Over the years Ronny had taken too many roundhouse rights. More recently he had taken too many shots of rye.

Anna and Eva were in high gear when Ronny took out his old clippings. Brittle and yellowed, they described minor fights around Boston in the late '40s and early '50s. Reading them and looking at his nose, it was evident that Ronny had lost as many as he won. He was losing again tonight. Before he staggered away, Ronny shadow-boxed a bit, then stumbled around the corner and out the door.

After an overnight trip, Sunday bus rides homeward were usually subdued. Most players caught up on sleep or studies. Saturday night rides were different. Once it was even educational.

Driving through the streets of Boston, Andy Benson gave a brief historical summary. Benson enjoyed himself so much at the intercom that he gave instructions to the driver to visit a last historic shrine, his house. Reaching the hallowed site, he announced, "Andy Benson slept here." The rest of the family still slept there, and they were surprised to find a busload of hockey players in the living room at midnight. Andy insisted he was always told to bring his friends to the house. We replaced Andy at the intercom with someone who lived closer to Hanover.

The liveliest trip was the final ride home of the season. Regardless of whether personal or team objectives had been met during the season, the team joined in song. The singing was ragged, but that didn't dampen the enthusiasm. Even the card players put down the cards.

The most popular song had a simple chorus that left time for some imaginative wag to invent lyrics for the next verse. The verses usually started with "I know a guy who's name is ...," and the appropriate details were added. Toward the end of the trip, when imagination flagged, the format was changed and finally abandoned to accommodate increasingly outrageous rhymes.

The object was to lampoon as many people as graphically and as suggestively as possible. No one was spared — our teammates, Dartmouth coeds, the College administration, the bus driver, wives, and, for the brave (or graduating), the coaches.

Judging by the richness of detail, the players paid considerably more attention to each other's activities, liaisons, hopes, fears, and aspirations than would be expected. The songs didn't change a losing season or dispel disappointment at skills not mastered, but they helped. The road trips were more than just getting there. We laughed at ourselves and with each other, and had a lot of memories.

Owner of the dollar tuxedo and master ofthe piano version of "Rocky Raccoon,"David Dunbar '75 also contributedSeptember's Vox column: "An AlienAboot."