A Familiar Face

With the Blackhawks poised to win their third Stanley Cup Monday night, the Tribune ran a feature on Stan Mikita, the Slovak-born center who could feed the puck to Bobby Hull with his eyes closed, and probably did.  I always enjoyed Mikita as a self-effacing (ex-)athlete with an irreverent wit.  He also bore a striking resemblance to my Uncle Art.

To the best of my knowledge, my uncle didn’t play hockey or ice skate even, but he knew how to make an impression.  Art saw this girl, my Aunt Fran, at Riverview Amusement Park and swooped in; North Side married South Side sometime later.  Then Art went off to war, serving both in France and the Pacific, if memory serves.

I have this memory of my uncle as a motorcycle cop riding down Western Avenue on his three-wheeler.  He recognized us and broke into this big, non-cop smile.  Another time, he came with candy and baseball magazines to visit me in the hospital after I broke my arm in seventh grade.  By then, I’d already picked him to be my Confirmation sponsor.  And did I mention how as a five-year old I picked up his service revolver, thinking it was a toy?  Thankfully, no lives were lost or bottoms spanked.

According to the Tribune story, Mikita has dementia; what his old team accomplishes is of little import to him.  My uncle was luckier, in a way; it was his body, not his mind, that kept betraying him.  He died before Clare was born.  She’s too young to have known either her great uncle or the athlete who advised, “Keep your feet grounded, and always remember where you came from.”  My uncle couldn’t have said it better.