Against All Odds

by P. J. Naworynski

  In addition to their matches in St. Moritz, the men had signed up to play in a series of exhibition games before and after the Olympics. Their gruelling schedule had them ping-ponging by boat, train, plane, and bus through England, France, Switzerland, Czechoslovakia, Sweden, Holland, and Scotland. Quite simply, without the exhibition matches, the team could not afford to make the trip. Funds generated from their exhibition games were crucial to covering the costs of food, travel, and accommodations for the twenty-man contingent. As a bonus, though, the pre-Olympic matches would help give the newly minted team a few more chances to play together. The prep matches would also provide an opportunity for the men to get acclimatized to the European ice surfaces and to the higher altitude that came with playing in the Swiss Alps.

  With last-minute practices under way in Ottawa, Manager Sandy Watson put together a list of supplies for the men to bring with them on their three-month odyssey through war-torn Europe. Since many of the spots they were going to hit on the old continent were still reeling from the devastations of war, the niceties of life could not be counted on. For the boys in blue it was almost like packing for an expedition. The items on Sandy’s list were deemed “compulsory.” They included a kit bag, a suitcase, an RCAF grey overcoat, a civilian overcoat, a civilian hat, an RCAF cap, the RCAF uniform, a lounge suit, a pair of light trousers, one pair of boots, one pair of shoes, one pair of overshoes, one pair of slippers, four RCAF shirts, four civilian shirts, RCAF and civilian ties, two suits of long underwear, four undershirts and shorts, a heavy sweater, RCAF and civilian gloves, six pairs of civilian socks, three pairs of RCAF socks, two pairs of flannelette pyjamas, one dressing gown, one woollen and one silk scarf, a dozen white and a half dozen RCAF handkerchiefs, a belt, braces, a parka, flying boots, a blazer, shoe polish, and button polish, which could be divided among several members. As well, Sandy made it very clear that toiletries must be packed. “As soap is on ration in many European countries, members must bring at least six large bars apiece. Towels are frequently not provided in European hotels at present. Each member should bring at least two towels. Many such hotels are not equipped for electric razors, hence it is advised to bring a safety razor and blades.”

  On January 6, 1948, just when everything seemed to be humming along with military efficiency, fate dealt Sandy Watson and Frank Boucher a progression of unkind blows. With two days to go before departure, all the players had to undergo a routine medical exam to be cleared for the extended trip overseas. The medical once-over included a series of inoculations. Wally Halder, Reg Schroeter, and George Mara all suffered violent reactions to their shots. Big André Laperrière hated needles and passed out when the nurse administered his. These were minor, temporary setbacks. In time all would recover well enough to hit the ice in Europe.

  But the severest blow came a day later, on January 7, when doctors looked at the results of chest X-rays of the team’s star goalie, Dick Ball. His chest plates indicated that Dick had a spot on his lungs, either an infection or potentially something worse. The questionable status of his lungs grounded Dick from travelling overseas. In the blink of an eye the Flyers lost their starting goaltender. Shocked, Sandy Watson immediately went into damage control. His team was due to catch a train to New York in just over twenty-four hours. There was no way he was going to allow everything he had pulled together over the past three and a half months to go up in flames. Ross King was a good backup goalie, but the Flyers needed a new starting goalie—and they needed him now!

  ABOUT THREE HUNDRED MILES DOWN the road to the west, a young man by the name of Murray Dowey tucked himself into bed after a long day’s work as a clerk and typist at the fledgling Toronto Transit Commission. As he put his head on the pillow that evening, Murray had never heard of the RCAF Flyers. He had no idea that earlier in December, the Flyers got whipped by the McGill Redmen and by the army hockey squad. And he had no idea that the next afternoon, the Flyers were heading off to Europe on a three-month road trip to play hockey for Canada.

