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It is fair to neither yourself nor the people of this province to settle for anything less. And that‘s what you‘re doing right now. Can we expect the real Frank Miller to ever saddle up? 3‘85&‘\)« e P NVM'%\‘ % ,4\ sm ' es -. Meaah We y mt s F K grtes f A;.,}v.‘ji ém * w e o Ry fiusts Ts Tt %W‘%fi’ Héo «":%‘»\\g }:?v;&«'\"w% $ %‘Vx;i';“ ? e %M | Piatnt in autlt _ ;*‘ “x;“ ifiwi“é \fjo:f‘% f »@*‘x””;%&": o . * waee ‘ fiw‘m (wg 9 &W« fl’”w‘fi% e e 1/ it Oater S . 1 The two pretenders to the Ontario throne are up in arms because of Miller‘s stance, and that‘s to be expected. After all, with the latest poll showing Miller more popular than the dynamic duo combined, the anklebiters need every possible opportunity to engage in staged rhetoric and political grandstanding. That Miller has nixed the prime possibility, by declining to participate in a forum where he has little to gain and lots to lose, (it‘s tough on top), has the bridesmaids clucking more than ever. So c‘mon Frank, don‘t let those who would puppetâ€"ise you have their way like the misfits who suffocated John Turner in the past federal election. You need a meet, not a moat. Be your own man, make your own decisions, run your race like you always have before. And romp home showing your true colors, even if they are plaid. PAGE 6 â€"â€" WATERLOO But while that just goes to show nothing‘s new in the punchless Opposition, we nevertheless hold sincere concerns as to the direction Miller‘s campaign strategy is taking. For a man whose career has been hallmarked by honesty, accessibility, congeniality and personal conviction, Miller is curiously surrounded by a blanket of security, a veil of secrecy, and an alarming atmosphere of inaccessibility, especially to the media, in these early campaign stages. In passing on the parley, engaging in closed campaigning, and allowing secrecy to permeate his campaign, Miller is headed for trouble. Aside from spreading free fodder for his foes to chomp on, he is: incurring the wrath of a formerly sympathetic, if not admiring, media base; giving John Q. Public all sorts of room to speculate he is trying to hide something; tarnishing his image as an independentâ€"thinking individual; creating an uneasy feeling in Ontario ridings where the outcome could conceivably rest with the ability of the party leader to sell the goods. Party loyalty aside, this Ontario election is a horse race pitting a proven runner against a pair of cheap claimers. But what makes the proven runner a champion is its ability to run its own race at maximum potential, giving the betting public its money‘s worth. Coasting home on past or mediocre performance has a hollow ring to it. It is not the stuff of champions. Miller owes zip to Peterson and Rae in the realm of joint debate. But he does owe the public. The people of Ontario have every right to expect that their current and future Premier not only be accessible and accountable, but also appear that way. It is for that reason that Frank Miller should take up the challenge of allâ€"candidate confrontation, televised or not, and fashion the qualities that will make him a blue chipper at the province‘s controls. Forget all the barking from David Peterson and Bob Rae over Ontario Premier Frank Miller‘s refusal to partake in a televised leader‘s debate. . Not that Miller shouldn‘t debate. He certainly should. But not for the reasons Peterson and Rae cry about. Second Class Mail Registration Number 5540 Time for Miller published every Wednesday by Fairway Press, a division of Kitchenerâ€"Waterioo Record Ltd., owner 225 Fairway Rd. S., Kitchener, Ont. Building (rear entrance, ugpov floor). Parking at the rear of the buitding. Open Monday to Friday 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m address correspondence to Waterioo office: 45 Erb St. E., Waterioo, Ont. N2J 1L7, telephone 886â€"2830 Waterioo Chronicle office is located in the Haney, White Law Office Publisher: Paul Winkler Manager: Bill Karges Editor: Rick Campbell established 1854 They played for fun. They bought their own equipment. There was tremendous rivalry with the other towns in the country. The rink was jammed for every game. If you were lucky, you got two pieces of hockey stick, took it home and had your old man splint it, taped it up,; and played the rest of the season with a sixâ€"foot man‘s hockey stick practically tearing the armpit out of your fiveâ€"foot