There’s a photograph of Wilf Cude, courtesy
of Eno’s Fruit Salts, holding his goal stick in the old way,
two-handed, more like a shovel or crowbar, the Welsh face, dark,
unsmiling, a coal miner’s face come into the green morning.
But this was after another kind of disaster, another
bad night in the Forum, and he was glumly home, staring
at the post-game steak he’d smothered with ketchup.
Which was how he liked it.
It took a moody night to get over a loss like that.
Then you had your knee-deep snow and pack your bag
or drag your ass to the Forum again. And he was in a strange
mood anyway, what with the sudden demise of the great Morenz,
catching an edge and crashing into the boards. Nobody even
close to him. Then Charlie Gardiner, the fiery little goalie
in Chicago, levelled at thirty after he carried his team
to an unexpected Stanley Cup. The grass
barely green as he slipped, apologizing, into a coma.
Too much for the mind of a simple man.
What touched him off was nothing—Beulah jiggled
the table (that loose leg she’s asked him a dozen times to mend),
slipping the cozy off to pour his tea.
Bad timing, for sure, but she showed a goaltender’s
quickness, ducking the steak that flew at the wall. He was out
the door in a morning storm, and down to the Forum
to tell them he was done.
What guaranteed his legacy was growing up
Welsh, his last words showing a heightened sense
of occasion—“By the time that steak hit the wall and stuck,
I knew I’d been a touchy goaltender long enough.”
He’d looked out over the room of reporters.
“By the time it landed, I’d retired.”