  At about 11:00 p.m. Murray and his wife were jolted out of a deep sleep by the hammering bell of the telephone on their night table. The man on the other end of the line introduced himself as Dr. Sandy Watson, manager of Canada’s Olympic hockey team. Half asleep and stunned by this unknown late-night caller, Murray asked Dr. Watson, “What’s this all about? Why are you calling me?” Sandy explained that Murray’s Barker’s Biscuits teammates George Mara and Wally Halder had said he was the best amateur goalie in the Toronto Mercantile League. As it turned out, the Flyers now needed him to join their ranks, if he was willing. Their existing goalkeeper had just failed his medical exam, and the team needed a new netminder to sign up for the air force and come to Switzerland to play in a series of games across Europe for a period of about ninety days. Oh, and they were leaving Ottawa for New York tomorrow afternoon in order to catch their boat to England.

  Murray was honoured by the offer but gobsmacked by the audacity of the proposition. Although he was ecstatic about the concept of playing hockey for Canada, he couldn’t see how he would be able to secure three months off work and be on a train the next day. In typical Sandy Watson fashion, the chief medical officer of the air force informed Murray, “No problem, leave it to me. I know Allan Lamport. He’s the Toronto Transit commissioner. I’ll call you back.” Watson then called Lamport at home in the dead of night, got the green light for Murray’s paid leave of absence from the TTC, and called him back at about 2:00 a.m. He told Murray to get to Downsview air base for 6:00 a.m. They were sending an RCAF plane to bring him to Ottawa. Watson reminded Dowey to pack for winter and for three months of travel. As for gear, Spalding had supplied the team with two sets of goalie equipment.

  Without a wink of sleep, Murray scrambled to get it all together. When he got to Downsview Airport, the fog was so thick he could barely see in front of his face. All flights had been cancelled. In a panic Murray called Sandy and was told to get in a cab, get downtown to Union Station, and grab the first available train to Ottawa. Laden down with his bags and some of his own personal hockey gear, Murray blazed down to the heart of the city, slid onto a train, and slumped into his cabin chair with an exasperated sigh, only to realize he was on the milk run.

  His train stopped at every tiny station between Toronto and Ottawa. Exhausted and bedraggled, Murray finally arrived at Sandy’s office at RCAF headquarters on Elgin Street just after noon. He knocked on the door and shuffled into Sandy’s office. There behind the desk was the man who had woken him up thirteen hours before and ordered him to make tracks with haste. Looking imposing in his RCAF uniform with the big stripes, Sandy looked Murray up and down in both shock and surprise. “Who are you?” he barked. “Well, my name’s Murray Dowey,” replied Murray. “Murray Dowey! You look like that?” retorted a clearly disgruntled and perturbed Dr. Watson. Ragged and tired, Murray looked like something the cat had dragged in. Unimpressed, Watson couldn’t fathom that the skinny, scraggly, pale-looking twenty-two-year-old was some kind of wizard in net.

  But Frank Boucher and Sandy Watson had run out of time to find anyone else. Dowey was such a last-minute arrival that he missed the team’s final practice session. Watson, Boucher, and the RCAF brass had to take a leap of faith. They wouldn’t be able to judge what Murray was capable of between the posts until they got to Europe.

  Over the span of a few lightning-fast hours, Murray was sworn in to the RCAF at the same aircraftman rank as young André Laperrière, kitted out in an air force uniform, and sent to the Canadian Pacific Railway sleeper train bound for New York. To get him into the official team photo, which had been taken a couple of days earlier, the pros at the RCAF photographic lab worked their magic by pasting Murray’s head onto Dick Ball’s body.

  While chatting with Murray that afternoon, Watson discovered that Dowey’s favourite sport wasn’t even hockey—it was baseball. As a kid Murray had spent hours in the summer throwing and catching a ball against the wall behind his school in Toronto’s Beaches neigh
bourhood. The end result: he had good hands and pretty quick reflexes. Murray started playing goalie because he wasn’t a strong skater, and he figured being in net was something he could do. But baseball was his first love. He spent his summers pitching hardball for Tip Top Tailors in the Beaches fastball league. In the winter, he played hockey for Barker’s Biscuits. Watson was riddled with concern that he had made a disastrous decision in selecting this skinny kid who loved baseball more than hockey. But it was too late to bring in someone else.

