Winter 1979, London, England

My father grew up in Montreal and played Junior. He went up against players who later became NHL stars – Dickie Moore, Béliveau, and many more. He even had a tryout with the Canadiens. The opposing fans used to call him the Cochon Rouge, or ‘Red Pig,’ because he was a tough competitor with a full head of red hair.

He became a pilot with Air Canada and flies into London now and then. During my first year at Cambridge, he was in town the night we were playing the Richmond Flyers. I met him in London, and we took a black cab to the rink.

When we arrived, one of our players was waiting at the entrance. He looked a bit on edge, so I asked if everything was alright. He replied, ‘I’m injured, so I’m the coach tonight.’

I introduced him to my father. “Nice to meet you, Chuck. Glenn tells me you played hockey.”  My father nodded. “I still do.”

“Great” said the coach, “We’re short of players tonight, would you like to play?”

“For what team?” my father asked.

“The Cambridge University team,” the coach replied.

My father started to laugh, thinking he was joking, until he realized our coach for the night was serious. He asked, “Am I allowed to play? I’m obviously not with the university.”

The coach said, “With the cage protecting your face, no one will notice.”

“What about equipment and skates?” my father asked.

“I brought extra in case you could play,” the coach responded.

My father smiled and said, “Okay, let’s suit up.”

The skates and equipment fit, and we were soon circling our end of the rink, warming up for the game. I skated to our bench to tighten my laces when I heard one of the players ask the coach, “Who’s the new guy? He’s fast.”  I heard the coach answer, “Blaylock’s father.”

The player shook his head, “Well, he could be our best player tonight.”

Each player had to give their name to the timekeeper. I skated over, leaned on the boards, and told him who I was. He checked the list, made a quick tick, and waved me off.

A moment later, my father glided over and said his name was ‘Blaylock.’ The timekeeper frowned at his sheet and said, “We already have one of those.” Without missing a beat, my father said, “Brother.”  The timekeeper didn’t look up, shrugged, wrote Blaylock on the game sheet, and my father pushed off.

The game got underway, and my father and I lined up together. It was a tight game, with plenty of end‑to‑end rushes. About halfway through the second period, my father scored a tying goal.

We glided back to the bench and sat down, catching our breath before our next shift. The coach was standing behind us, leaned forward and said, “You guys are playing great. But Glenn, you need to stop calling out, ‘Dad, Dad, over here!’”

As I recall, we ended up losing with a score around three to two.

After the game, the players from both teams shared sandwiches and a pint. A small crowd gathered around my father, listening to his stories from his playing days. He told them about touring Europe shortly after the war with his junior team from Quebec, the Hull Volants.

In the middle of a sentence, he suddenly grew thoughtful. He paused, then said, “I’ve just realized - it was thirty years ago that I played before the Queen at Wembley.”

I remember Ken Dryden giving me a skeptical look. “Did this really happen?”

“No one could make this up,” I said.