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Page 12 MINOR HOCKEY NEWS TERRACE BAY NEWS Sunday January 22 was a day of hockey thrills in the Terrace Bay arena. At 4.30 our Bantams tangled with Nipigon in a game Nipigon took with a score of 7-4. Terrace Bay goals were: Pinkerton |, Papineau |, and Turner 2. After the Bantam game the Midgets met Nipigon and what a stormy game it was. First period, Terrace put in 7 goals. Second period: the action started with fists and sticks flying. It had the audience up on their feet. In this game Terrace managed 6 more goals. In the third period there were four men playing a side for about 5 minutes while the rest served penalties for fights. With the commotion Terrace again managed 7 goals * and Nipigon |. The score was 20-I in favour of Terrace Bay. 77 minutes were tallied in penalties . Goals for Terrace Bay were by: Phillips who led with 5, Papousek 3, Papineau 3, Sitko, Dashkew- ytch, Moores and Rennett got 2 each and S.Spadoni had 1. The goal for Nipigon was scored by Shanks. Remember: the Minor Hockey Slogan is DON'T SEND YOUR BOY, TAKE HIM. KIDDIES' MARCHING SONG MAY BE CENTENNIAL HIT A children's marching son may develop into a centennial hit. Written last June by Toronto composer Bobby Gimby, it fell into federal hands almost by accident. But the federal centennial commission now holds the copy- right until March 31, 1968, and a special recording will be re- leased late this month. About as pleasantly Canadian as a song could be, the simple lyrics are bright, upbeat and move easily from English to French. Here are the lyrics, with the eounter melody in bracket: Ca-na-da ; (One little two little three Ca- nadians) We love thee (Now we are twenty million) Ca-na-da (Four little five little six lit- tle provinces) Proud, and Free (Now we are ten and the Ter- ritories--sea to sea) Nerth, south, east, west, There'li be happy times Church bells will ring, ring, ring It's the hundredth anniversary of Con-fed-er-ation Ev-ry body-y sing, to-geth-er. Ca-na-da (un petit deux petit trois Cae nadiens) Notre pay-ce (maintenant nous sommes vingt million) Ca-na-da (Quatre petites, cing petites, six petites provinces) Long-ue vie (Et nous sommes dix plus les territoires. Long-ue vie) Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques Merrily we roll along Together, all the way Hurray, Vive le Canada! Three cheers, hip, hip, hoo- ray. Le centenaire. That's the order of the day. Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques Merrily we roll along To-gether, all the way. by Bill S$ January 26, 1967 4 Those Soadetut years By the time this appears in print, I expect that I shall have severed an. association of 17 years with the weekly news- paper business. And it is not without some sadness that I do so. Sometimes it seems that our life is governed by accident, that we have very little control over it. Had the war lasted a few months longer, had I taken a different course at university, or gone to a different college, I would not have met my wife. And had I not met that particu- lar girl at that particular time, I would never have been in the newspaper business, nor would I be writing this column. Accident again took a hand. We were in the city. I had en- rolled in a post-graduate course in English. University teaching was the objective. Came the tragic news that my brother-in-law (on my wife's side) had been drowned in a boating accident. He owned a weekly newspaper. We hastened to the scene, to be of what comfort we could. And I pitched in, as ignorant as Mrs. Murphy's cow, to help keep the paper going for a week or two, until other ar- rangements were made. Eleven years later, I was still there. From the beginning, I was fascinated. This was better than the world of Chaucer and Spen- ser and the Romantic poets, the whole fleece-lined world of the scholar. This was life. There was an exciting tempo to it that suited me. Monday was a day of desperation. No news, no editorials written, no- body wanted to buy an adver- tisement that early in the week. The linotype operator was get- ting owly because you couldn't keep him busy and he knew what was coming. Tuesday, the pace accelerated rapidly. The news began to pour in. You madly dashed off two sparkling editorials. You tried to make a sensible story of the donnybrook at last night's council meeting. You hit the street and sold ads, whether it was raining or snow- ing or blastingly hot. Wednesday was even moreso. Complaints, callers, classified ads piling in, and the-inevitable merchant waltzing in, after the deadline, with a big ad you simply hadn't room to print. Proof-reading away behind. People in looking for free pub- licity. People in just to chat about town affairs, or their grandchildren. And the lino- type operator, dangerous to the point of being lethal, within a radius of 12 feet of his ma- chine. Work often till midnight, putting the sheet to bed. Thursday was decision day. Too many ads. Can we leave this one out? Too much coun- try correspondence. Which re- porter will be least infuriated if we leave her stuff till next week? Short a column of front page news. Wheré can we dig it up? The photos haven't arrived. Rush to the bus station; see if they're in. But by about 10.30 a.m., she was on the press, and the com- forting thump and rumble of the old machine was reward enough for all the scrambling. There was solid satisfaction in folding, stamping and mailing the finished product. You felt as good as though you'd just wrestled an alligator to a split decision. At any rate, I was hooked. Formed a partnership with one of the printers, and we bought the thing. We didn't have 40 cents apiece. But we went out like a couple of pirates, hit ev- ery friend and relative we knew, scratched up the down payment, outbid every competi- tor because we had nothing to lose, and took on what was probably the biggest mortgage on any weekly newspaper on the continent. They were great fun, those first few years. There wasn't much caviar or champagne. Ev- ery spare nickel went into the debts. But we made it, and made a host of good friends among weekly editors on the way. But I can tell you that run- ning a weekly newspaper is one of the roughest games in town. Holidays are almost unknown. Long hours are the rule. Some- body is always sore at you. And you'll never be rich. I'll miss it. Some of it. And I'll always have warm memo- ries of it. But I hope to keep in touch through this column, which will continue as usual.