  In the waning hours of daylight on Thursday, January 8, the team gathered at Ottawa’s Union Station for a final send-off. After three months of headaches and being bashed in the media, it was finally time to get on with it. Although they had bolstered their ranks with some new talent, the Flyers were still considered low-flying hopefuls without much chance of a medal by many in the press. At best, some reporters placed them fourth; at worst, other writers posited that they would finish way down the pack. Internationally, Reuters reported that North American hockey domination was coming to an end. The Czechs were regarded as the gold medal favourites, with the Swedes pegged to capture silver. The Swiss were ranked as the team that would beat the Americans to grab the bronze. The Flyers were in the “also-ran” category with teams like Poland, Austria, Britain, and Italy. A local Ottawa sportswriter went so far as to suggest the RCAF Flyers were an embarrassment, and rather than champion the team upon their departure, he accused them of “folding their tents and sneaking away into the night.”

  But the RCAF and Chief of the Air Staff Wilf Curtis were not about to cater to negative opinions or let their team down. Curtis made sure the air force public relations machine whipped up a healthy contingent of military well-wishers and RCAF officials at the station to mount a rousing, boisterous, heartwarming send-off. Hundreds of family members and hockey fans crowded into the station, which was also packed with journalists. The same RCAF Central Band that had belted out tunes at Olympic Night a month earlier was there in full splendour. This time the musicians proudly blasted out “Royal Air Force March Past.” It was an in-your-face gesture to the naysayers that buoyed the players’ spirits and put smiles on all their faces.

  You could not have asked for a better send-off. All the players except civilians Wally Halder and George Mara were sporting their RCAF uniforms. Tears were flowing as wives and girlfriends kissed their sweethearts goodbye, much as they had just a few years earlier when their warriors set off for foreign battlefields. Thankfully this time guns and kit bags had been replaced with hockey sticks and equipment bags.

  Buck Boucher was the last person to shake hands with the players before they boarded the train on the first leg of their journey to the Olympic hockey wars. He told reporters: “Judging by the way the team has improved lately and the confidence of the players as a whole we may surprise a lot of people in Canada. They aren’t in top shape at present, but they’ll come around.” As photographers and newsreel cameramen snapped pictures of the boys, little fireball Red Gravelle wore a smile a yard wide and commented, “We don’t know just what sort of opposition we’ll meet at the Olympics, but we all feel we can give them plenty of trouble.” A jubilant and confident Frank Boucher wasn’t about to go out on a limb, but he wasn’t going to back down either. Normally quiet and reserved, the coach predicted: “The boys will scrap and I believe we have a good chance of winning it all at St. Moritz. Any team that beats us will have to show both hockey class and plenty of fight, of that, I’m sure.”

  Although the boys were under an immense amount of pressure, they weren’t about to show it. As the train pulled out of the station, belching thick clouds of smoke into the crisp, wintery skies, they could put all the negativity and stress behind them. It was now time to hone their skills, to come together as a team, and to play the game they had all developed a passion and a talent for as children.

  No matter where they had come from, the men on the train barrelling towards New York had hockey infused into every fibre of their beings. These were men who grew up without the distractions of the Internet, cell phones, video games, Facebook, or Twitter accounts. As children of the Depression, these men spent countless hours on outdoor ponds and rinks, wearing makeshift pads and borrowed skates. They had soldiered through a litany of hardships and challenges time and time again and developed the ability to overcome almost any obstacle.

  Latest addition Murray Dowey was no exception. Born in Toronto’s Cabbagetown neighbourhood in January 1926, Murray was a sickly kid who seemed to catch anything and everything going around. Whether it was the measles or the mumps, the flu or a common cold, young Murray would get slammed by the illness and be forced to spend time at home in bed recuperating. On average little Murray went to school just two or three days a week. He was plagued by asthma, food allergies, and a host of airborne allergies, such as hay fever and ragweed. It seemed as if Murray’s lungs were somewhat challenged as he would easily get short-winded and had a history of bronchitis. As a result of his compromised constitution, young Murray was never a good eater and he developed into a slender boy with a light, lean, scrawny physique.

