Almost
The man who was almost my father was a Boston Bruin goalie. Brent, a youthful, strong athlete in the prime of his life, handsome in his iconic black and gold uniform with imposing B set in sharp features. His sculpted jaw and cleft chin were saved by the grace of the recently adopted facemask for NHL goalies. But oh those pads, the pads oddly were an attraction, something about getting a black round hard plastic puck being shot at your body at upwards of 100 mph over and over in a game. Brent was my mom’s fiance.
Even though engaged, my mother was easily convinced by her very convincing best friend Pat, to give up a boring night at home listening to records and polishing her nails to instead attend the Saturday night USO dance in the hall of their local church. Her goalie fiance at the time was playing an away game in Canada (Boston lost 6-1 to the Canadians that night). This loss was just the beginning of many losses for Brent personally and professionally. Coincidentally Boston ended up in the basement of final standings that season.
My mother prepped for the dance. Teased and sprayed her hair, wearing stiff petticoats under her full skirt cinched at the waist to strategically showcase her slender figure. Pat wore a sweater set with matching tapered pants - perfectly matching pumps and handbags.
My father, Mike, was an enlisted Army private, carefree, tanned, with ocean streaked blonde hair, as only a Southern Californian boy can have. Growing up his days were filled with surfing, fast cars, and beach parties. Mike was strikingly handsome in his dress uniform of crisp tan pants with army green overcoat pulled taut across his chest and broad shoulders with a thick belt. Brent was almost as handsome in his very different uniform, almost.
If there is a thing as love at first sight they saw it. My mom, much to her surprise, found herself dancing, laughing and eventually walking outside with the handsome private. Perhaps it was the punch, the heat of the hall, stuffiness of the room, the warmth of the night seeping onto the dance floor like a fog, the laughter of dear friends, cigarette smoke, or the music, Whatever the cause of the enchantment, so it was. As she succumbed to a tender kiss goodnight she knew Mike’s mischievous twinkling blue eyes would never leave her heart.
That fateful Saturday night USO dance, when my father lost his game in Montreal, my future was sealed. This almost-ness is perhaps why I have a thing for hockey players. My first love was a high school hockey star and I’ve had several from afar crushes through the years on those broken nose, adorable missing teeth, brutal, endearing hockey players.
Now nearly 60 years later I found a picture of Brent Gable. It was an old image on a Boston Bruins players trading card without much value, yet it made my heart flutter to see him smiling back at me, he eerily resembles my Dad. They could almost have been brothers.