CALLED HOME:
OUR INSPIRATION,
JIM MAHON
Written by Joseph A. Byrne
In consultation with John Mahon and the Mahon family
CALLED HOME: OUR INSPIRATION, JIM MAHON
Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Byrne,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0677-0
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A Personal Note
When I started to write about my great friend Jim Mahon, I decided that he was much more than a great hockey player. He was an incredibly wonderful human being, a quiet, gentle giant. He made being the best look easy, and always accepted his greatness with humility.
It surprises me even now, 40 years later, how raw the wounds are among those of us fortunate to know him. Hardened business people are still very emotional at the mere mention of his name. The raw emotion remains at the surface.
My goal in writing Jim’s story is to bring his memory back to life within the covers of this book, so that we can again enjoy his company; so that we can again marvel at his immense talent; so that we can again feel the passion that he stirred within us.
But it was not a one-way street. We always mattered to Jim. Although Jim’s funeral is a memory distant 40 years, some things are remembered clearly. I can remember that I prayed that one day God would give back to us the great gift that was revoked, Jim Mahon.
Many questions will always remain unanswered. Would Jim Mahon’s name have belonged with the greats: Gordie Howe, Bobby Hull, Rocket Richard, Bobby Orr, Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, and Jim Mahon? Would Jim have been the most complete player of them all? Would the Mahon family have become the first family of hockey?
I prayed hard that day that God would give us back that great gift, Jim Mahon.
In the meantime, I am ever so thankful that God gave him to us even if it was only for a little while.
LETTER FROM ROGER NEILSON
CALLED HOME:
OUR INSPIRATION,
JIM MAHON
1
GREATER FORCES
They were quite a sight those Peterborough Petes of 1971, as they formed their honour guard, there, in front of the Stewart L. Kennedy Funeral Home, in the Town of Essex. The Petes were a legendary team, loaded with talent. They were, after all, the team of Jim Mahon. Their appealing maroon colours would have flown high on another occasion. Now, they served as mere backdrop.
The veteran sniper, Rick McLeish, was there. He was by now, a Philadelphia Flyer, a team that coveted his well-known toughness and scoring ability. He looked strong and handsome there in front of Kennedy’s; fitting for the lot he had been given in life. Yet, even he was somehow dwarfed by these circumstances.
The goaltender, John Garrett, was there. John would recall through the mist of his thoughts, how a Jim Mahon shot would hurt even when it hit on the center of the goal pad. But nothing had ever hurt like this.
Doug Gibson was also there. This man, known as an artist with a puck, who together with Paul Raymer, were line-mates with Jim, men who were determined to let the full extent of Jim’s talent show, were now called upon to give him their greatest assist. Future NHL’ers Ron Lalonde and Danny Gloor, stood attentive.
Inside the funeral home, the captain Craig Ramsay, at times exhibited his legendary leadership abilities, remaining strong and composed. His leadership was vital now for the sake of his teammates, who were completely bewildered in this sad environment. At other times, Craig would lead in a very human way, his overwhelming sadness showing through. He and the stalwart defenceman and future captain Colin Campbell, a player toughened by years of hard work on his family’s tobacco farm near Tillsonburg, would, at times, exchange glances. Both of them welled with tears, unable to speak at times, as they stood there in this environment of complete shock.
Jim’s roommate, Bruce Abbey, who had been to the Mahon farm many times, and who was there on Jim’s last day, training with him, was transfixed. He had been a tower of strength to the Mahon family in the immediacy of that cruel day, not allowing himself to properly grieve, staying as strong as he possibly could, for the sake of the Mahon family. He had earned his moments now.
These men were joined by teammates Ron Plumb, Paul Perras, Dennis Patterson, Coach Roger Neilson and Maidstone teammate Bill Bellaire, who had gone with Jim on that great journey to Parry Sound to try their hand at junior hockey.
By all accounts, these were remarkable men. They had earned their accolades, and they wore them well. Now, they took on their greatest job. It was left to them to carry Jim’s body toward the honour guard, which had been set up by their Peterborough teammates. All of them were stars. They had sought stardom. They had earned it, but not this kind of stardom. They all had, indeed been cast in this enormous spotlight, a spotlight which now shone on them, but not of their choosing. None of them had ever experienced anything like this. Nothing they had ever done had prepared them for this.
There was an eerie silence then, there, broken only by muffled sobs and a solitary bell sounding in the distance. Bong—Bong—Bong.
The coach, Roger Neilson, stood guard with them, trying desperately to look strong, composed, intelligent, and in control. He wanted to look that way for the sake of his young men. Roger desperately wanted to look strong for them. He had always sought to represent the higher ideals in hockey, as in life. Roger was always mindful that there were higher ideals in hockey. Now, he was given a chance to demonstrate those higher ideals, to lead his young men, his talented young men, the Peterborough Petes. Yet, even Roger, this deeply spiritual man, this man who loved God, gave in, as both of his eyes misted, forcing him to dry them in plain view with his white handkerchief. Roger would stand there with his white handkerchief in hand, as though in surrender to his world, to his God, to the people who were there, to the greater forces around him. But now, Roger