frame. . When‘l was a teenager, the home town went ape over hockey, began importing players, and iced a Junior A club. We local high school guys were devastated by jealousy when the imports, from such exotic towns as Ottawa, Montreal, Brockville, came to town and stole our girls away. We locals didn‘t have a chance. It was Depression times. We were lucky if we had the We kids sneaked into the games through the place where they threw out the snow after clearing the ice, squirmed our way down behind the players‘ bench, and fought each other to the bone when a senior broke a stick, and with a lordly gesture, handed it back toward us. As a kid, I felt culturally deprived because I didn‘t have a pair of "tube"‘ skates. To my great shame, I had to indulge in the sport wearing an old pair of my mother‘s "lady‘s skates" (pronounced with utter scorn by the kids with tube skates.) Mine went almost to the knee and supported your ankles like a bag of marshâ€" mallows. Obviously, that is the sole reason I didn‘t make it to the big leagues. I was brought up in a rabid hockey and lacrosse town. When I was a little boy, we had a Senior hockey team. It was made up of local factory hands, blacksmiths (yes, I go back that far), and generally good athletes, of no particular rank or station in life. But you don‘t have to make it all the way in Canada to become a connoisseur of the game. All you have to do is to have been exposed to the game since you were about three, and it‘s in your blood for life. As a kid, I played shinny on the river with some guys who actually, later, did make it to pro or semiâ€"pro ranks. When I was in high school, some of my best friends were playing Junior As a player, I didn‘t exactly make it to the NHL. Or Senior A. Or Junior A. Or Junior B. Or Juvenile C. Like every other redâ€"blooded male in this country over the age of four, I am an expert on hockey. ‘l‘ln general, they are just very healthy, and you can‘t ask for more than that. Really, it‘s a mirâ€" acle." Anne Wunder, grandmother ~f quadruplets recentlyâ€"born to daughter V onna Launslager. It is written ‘t have a chance. It was We were lucky if we had the Bill Smiley Syndicated columnist Golden era But the hockey imports had everything. Flashy uniforms. Great physiques. The roar of the crowd. And money. They got about $15 dollars a week for room and board and spending money. They often had two or three dollars to throw around, so, naturally, they got the girls. (Some of them are still stuck with them, ha, ha.) Ironically, about a third of those guys who made us green with envy would be knocking off eightyâ€"five to a hundred thousand a year if they hadn‘t been born 40 years too soon. They were good enough to make the soâ€"called NHL today, but not then, when there were so few teams and so many aspirants. There were only eight teams then: Toronto, Montreal Canadiens, Montreal Maroons, Ottawa Senators, Boston, New York Rangers, New York Americans, Chicago, and Detroit. There were probably just as many hopeful players. Today there are 21 or 23 or 28 teams in the NHL. Nobody seems able to count them any more. And that‘s why so many onceâ€"ardent hockey experts like me just don‘t bother going to games, or even watching them on TV, unless the Russians are playing, when you see a few flashes of the oldâ€"time hockey, instead of a group of highâ€"school dropouts highâ€"sticking, slamming each other into the boards, pretending to fight by dancing ringâ€"aâ€"round while carefully clutching each others‘ sweaters so they won‘t be hurt. Perhaps the most sickening thing of all is the great hugging and kissing and dancing that takes place when one turkey has scored a goal by shooting toward the end of the rink and having the puck go in off a teammate‘s stick â€" pure accident. It‘s O.K. I don‘t necessarily want to go back to the days when players had some dignity, and didn‘t have to pat each others‘ bums all the time. Nor do I want them reduced to the sort of wage slavery they endured years ago. But please spare me, on the sports pages, from their constant whining, tantrums, hurt feelings, and neverâ€"ending interest in the big money to go to the Saturday night movie (two bits), let alone take along a girl and feed her afâ€" terwards. Well, figure it out. Take a quart of whiskey and add a similar amount of water. Split the remains in two and add a half of water to each. What do you get? Not a whiskey with water. A water with a touch of whiskey. SEE PAGE