Pat Quinn: I never knew ye (but my dad did for a little while)

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      Today’s announcement of the death of Pat Quinn—former Vancouver Canucks player, coach, president, and general manager—caused me to reflect a bit longer than I normally would at such news.

      I have always respected Quinn, an imposing former NHL defenceman with the Maple Leafs, the Canucks, and the Atlanta Flames who was probably best known from his playing days for knocking out Bruins megastar Bobby Orr with a postseason blindside hit while a Leafs rookie. Wayne Gretzky has said repeatedly, through the years, that Quinn was the best bench boss in hockey.

      George McPhee, who worked under Quinn as Canucks vice president and director of hockey operations, recalled for Canadian Press today “walking into his office through the haze of cigar smoke, [and] there was this huge, square-jawed, cigar-chomping Irishman who had a real presence about him and is intimidating at times”.

      That’s the image of Quinn that probably came to mind for a lot of people during his stay in Vancouver for a decade before his firing and subsequent move to the Maple Leafs in 1998.

      But that gruff reputation got rehabilitated for me after he had a chance encounter with my dying father in that year of transition.

      My dad, William Dunphy, philosophy prof, Celtic studies promoter, and former two-term principal of St. Michael’s College at the University of Toronto, was a lifelong hockey fan who split his leisure time between watching the New York Rangers and—after he moved his family from Long Island to Hogtown—the Maple Leafs.

      He had actually played the game, as a novelty, once or twice in his youth, and he told me he played in goal and loved it. He made no secret of his pleasure that I chose that position for my off-and-on, two-decades-long experience with pick-up and beer-league hockey. (Several of his seven sons had played hockey, initially with Dad as house-league volunteer coach, and two of them with far more talent and perseverance than myself.)

      But in 1998, semi-retired then for a few years, my father was dying of cancer. No one could say exactly how long he had left.

      A brother had generously flown him and my 70-year-old mother, Kathleen, to a small Vancouver Island resort he had rented, in its entirety, for a few days to give the B.C. and California branches of the family some time to say goodbye. Dad had some trouble getting around, but he was aware and alert for most of his stay, which went generally well, given the nature of the visit.

      He felt, though, that he hadn’t spent enough time with me during my teen years before I left home, and he wanted to apologize, something that I attempted to (rather awkwardly) deflect. I remonstrated with him: I was, after all, the second-oldest of nine children, and he had, to say the least, an intensely busy professional and social calendar. However, that effort was to little effect. We ended up, civilly, agreeing to disagree, a state of affairs that neither of us really wanted.

      The scene the next day at the airport—after our goodbyes, and with my mother pushing my dozing dad in a wheelchair through security and toward the departure lounge—was one of the most painful I have ever endured. I had always had the utmost respect for my father but never fully realized until that moment how much I actually loved him. I was standing there, against the glass wall, telling myself that this might be the last time I ever saw him, and now it was too late to say anything that might set things right. No movie-perfect last-minute resolution. There were two layers of glass and guards between us and they were almost out of sight. Just before Mom went through the last door, she stopped in her tracks, turned to wave, and spun the wheelchair around so I could see Dad’s face once more. The pained look on her face told me she was thinking the same things. Then they were gone.

      The next day, I called to see how they had handled the trip to Toronto. My mother told me that soon after settling in their seats, they were joined by their seatmate.

      It was Pat Quinn, on his way to take up the head-coaching job for the Leafs.

      Quinn and my dad had some things in common, not the least being that they were both beefy Irishmen who loved hockey. My mother explained how once Quinn mentioned that he was house-hunting in Toronto, my father made it his mission to convince him to view the house across the street from the family manse, on a quiet, residential dead-end street in the centre of the city.

      They talked hockey, compared Vancouver to Toronto (cities and hockey clubs), and shot the breeze. Quinn never once tried to excuse himself from his company. Mom said it became apparent that after asking a few questions about their trip to B.C., he had figured out the situation and from that moment on devoted his exclusive attention to my father.

      For the entire four-and-a-half hours, he engaged my dad, told stories, broke bread with him, and, importantly, gave my exhausted mother time to rest. Best of all, he was truly interested in what my father had to say.

      When they parted, it was almost as friends. The final leg home for my father had been made not only bearable but an enjoyable and memorable experience.

      At that moment, talking to my mom, I felt that I loved Pat Quinn.

      As it turned out, that wasn’t the last time I saw my father. He did die soon after, but, fortunately, I had enough warning to be able to get back East and talk a few things out during some of his lucid moments.

      Today, I’m feeling a bit of remorse that I never communicated my gratitude to Quinn for his wonderful gesture to my dad that day.

      Of Quinn, McPhee also told CP today: “Some people would measure their lives in the sports business by the trophies and the awards and the things they’ve won. But I think the real men can be measured by the impact they had on peoples’ lives, and Pat Quinn had a tremendous impact on a lot of peoples’ lives in terms of them being good players or good executives but even better people. Pat was one of the most phenomenal human beings I’ve ever known. A lot of us feel really, really lucky that we got to work for him.”

      What he said.

      Have a good flight, Pat.

      Comments

      1 Comments

      Bruce

      Nov 24, 2014 at 9:22pm

      ...and what you said Martin.