Читать книгу When Quitting Is Not An Option - Arvid Loewen - Страница 11

5. The Fat Years: Post-Soccer, Pre-Cycling

I had decided against pursuing soccer as a career, and spandex and Lycra scared me away from being a gym teacher. I showed up at enough random classes to not get thrown out of university, but I quit after the conference finals of the soccer season. Palliser, the furniture company where my dad and older brother Art worked full-time upon arriving in Canada, was not hiring, but I was convinced I would be able to get a job. It was November, and I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity. After all, the Christmas turkey gift from the company to its employees required that the employee be working prior to December 1st.

The smell of sawdust that I’d grown accustomed to when Dad came home from work was strong as I walked into the office of Mr. Reimer, the general manager. He looked up from his desk, knowing who I was but not interested. He asked me a few questions, knowing that he didn’t want to hire me and didn’t need me. I wasn’t even sure he was listening, but I answered them honestly.

“Listen, Arvid.” He finally looked up at me, putting the pencil down on the desk with a noise that nearly made me jump. “The truth is that I don’t need any employees right now.” He rubbed his temples, clearly at a loss about what to do. “But I know your family, and they’ve got a good reputation around here. They’re diligent, and they don’t complain.” He got silent again, and I decided this was my time to jump in.

“I want this job,” I said. “I will do anything you have. I’m prepared to work hard and will work my way up this company.” The words felt strange and strong coming out of my mouth, completely masking the mess of nerves that I was underneath.

He looked back at me, recognizing my commitment to what I was saying. “I respect your family,” he responded. “And I know what you’re saying is true.”

With a nod I was hired.

I left the office with a start date of December 1st—I had a job, and I had a turkey for Christmas. I began just like many begin at a large company, working as a general labourer and doing whatever mundane, repetitive and seemingly mindless task they gave me. It wasn’t long before I had moved up the food chain to being a machine operator for various machines, the smell of particleboard now just as strong on my clothes as on Dad’s.

From there I moved on to being a computerized-panel-saw operator. It was in this position that I settled in and began to become comfortable. While sports had always been one of my obvious gifts, I’d also developed a knack for math and puzzle-solving. When operating a computerized panel-saw the purpose is to take a large sheet of particleboard and cut it into smaller pieces for use in furniture. This could be any size of rectangle that had to be cut precisely, including taking the grain into account. A bedroom set could easily require up to 60 different pieces. They had advanced (at the time, anyway) computers for figuring out the most efficient way of cutting the particleboard. In other words, how many pieces can you get out of a single sheet? The computer would figure out a pattern, and we would then make the cuts. In many ways it was like trying to play Tetris, like fitting the “T” shaped piece in—should it go sideways, upside down or right side up? It didn’t take long before I was disagreeing with what the computer readout was telling us about the way to cut the particleboard. I grabbed a piece of paper and pencil and began to sketch, doing the math and subtracting the lengths and widths from the overall particleboard dimensions. Within a few tries I had come up with a more efficient way of cutting the particleboard that outdid any computer program at the time.

This kind of initiative—and skill—had me promoted to lead hand after a while, and from there it was on to foreman, supervisor and then middle management over a department. Working hard and having a keen eye for increasing production enabled me to do exactly what I had promised the general manager—work my way up the company, eventually becoming the manager myself, though many years later.

I was the plant manager, and my responsibility included the starting of the particleboard plant, sawmill and veneer operation. Eventually I became the vice-president of operations for particleboard, sawmill, veneer and finished goods manufacturing. It was a vertically integrated manufacturing complex with a payroll of about 1,000 employees and a finished goods sales budget of $70 to 80 million. In an industry populated by overseas manufacturing, it was extremely uncommon to go from sawdust to completed furniture in one manufacturing location.

Before becoming the vice-president of operations, I had been general manager in title but VP in responsibility. While I wanted to work my way up in the company, I had hesitations about accepting the title. The amount of stress, responsibility and time that came with the title was not something I wanted on my shoulders. It was, however, being hoisted onto my shoulders regardless of what I wanted.

While this is the picture of my working career, much had changed in my life. By the time 2006 rolled around, I was prepared to be done with the corporate world. Besides, a passion had grown within me that made it easy to leave the company I had dedicated my entire professional career to—but that’s getting a little ahead of myself.

