Hockey, curiously enough, meant misery to Roy. He played because I made him play. Where else was he going to get any money? Before he turned pro with Boston he was driving a truck for a men's-wear shop in Toronto for ten dollars a week. Roy loved the shinny sessions he and his twin brother Bert and I used to have on the street where we’d play with hockey sticks and a rubber ball. But once Roy got into organized hockey he hated the game. One time when he and Bert were playing for the West Toronto juniors, Roy purposely left his skates at home, hoping he wouldn’t have to play. I was with the Leafs then, and I’d gone down to the rink to see the game. I knew what Roy was up to. I sent him galloping home for his skates. When he got back he scored three goals against the Native Sons. Roy could always put the puck in the net, even without relish. He played hockey in the NHL for eleven seasons and his career was interrupted for a stretch of four years while he was in the RCAF, but in spite of this fine record he did his job without enthusiasm. He’s told me that each year he could feel the tension growing tighter, and he found that the more goals he scored each season the more he was expected to deliver the following season. It got so that Roy, who has a tremendous bond with his twin Bert, refused to go to training camp or to play another year of hockey unless Bert, who lost an eye playing shinny with us when he was sixteen, went with him. So what hockey meant to Bert was that he could be with Roy and help him.
