Hockey World Loses a Great Man!

At the 2005 Royal Bank Cup in Weyburn, I had the opportunity to meet Edmonton Oilers scout Lorne Davis. I had never met the man before yet we chatted about 15 minutes about the RBC and the Weyburn Red Wings. Just listening to this man's experiences were unbelievable and the fact that he took time out of his schedule to have a chat with me showed what kind of man he was. Everyone who walked into a rink knew who Lorne Davis was. I would like to share a story that appeared in yesterdays Leader Post which was written by his son Darrell, who is a Leader Post sports reporter.


By Darrell Davis)

My dad was made to be a hockey scout.

He smoked cigars, wore trench-coats and told wonderful, old hockey stories, which seemed to attract crowds of listeners inside every rink from Helsinki to Duluth to Chicoutimi to Swift Current, the places where Lorne Davis, my dad, was dispatched to find hockey players for the NHL's Edmonton Oilers.

One of those stories was about an ex-teammate dubbed Digger O'Dell, who reportedly worked very hard in the corners. Of course, we noted, that's why his nickname was "Digger.''

"No,'' said dad. "He was an undertaker in the offseason.''

During the 1950s and '60s my dad played for four of the NHL's original six teams. He was with the Montreal Canadiens in 1953 and the Detroit Red Wings in 1955 when those teams won Stanley Cups. He got a tie tack from the Canadiens and a clock from the Red Wings.

The clock hung in our Regina kitchen for decades; the tie tack was sent to a jeweller by my mom, and made into a ring, which Dad gave to me a few Christmases ago. I started bawling, like I did Thursday when my dad died at the age of 77. We're having a memorial service, hopefully this coming Friday, where we can share some stories.

My favourite is about one of the several times he was traded during his career. This came while riding the train, playing cards with fellow Saskatchewanian Gordie Howe, as the Red Wings travelled to Chicago for a game against the Blackhawks. While en route, Lorne was informed he had been dealt to the Blackhawks.

"We were going there anyway, so when we got to Chicago Stadium, everybody else went into our dressing room while I took my stuff around to Chicago's room,'' he said. "I was replacing Metro Prystai, who had just been voted as Chicago's favourite player. When the trade was announced before the game, all the fans started booing. I wasn't in Chicago for very long.''

My dad started scouting for the expansion St. Louis Blues in 1966. He also worked for the New York Rangers and World Hockey Association's Houston Aeros. In 1980 he joined the Oilers, proudly wearing the team-issued jackets and Stanley Cup rings earned by Wayne Gretzky, Glenn Anderson, Mark Messier and Grant Fuhr. Fuhr was one of his draft picks, so was long-time Oiler Ryan Smyth. According to Dad, those were the two players he told the Oilers brass they had better select, or he would no longer be working for the team. Pretty good choices to put your career on the line.

For the last decade or so, my dad vowed every winter would be his last as a scout.

The Oilers, with their wonderful, understanding bosses Kevin Prendergast and Kevin Lowe, told him he could scout as much as he wanted for as long as he wanted. They finally cut his salary this season, realizing that might be the only way to force him to slow down. Nice try.

He adored his family, but we knew hockey was first. Every family get-together contained lengthy discussions about draft choices and Dad's next trip, or his most-recent trip. His four grandsons and one granddaughter couldn't watch TV if an Oilers game were on, while he would fret that head coach Craig MacTavish wasn't playing the young guys enough.

His obsession must have rubbed off on us: My brother Brad scouts for the Oilers (we call it "nepotism'' and tell him the good thing about scouting is that you get a five-year window before anyone realizes your draft choices haven't panned out); my sister Liane is a power skating instructor who teaches Oilers draft choices in the offseason; and I get to write about sports. Our mother Shirley, often touted as the best scout in the family by the college coaches who called her for recommendations about local players, died 15 years ago. Peggy, his companion since then, has also grown to understand the importance of hockey in Lorne's life and, thank God for her, realized what a horrible bachelor he would have been.

An only child of gregarious parents Gertie and Cecil, Lorne's playing career started on the sloughs near Lumsden, led him to the Regina Pats as a player from 1947-50 and a coach from 1976-78, to the NHL with stops in the International, American, Quebec and Western hockey leagues, and back to play senior hockey with the Regina Caps. He didn't have a stellar NHL career, scoring only 11 goals -- "They were all big goals,'' he said with a grin -- but it got him into the Regina Sports Hall of Fame.

He was plucked from the Caps to join the Winnipeg Maroons, when they were the team chosen to represent Canada in the 1968 Olympics. Dad got bumped from the roster before the Games, but a dozen years later he joined the Canadian squad as one of its coaches, along with Tom Watt and Clare Drake, for the 1980 Olympics.

His hockey friends were numerous, from coaches like Scotty Bowman, Glen Sather and Herb Brooks to ex-players like Ed Chadwick, Johnny Bucyk and Harry Howell, to former teammates like Howe and Al King, to just about every scout in the business, starting with local compatriots Bryan Raymond, Stu MacGregor and Bob Brown, to golfing buddy Tony Repushka and the ushers at the Montreal Forum and the Brandt Centre. Among his close friends were Hall of Fame goaltenders Terry Sawchuk, Glenn Hall and Gump Worsley.

"Goalies liked me,'' he said, "because I would always backcheck.''

Of course he did. Isn't that what loyal employees do? Through 40 years of scouting he never opened a hotel mini-bar and never missed a game until last month, when the pain from cancer and a lifetime of ignoring his health left him unable to move. We finally got him into a hospital last week and subtly took off his Olympic pendant, an Oilers ring and another Stanley Cup ring the Canadiens had sent him a few years ago. He asked for them back. Peggy obliged -- "That's who he is,'' she said -- and he was wearing them when a cardiac arrest stopped his pain.

Seventy-seven years and only one miserable month, right at the end, when he couldn't go to a hockey game.