* * *

Rewinding to the beginning of this chapter, I found my soccer career on the decline just as my working career was gaining traction. Suffering the consequences of many collisions from holding my own in the soccer world, my playing ability just couldn’t keep up with the intense pace of the level of soccer I was accustomed to playing. Just being hit with a ball during warm-up would bring on concussion-like symptoms, and I knew this couldn’t last.

Attending the church we had grown into as soon as we came to Canada, I had my eye on a young woman a few years younger than me. Her name was Ruth, and though we had never met (and she probably didn’t know I existed), I knew that she was the one for me. Whenever possible I would sit behind her in the church balcony. I was always very impressed—she sat beside her mom and dad, unlike so many of the other youth. I figured she was a “good girl,” and I got nervous every time I got near her. I don’t think I heard a single sermon when she was sitting in front of me (don’t tell Reverend Neufeld).

Imagine, then, my horror and shock when one day she decided to sit with her friends. All my dreams had been shattered, and I wondered if I was misled in believing her to be my future wife. Nevertheless, this quiet crush lasted for years.

When she decided that she would go to Bible school in BC the year after high school, I was completely crushed. Having liked her for so long, I was somehow disillusioned that the feeling and attraction was mutual—when she had never even talked to me. Though I had not made a single move or even made my presence known, I gave up on her while she was away. I figured she would meet someone else out there and never return.

That didn’t happen, and she did return. When she came back, however, she was so confident and outgoing that I, a timid and shy adult, knew that I had no chance.

I decided that I had to give it a shot. I knew where she lived and the way she would usually walk to get to church. I decided that I would go to a college and career event (my one and only), and, even though my house was closer to the church than hers, I would somehow be driving by in my bright orange two-seat convertible sports car—a 1975 Spitfire MGB. When I drove down the street she was exactly where I expected her to be. I asked her if she wanted a ride (my first real words to her), and I was completely surprised when she agreed.

Our relationship consisted of a slow start (my fault), though we often went on rides in my convertible and I would invite her to soccer games from time to time. Not exactly a smooth boyfriend, but she was gracious, and the rest was, as they say, history.

In the fall of 1980 we got engaged, and I finally decided to retire from soccer. That next spring a team begged me to come back out of retirement for a tournament in Thunder Bay. The itch to play hadn’t stayed away, so I went. At the end of that season, I officially retired.

Those who have played or competed at an elite level know just how difficult it can be to retire. Perhaps it’s why we see such high-profile athletes return to their sport (or another). There’s just that competitive buzz in their bones that they can’t get rid of. They sit on the couch, and their legs shake when they see others competing on TV; they hear a ref blow a whistle and wish they were in the game again. Being a goalie had taken its toll on my body, so I came back for a season as a left-wing for a team called Brazilia. Soccer took a backseat as a priority, especially now that I was newly married, but I was still good enough to play one division lower than Premiere.

* * *

The sound I heard was worse than the feeling I felt. I’d had my share of falls and crashes throughout my career, but this was much worse. It was a tearing noise that alerted my ears that something was wrong as I fell to the ground. I couldn’t support myself, as my right foot was stuck in a hole. It wasn’t even during a game—only a practice—but damaged cartilage and partially torn ligaments are not forgiving.

As I lay on the ground, pain coursing through my body, I realized that something seriously wrong had happened. This could be—would be—the end of my competitive soccer playing. While some of my teammates rushed over to check if I was OK when I didn’t stand up, I could feel the blood pounding in my ears as the adrenaline raced through my body. The sounds of the practice going on around me were muted and somehow distant, as if someone had turned the speaker down. All of my body’s resources were focused on the pain and repairing what had gone wrong—only it couldn’t.

Neither would the doctors. I was put into a cast and forced to walk with a limp. Due to my high pain threshold, they didn’t believe it was that serious. If my income wasn’t dependent on my knee’s health, then they wouldn’t do surgery. “Wrap it up and rest it” is what I was told. I am fully convinced that this was the onset of the limp that I still have to this day.

Living with a severely damaged knee for a year and a half could also have been the start of the onset of my osteoarthritis. Forced to climb stairs like a kid—my left leg first, one step at a time—it took that year and a half before I could convince a doctor that I needed surgery in order to live anything resembling a normal life.

When I finally went under the knife, they cut the cartilage and trimmed the ligaments. It wasn’t great, but it was good enough to get back to being normal.

