Being heckled by an unlikely source

It was the winter of 1992 when I was considering hanging up my skates and stepping away from competitive hockey as a very average goalie.

I had some great moments in minor hockey, playing with Tim Tisdale, Darren, and Trevor Krugar winning a provincial championship with the Swift Current Pee-Wee Kinsman Kings.

Back then, I either knew little about Western Hockey League scouts attending my games, or I was so awful, which I suspect was the case, there was little to no effort made in recruiting me.

In 92, I was working as an agriculture reporter at CKSW 570, cutting my teeth in the radio industry. I know, an ag reporter. Talk about a fish out of the water!

One fateful day after completing a shift on the air, the newsroom phone rang. Expecting another complaint over something I said from an angry listener, I picked up the handset gingerly, surprised to hear the caller on the other end was the general manager and head coach of the Eastend Jets.

He wanted to know if I would to be interested in becoming the starting goaltender of the team that winter.

Startled at the prospect of being considered for such a prominent role on the team, in a league and in a community I knew little to nothing about, I threw caution to the wind and attended a casual practice in the town of 503, situated in southwest Saskatchewan, 55 kilometers from the Montana border.

Long story short, the practice went well, and I made the squad.

Much to my surprise, the coach offered me $100 dollars for every win that winter and $50 dollars for every loss. Heck, I couldn’t lose with that type of cash in my pocket, or so I thought.

Playing senior hockey while based in Swift Current in an effort to pursue my love for radio, I would commute with two other local players to both home and away games.

We were considered ‘imports’ (each team was allowed three), and as such, we felt like rock stars in Eastend, the local community that recruited us. It was known that we were paid to play, so the pressure to perform was there, while the local players, from what I gathered, simply played for the love of the game.

At the time, the Internet wasn’t a thing. People listened primarily to the radio, especially in rural areas to get news, sports and other information. It was an easy medium for farmers and ranchers to access while on the tractor or working in the barn.

Out-of-town games saw farmers/ranchers often with wives in tow, coming out in droves in pickup trucks to watch the local White Mud Hockey team play.

CKSW, the station I worked for, transmitting a strong AM signal into those rural areas, so people knew me by name.

I’d often receive catcalls from opposition players about how bad I was on the radio. It was a way of getting under my skin, or so I told myself, with the likely intent to inform me of the truth that I sucked as a broadcaster.

I remember a hockey fan of the Cabri Bulldogs yelling at me from the stands about how poorly I read the hog prices. CKSW would broadcast cattle and hog prices during a segment on the radio at 12:50 pm, with ranchers and cattlemen listening intently.

While playing in Frontier, Saskatchewan, against the Flyers, a large gentleman in a cowboy hat and boots screamed out to me in broken English, suggesting I was pronouncing the forage crop, Alfalfa, incorrectly on the radio.

“Hey Bartel, it isn’t Alfa-alfa, its Alfalfa,” with onlookers in the crowd laughing in unison.

He wasn’t wrong.

Thank goodness I had a goalie mask to hide my embarrassment.

Nothing like being chirped by a hockey fan, only to find out later he was from the local Hutterite colony.

That will easily go down as my welcome to the White Mud Hockey League moment.

by Regan Bartel

Being heckled by an unlikely source

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