Waiting for Wendel
Act 1 - Nothing to be done
When I was in Saskatoon last month I took a glimpse at the map and noticed that I was a mere three hours away from the birthplace of the greatest New York Islander of all time. Thanks to a very understanding girlfriend and an abundance of time on our hands, we decided to make the trek to Kelvington, Saskatchewan to see for ourselves the tiny little town where Wendel Clark was born and raised.
The road to Kelvington was riddled with so many potholes, canyons and what seemed to be asteroid impact sites that it kind of looked like Bob Probert's face. By the time we rode into Kelvington, feeling about a half past dead, we were hoping to be greeted by a giant "Welcome to the Birthplace of Wendel Clark" billboard. Instead, there was nothing.
I said "Hey Eve Styzerman, come on, lets go downtown," and we drove around looking for a statue or monument or even a rusted plaque in front of the hockey rink, but once again found the kind of recognition you would expect to see in Chris Neil's hometown. Nothing.
After cruising through town a few times we stopped at the Post Office to get some answers. I said: "Hey Mister can you tell me where a man might find some of the landmarks that might interest a big fan of the one and only Wendel Clark." He just grinned and shook my hand and "no" was all he said. Except that it was a woman behind the counter, and instead of no, she said "not really." Turns out that both the house where Wendel was born and the hockey rink where he learned to skate and maim Dino Ciccarelli were both torn down years ago.
She told us that the only Wendelphernalia we had any chance of finding was actually the woman who gave birth to the great man himself. "If you head out to the restaurant on the highway, you might run into Wendel's mom. She goes there for lunch quite a bit."
It seemed a bit too obsessive trying to track down Wendel's mother, but the woman at the post office assured us that she would love to see us and talk about Wendel.
Act 2 - We wait. We are bored
Of course, when we got to the restaurant there was no Ma' Clark to be found. We took a load off, ate some lunch, and looked around the bar where we finally found some evidence that Wendel was in fact the pride and joy of this small and statueless prairie town:
First of all, Wendel's jersey hanging from the wall:
Secondly, a collection of stuffed elk or deer heads that I can only assume Wendel tore off with his bare hands:
More importantly, our waitress directed us to the golf course next door where we finally found the tribute to Wendel Clark we had been looking for. Well, not quite, but we did find some over-sized hand-painted hockey cards recognizing the relatively large (for a town of 700 people) pool of hockey talent (plus Barry Melrose) given to the world by Kelvington.
You might think that we felt like you probably do about this post if you managed to read this far: "Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's awful! What the fuck!." Well, not quite. Sure, we were hoping to see a massive golden shrine erected in the centre of town honouring Captain Crunch, but instead we got so much more. We got the Kelvington experience. When we went back to the restaurant we talked with an old man who noticed us taking pictures of the memorabilia lining the walls. "What is it about this place that produced so many NHL players? Is it something in the water?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "there is nothing else to do here besides play hockey."
That's Kelvington. Let's go.
Yes, let's go.
When I was in Saskatoon last month I took a glimpse at the map and noticed that I was a mere three hours away from the birthplace of the greatest New York Islander of all time. Thanks to a very understanding girlfriend and an abundance of time on our hands, we decided to make the trek to Kelvington, Saskatchewan to see for ourselves the tiny little town where Wendel Clark was born and raised.
The road to Kelvington was riddled with so many potholes, canyons and what seemed to be asteroid impact sites that it kind of looked like Bob Probert's face. By the time we rode into Kelvington, feeling about a half past dead, we were hoping to be greeted by a giant "Welcome to the Birthplace of Wendel Clark" billboard. Instead, there was nothing.
I said "Hey Eve Styzerman, come on, lets go downtown," and we drove around looking for a statue or monument or even a rusted plaque in front of the hockey rink, but once again found the kind of recognition you would expect to see in Chris Neil's hometown. Nothing.
After cruising through town a few times we stopped at the Post Office to get some answers. I said: "Hey Mister can you tell me where a man might find some of the landmarks that might interest a big fan of the one and only Wendel Clark." He just grinned and shook my hand and "no" was all he said. Except that it was a woman behind the counter, and instead of no, she said "not really." Turns out that both the house where Wendel was born and the hockey rink where he learned to skate and maim Dino Ciccarelli were both torn down years ago.
She told us that the only Wendelphernalia we had any chance of finding was actually the woman who gave birth to the great man himself. "If you head out to the restaurant on the highway, you might run into Wendel's mom. She goes there for lunch quite a bit."
It seemed a bit too obsessive trying to track down Wendel's mother, but the woman at the post office assured us that she would love to see us and talk about Wendel.
Act 2 - We wait. We are bored
Of course, when we got to the restaurant there was no Ma' Clark to be found. We took a load off, ate some lunch, and looked around the bar where we finally found some evidence that Wendel was in fact the pride and joy of this small and statueless prairie town:
First of all, Wendel's jersey hanging from the wall:
Secondly, a collection of stuffed elk or deer heads that I can only assume Wendel tore off with his bare hands:
More importantly, our waitress directed us to the golf course next door where we finally found the tribute to Wendel Clark we had been looking for. Well, not quite, but we did find some over-sized hand-painted hockey cards recognizing the relatively large (for a town of 700 people) pool of hockey talent (plus Barry Melrose) given to the world by Kelvington.
You might think that we felt like you probably do about this post if you managed to read this far: "Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's awful! What the fuck!." Well, not quite. Sure, we were hoping to see a massive golden shrine erected in the centre of town honouring Captain Crunch, but instead we got so much more. We got the Kelvington experience. When we went back to the restaurant we talked with an old man who noticed us taking pictures of the memorabilia lining the walls. "What is it about this place that produced so many NHL players? Is it something in the water?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "there is nothing else to do here besides play hockey."
That's Kelvington. Let's go.
Yes, let's go.
When I started reading this post, I was sure it was about Mick Vukota or Richard Pilon or at the very least Kevin Cheveldayoff.
What a rip-off.
Best usage of The Weights' lyrics in regards to a trip to Kelvington, ever.
Literally ever, because I'm not sure it's been done before.
Lloyd Gronsdahl!! What Mecca hast thou discovered!!
Nice entry, a really nice read. Thanks for that Kim Jorn.
Any chance you guys roll with some Kafka next, say some Metamorphosis or The Trial? Say Gary Leeman meets the Silver Fox and turns cockroach upon his departure from the buds? (It is figuratively true, sadly)
And are those marks on the Kelvington sign the marks of bullets or just signs of Joey Kocur's unchecked fists of aggression?
Nice molesterstache on the Clark card.
Still a pretty neat monument, but geez.