I lost to Phillip Smedsmo. He was a small boy with a ferret's nose and a chin like a chevron. He punched above his weight, and because of this, other kids liked him. He darted about and spoke quickly, although he was never an annoyance, the way some hyperactive kids can be. He was into European soccer and thus ahead of his time. We were friends until Grade 7, which is when our teacher forced us to elect a class rep for students' council. Phillip pinched me in the ribs and told me that I should "totally run." I wasn't interested, but I did this to please my friend. Since I was the only candidate, the teacher implored someone else to run against me. "This isn' t Communist Russia," she might have said. "This is Canada. We are a democracy." Hands remained at my classmates' sides until I felt a great swoosh coming from behind me like a flag whisked up a pole. I should have seen it coming, but did not.
Smedsmo. The in-class rallying of votes; the coloured construction paper over which I boldly crayoned my name; the division of former friends; the embrace of new ones. None of this I'd bargained for. Besides, what did a class rep do and why had Smedsmo talked me into running when all he'd wanted to do was run himself? These questions were strange and difficult, too strange and difficult for a middle-school kid who'd had no aspirations beyond making the softball team. In the end, the class held a vote. Before our run-off, Smedsmo and I decided to abstain from voting. "I mean, we're just gonna vote for ourselves," he said, shrugging. Our home room teacher -electoral scientist that she was -instructed students to put one hand over their eyes while raising the other to support whatever candidate they favoured.
First, she called Smedsmo's name. I felt another swoosh, and like everyone else in class, I looked through my fingered face-grid to count the votes. I saw that Smedsmo's arm had shot into the air. Instead of feeling angry or betrayed a second time, I was confused. I'm sure that Smedsmo was watching me watching him, so before the teacher had finished whispering the hand-count to herself, I raised my arm. I voted myself out of ever ascending as a Dixon Grove elite.
As you can imagine, I have avoided public office ever since, although the same can't be said for a handful of friends who are running in this spring's federal election. Like me, few of them were involved in politics before entering public life, but, unlike me, they have been able to trade in their lives for a chance to serve in Ottawa. I've known each of these candidates -representing the big three national parties and running in hotlycontested Toronto-area ridings -at different times in my life, each friendship having evolved out of dramatic circumstances. None of them are named Smedsmo, so we're safe.
Andrew Cash is running for the NDP in Davenport in Toronto. I first met Andrew in Kitchener, Ont., in the early '80s. It was the eve of my band's first ever out of town concert -at the Kent Hotel, the old strip joint that hosted New Wave bands during the week. We were booked to play with Andrew's old band, L'Étranger, whose song Taken Away, and EP, Innocent Hands, was one of Toronto's first independent rock clarions. Because we'd never played out of town before, we arrived absurdly early, at around 2 p.m., and, after setting up onstage, we waited for L'Étranger to show. We played our set to a handful people, but still, no L'Étranger. Finally, at around 10 p.m. and moments before their stage time, they burst through the dressing room door: leatherjacketed, snaggle-toothed, panting, and wild-eyed. It was the first time I'd ever seen a real band up close before. They'd just escaped from performing an opening set for the Dead Kennedys at the Concert Hall, where they'd been driven from the stage in a hail of blood and saliva. Their show at the Kent Hotel was great. If Andrew Cash can survive Dead Kennedys fans in Toronto and then play in Kitchener on the same night, surely he can survive Ottawa.
Chris Alexander is running for the Tories in Pickering, Ont. Like Andrew, Chris is a first-time candidate. The Liberals wanted him bad, but because he was raised a Joe Clark conservative, he signed on with Stephen Harper's party. I first met Chris through a mutual friend, Paul Tough, the former editor of Saturday Night magazine and occasional New Yorker essayist. Chris and I talked about Russia -I was about to go there for my second hockumentary -and he passed on his contacts from his time working for the Canadian ambassador to the former Soviet Union. Before going to Russia, Chris was educated in the Russian language by the retired editor of Pravda. The first thing the editor told him was: "These will be the last words we will ever speak in English." Months later, he emerged fluent in Russian, and years after his tenure in Moscow, he became the youngest ambassador to Afghanistan.
During his time in the Middle East, I lost contact with Chris. And then, one June afternoon, my friends and I were playing hockey at McCormick Arena when we heard a great pounding on the rear door of the rink. The pounding was relentless, so, fearing an emergency, I left the ice to respond. Opening the door, there was Chris standing with his skates. If Chris can emerge from the darkness of Kabul to appear unannounced at a Toronto rink in mid-summer, surely he can navigate the mysteries of parliamentary life.
Ken Dryden is running for the Liberals in York South. I'd always admired Ken and had always wanted to meet him. I'm not a Habs fan (natch), but I love books, and The Game is a great one. So was Dryden's speech in the last Liberal convention, proving him to be a great man for Canada, if one who, inexplicably, has been passed over whenever leadership of the party is discussed. A few years ago, I held a launch party at the Upper Canada brewery for one of my books, Tropic of Hockey. Dryden was managing the Leafs at the time, and I decided to invite him, although I had no direct contact. Instead, I mailed an invite, and addressed it to "Ken Dryden, Toronto Maple Leafs." The gesture was more symbolic than anything. I didn't expect the letter to find him, nor for him to come.
A few hours -and a halfdozen beers -into the party, I finished a little reading, then headed off to talk to friends. Moving across the room, the door opened and Dryden walked in holding the invite. My parents were there that night, and having Ken in the room was as important to them as it was to me. He was the first person from the hockey world to acknowledge my work, and for that, I am indebted. If Ken's awareness of literature and art is such that he can recognize what was then a small work by a new writer, surely this awareness will hold our country in good stead in whatever parliamentary capacity he occupies. And his good taste in literature. I mean, our country can't have enough of that.
davebidini.ca@hockeyesque