  Murray’s mom was always there at home to care for her little trooper, who was an only child. The doctor’s house calls were a regular ritual at the Dowey household. On one such occasion Murray overheard the doctor telling his mother, “He’ll never be able to run. He’ll never be able to play any sports at all. Just be satisfied you got him, and love him the way he is.” The doctor even went so far as to suggest that Murray’s weak system would fare better if the Doweys could move to warmer, drier climes, like perhaps Arizona. But in the dark days of the Depression, on a postman’s salary, there was no way the family could afford such a leap. Instead they made their way down to the city’s Beaches area. It wasn’t the toasty, arid desert of Arizona, but it was home at a time when many families were struggling just to get by.

  Murray never let any of the wheezing, the coughing, or the shortness of breath stop him. He didn’t care that he was skinnier than the other kids. It was all just part of who he was. Despite the doctor’s warning, he knew he wasn’t some sort of fragile ornament that was going to break.

  Fortunately for Murray his teachers at Bulmer Road School were outgoing and athletic and encouraged all their students to play all kinds of sports, especially hockey and baseball. Every morning before school they would remove their dress shoes, put on running shoes, and fire up the kids to get outside and play. With Fairmount Park right next door to the school, there were plenty of opportunities for the kids to be active. In summer they played baseball and tennis, and in winter they watered down the park, creating an outdoor rink for those who were fortunate enough to have skates.

  Playing road hockey in Toronto’s east end was a near daily source of entertainment for young Murray. Too small for skates, little Murray and his buddies could always find some discarded newspapers to tie around their legs and use as goal pads. Magazines made for better protection, but they were more expensive and harder to come by, and you could always find a newspaper. Murray wrapped those papers around the bottom part of his legs with string, grabbed a few sticks and a ball, and played on the street with his friends until darkness fell and he was called in by his mom. When cars approached, the boys would hop up onto the sidewalk and then carry on after the cars drove by. Nobody bothered them, and that was their entertainment day after day for hours and hours.

  Murray’s first hockey sweater was an iconic red, white, and blue Montreal Canadiens jersey. When he was around seven or eight, he got his first pair of hand-me-down skates. He tried to be a forward, but his friends were a lot better at racing up and down the ice than he was. Murray just didn’t have the wheels to skate as fast as the other boys. One day, as he watched another fellow playing net, he noticed that the other kids all scored pretty easily on him. Murray figured he could play goal just as well as that other guy. He boldly strode over to the coach and asked if he could try his hand in net. To his surprise, the coach said, “OK, we�
�ll get the pads on you.” Simple as that, Murray became a goaltender. In net he found his niche and relished the pads, gloves, and heavy stick; he even enjoyed freezing his face off while guys fired pucks at him all afternoon.

  It was his love of baseball that transformed Murray into a superstar in net. The move down to the Beaches neighbourhood exposed him to top-tier fastball and softball leagues, and Murray took a shine to playing ball. As soon as winter let go of its grasp on Toronto and spring rolled around, Murray began a new daily ritual. Every day he got a rubber ball, went over to the schoolyard, and threw the ball against the wall. He picked it up and threw it back against the wall. He did that by the hour, all day long, especially on Saturdays. After three or four hours he would grab a bite at home and get right back at it. The relentless hours playing solo wall ball helped Murray develop a strong glove hand and a rifle for his throwing arm. On the field playing organized fastball and softball, he excelled as a pitcher and played pretty much every infield position except catcher. Over time it was only natural that Murray would find a way to translate his baseball prowess into his hockey world as a goalie.

  If a puck was rocketing towards Murray’s head, his inclination was to try to catch it. Problem was, back then the goalkeeper’s glove was basically just a finger glove with a flimsy pad, which made it virtually impossible and quite painful to attempt to grab the puck. Frustrated by the inadequacy of his gear, eleven-year-old Murray and his buddies got a first baseman’s mitt, put some felt and cloth around it, and fashioned a crude goalie glove. Now when the puck was shot at Murray, he could catch it rather than try to stop it with his body, pads, or skates. Little Murray Dowey, the asthmatic kid who doctors had written off as a delicate flower, was one of the first to develop and master the trapper glove.