For a brief period of time I tried to play indoors with a brace, but I wasn’t the same and it wasn’t the same. While those on the teams tried to convince me that I could still anticipate just like I used to—and wouldn’t therefore need the mobility and speed that I had had—I knew that I wasn’t playing up to anything close to my previous potential. A few embarrassing games ate at me as a competitive athlete, and I knew that the former glory (though nothing extravagant) had faded. It was around 1985 when soccer truly ended for me at any competitive level.

* * *

The sport I loved and had lived for over a decade was no longer a possibility.

I married Ruth in May 1981, and our first daughter, Jodi, arrived in June 1983. A little less than two years later came Stephanie, and our son, Paul, followed in summer 1986. Our family of five was complete. We moved into a house with a large backyard (for the city) shortly before Paul was born, and I couldn’t help but start mentally planning out all the adventures we could have in our own backyard.

The first part of the yard was normal—a deck, some grass and a play structure, including a large sandbox that Dad and I built. The beam holding the swings was around 11 feet above the ground, and it ran from the top of the slide over to the fence for stability. It didn’t take long for my mind to start adding to the structure, and I turned my dreams to reality by building a platform above the swings, 11 feet high, for a zip-line to run down from. Nearly a hundred feet long, the zip-line ends just before our back fence, which borders on a gas station. The design began with a complicated contraption that had to be removed and carried back to the top every time but eventually evolved into a smaller, lighter and faster carriage with a rope coming down that could be pulled back to the top. The kids—our own, their friends and even a few that liked jumping over our back fence—loved it.

Not having had snow (or very cold temperatures) as a kid, I was keen to take advantage of them. As our kids grew we decided to build an ice rink. The first attempt involved a smaller rink—perhaps 30 by 50 feet—and a wooden structure I built at the back of the yard about 8 feet tall that was the beginning for a toboggan slide. We had so much fun with the slide that the next year it grew by about 6 feet. I moved the start to the railing of the zip-line platform.

Starting at 14 feet high, the toboggan slide crossed the yard, ran the length of the yard at fence height, crossed the yard, dropped down to the ground, then circled back underneath itself and came out some 350 feet of distance travelled from the beginning—right at the foot of the ramp to carry the toboggans back up. It was 1992, the year of the Winter Olympics in France, and we set up two Canadian flags at the start and end of our luge. We’d race down the track, its not-quite-Olympic-smooth surface jarring our bones as we forced ourselves into an aerodynamic position. Our top recorded speed was 27 miles per hour. Not bad for a backyard slide!

The toboggan slide was so popular that one evening we heard the sounds of our plastic toboggans careening down in the dark. Going outside to check who might be using the slide (our kids were all inside), I saw a young girl and her even younger brother.

“Hi,” I said to them. “Are you using the slide?”

“Yes!” they responded.

“You know, this is actually my backyard.”

“Our mom said it was a park.”

“It’s not. And it’s also dark outside. You guys should probably go.”

They were pretty young, but I had to admire their persistence in going down the toboggan slide. First they’d had to climb over our fence, then try to convince me that somehow their mom had gotten our yard confused for a park—and let them come in the dark of the evening. But off they went.

In the middle of the toboggan slide was another hockey rink, and the kids quickly showed how much better at skating they were than I was. Though I did enjoy skating and picked it up relatively quickly, kids learn much faster. It wasn’t long before they were passing and shooting better than I could—though I showed them how much tougher I was than them by skating in December in shorts. Although I’d been born in a country known for its heat, I must have had some Canadian blood in me before even coming here. Either that or that run in the snow in my bare feet had been enough of an initiation to make me a warm-blooded Canadian.

When the snow and ice had all melted, the grass underneath was a sickly yellow—after all, our motto had always been that we were raising kids, not grass. And so instead of nursing that open space back to a green haven, I turned it into a soccer field, perfect for 3-on-3 with adults or more with kids. While I was still able to keep the ball out of the net when Paul and his friends would play (though he probably claims otherwise), I noticed that I was beginning to live a rather docile life. We would go biking with the kids in a four-seat trailer I built, but the speed and competitiveness I had been used to had disappeared from my life.

I had entered into the years that my son Paul now (lovingly) calls “the fat years.” The years where I did little and noticed myself gradually slipping in my ability to stay ahead of my kids. There comes a time in every dad’s life when he gets passed or beaten by his kids, but I wasn’t prepared for that time, and I was convinced it wasn’t going to happen yet—as long as I could do something to prevent it, that is.