You can’t Call Me Al, but Your Dad Can!
In light of the Stanley Cup Finals, there have been two recurring thoughts rattling around in my half century brain. The first is of my Jr. High days and of my recently deceased French teacher, Mr. Al Norman. The second, which is significantly more scandalous, I have been cheering for the Habs to win this one.
Mr. Norman was a character among characters. Hell, he would have to be teaching junior high French. Mr. Norman had this way about managing a class that would remind you of Jamie Oliver managing a kitchen. He was always the quick wit with an encyclopedia of stories. His collection was diverse and would always have you completely engaged.
There was the one where he says the word shit. He was the first teacher I had ever had who would curse. We were all shocked and amazed but no one dared do the same.
Then, there was the one where he discusses an arrogant PHD professor and the time the prof was put in his place. That one had a great twist ending. Mr. Norman explained that he eventually learned of the prof’s background and struggles. Upon reflection, he would claim, you had to give him respect and he never had a problem with the prof again.
If these stories seem a little underwhelming, it is because I cannot do them justice. He was Mr. Norman and only he could make these stories come alive.
Of course the best class of any week was when you could get Mr. Norman to debate you on any topic. He was a master at taking whatever point you thought you were going to win with, and turning it around to make it irrelevant. The day I declared that the Oilers were masterminds for having that young group of stars and developing their own talent, he said, “And when those stars get a little older, will Peter Pocklington have the money to pay them all when they are free agents.” Years later, I received the Al Norman smirk when Coffey, then Moog, then Gretzky, then everyone else was traded before he had to shell out the big bucks.
Mr. Norman was also an odd athlete. He was not built like an athlete, but I never watched him play anything like his life was not dependent on the outcome. He looked like the Tasmanian Devil who was a little past his prime. Eyes always on the prize and his feet never stopped moving as he stabbed at the ball or shuttle. He could be defending one of his many men’s badminton doubles titles with Montreal Mega fan Dave Butt or he could be playing a student teacher ball hockey game in the old St. James high gym. If you won a point, you earned the point, because he was going to give you nothing.
I also remember challenging him in badminton singles once and he had a neat response. He explained, “Corey, I would love to play you and I think it would be fun. Unfortunately, a lot of guys have asked to play me over the years to prove they could beat half of the championship team. I have refused them and if they see us play I know they will have a mouthful to say to me after.” I appreciated the viewpoint that if he was not going to throw his hat in the whole singles ring, he certainly was not about to beat up on some kid. For the record, he would have won by a bunch.
After I graduated high school, I would make it a habit to call Mr. Butt and Mr. Norman every year after the Canadians were eliminated. The call was often made around 11 at night and both were as gracious as they could be about the smart alec kid calling them. I am sure they both hung up the phone each time and contemplated blocking my number or getting theirs unlisted. Of course I had to eat crow in 1993. Mr. Butt has not stopped talking about it, but Mr. Norman just gave me the smirk.
I am sure anyone who took to reading this blog has had their own experience with Mr. Norman. Most I have asked reflected on a great learning atmosphere and awesome teacher. I know he was a great dad who loved his family and friends. I also imagine you have all experienced the smirk. That look of, “You know I am right, I was right, or I will be right. Are you sure you actually want to challenge me on that?” I often did, I usually lost, and I loved it every time.
It is the thought I have heard time and time again since this Cup run began. St. Peter would walk by him and say, “Bet you wish you could have stayed for this one Al.”
Without missing a beat, Mr. Norman would smirk and say, “Why? I knew what was going to happen and I have seen it all before. Don’t tell me you’re surprised?” St. Peter would be left dumbfounded and Mr. Norman would have won another.
And for this one time, I hope the Habs win another this year, just for him. RIP Mr. Norman.
For those who may wish to:
In keeping with Allan’s wishes, cremation will follow and interment will take place at a later date. In lieu of flowers, donations in Allan’s memory can be made to the Dr. Charles L. LeGrow Health Centre Chemo Unit, 2 Grand Bay Road, P.O. Box 250, Port aux Basques, NL, Canada, A0M 1C0 or to the Dr. H. Bliss Murphy Cancer Care Foundation, 300 Prince Philip Dr, St. John’s, NL, A1B 3V6.