BRAD HORNUNG, YOU WERE HOCKEY -- BRAD HORNUNG, YOU WERE LICORICE

 

Usually I write about only what I know.  Knowing the Hornung family practically my entire life and attending Regina Pat games with Brad for, literally, twenty plus years, I am right now writing about Brad Hornung with authority.  I have got the creds, as Brad would say.

HORNUNG and HOCKEY are synonymous.

Yes.  Brad loved hockey. Having played the game, having scouted the game, and having blogged about the game between scouting gigs (google: HORNUNG ON HOCKEY.  I will write a bit more about Brad's blog, in a few paragraphs from now).

Here is the HORNUNG-HOCKEY LEGEND and the HORNUNG-HOCKEY LINEAGE from my personal and empirical point of view.  The Hornung-Hockey legend begat with Larry Hornung, Brad's dad, who played in the World Hockey Association and the National Hockey League.  Larry, like hundreds of other Hornungs, was born in my hometown of Vanguard, Saskatchewan.

LARRY HORNUNG played in the National Hockey League and the World Hockey Association.  Larry's cousin, REG HORNUNG played in the Western Canadian Hockey League.  Reg's son, BLAIR HORNUNG played Triple AAA hockey in Swift Current. BRAD HORNUNG played in the Western Hockey league.  TODD HORNUNG played in the Western Hockey League.  RYLAND HORNUNG played Double AA in Swift Current.  RYAN ZAREMBA and KOEN SENFT currently play Triple AAA for the Regina Pat Canadians.  RYAN (whose grandmother is DONNA HORNUNG) has just been drafted by the Saskatoon Blades (Western Hockey League) and KOEN (whose grandmother is MYRNA HORNUNG) has just been drafted by the Seattle Thunderbirds (Western Hockey League). Both Grandmothers, Donna Hornung and Myrna Hornung were, like Larry Hornung, born in Vanguard, Saskatchewan.

Attending, literally, hundreds of Regina Pats (WHL) games with Brad over the past 20 some years, I certainly knew how to load and unload Brad to and from his van, and how to grab the game sheets and coach reports from the scout room in the Brandt Centre basement, and how to adjust Brad’s shoulders to make them exactly square, and how to pull Brad’s right arm ahead with a tug or two to make it exactly even with his other arm, and how to manipulate so that his black coffee fit accordingly into his personal mug device, with the sipping straw for such having to be positioned and bent just right.

Sidebar:  I was such a frequent flyer in the Scouts Room at the rink, that most of those others who were privileged to enter recognized me (incorrectly) as being a fellow NHL scout.  I mean, really, I was there before the start of every game, complete with the scouting ID on full display hanging around my neck, while I loaded up with coffee and Coca-Cola and the game sheets.  I certainly looked the part and as the years rolled by, more and more so even acted the part.  Every game someone would I ask me what I thought of this player or that player, and though I was reluctant to respond, I often did respond just to expedite the economy of time.  Never did I want to get caught in a long-winded treatise on the marvels or skills of any of the prospects. It was not my place to be that guy, and besides, I would surely be found out if I pretended to be that guy.

Only NHL’er and real hockey scout, DREW CALLANDER, was the only one who knew my real identity.  Drew sat alongside Brad and me at every game.  Sidebar:  Drew played in the National Hockey League, the American Hockey League, the East Coast League, and the European Hockey league.  Drew coached in the Western Hockey League, and was now the international scout of the Regina Pats. And in the words of MARSHALL JOHNSTON, al long-time friend of the Brad Hornung family, in a humorous reference to hockey players such as Drew, “What else can we do?”

Well, Drew could do more than hockey (for awhile).  After his professional hockey career with the Philadelphia Flyers, he completed 25 years with the Regina City Police.   And after that, he was an WHL coach (Regina Pats), and is currently the international scout for the WHL Regina Pats.

It is obvious that Brad was a hockey fanatic.  Shortly after his injury and having to adjust to living the rest of his days as a quadriplegic,  Brad became an National Hockey League scout for the Chicago Blackhawks, and after that a scout for the National Hockey League Central Scouting up until the day of his passing.  Between these two scouting gigs, Brad created his blog, HORNUNG ON HOCKEY, reporting on eligible hockey prospects and having a readership for hockey fans in 65 countries. (I was a regular contributor to Brad's blog, writing under the pseudonym, Gordie Know-How.)

Knowing Brad and even having been to other funerals with Brad, I know that he would want to be remembered for being more than hockey.  He would want to be remembered for his academic achievements, save for Doctor Hornung being bestowed an honorary doctorate which he jokingly repeated that he was not a real doctor.

                    [DOCTORS BRAD HORNUNG AND SHELDON KENNEDY]

As a quadriplegic assigned to a wheelchair, Brad completed his grade 12 at the hospital school and went on to attend the University of Regina to complete his bachelor’s degree in Political Science and History.  Alone and in-person, he rode the para-transit bus to the university each day, drove himself to class after class, the boarded the bus home.  A remarkable achievement!

And he would want to be remembered for his appreciation of life.  In Zen-like fashion, Brad would rise every morning from his hospital bed, which was his in-house studio apartment room in Main Five of the Wascana Rehabilitation Centre and go for a stroll (roll).  Brad did appreciate the simplest of the simple things in life.

He loved his setting. Brad resided in the heart of Wascana Park, the second largest urban park in North America.  Complete with a promenade along the Albert Street Bridge, a paved Devonian pathway all around the Wascana Lake, a bird sanctuary, and several fountains and bubble ponds, Wascana Park is paradise.

Whenever the weather allowed, Brad would roll around in that beautiful urban lake and experience all the yin-yang it offered, from being caught in the rain to bumping into another hockey guy, Mike Bossy, who happened to be in town that day.

Going downtown for an espresso was another favorite and simple thing that Brad loved to do.  We would usually walk, sometimes drive into downtown Regina, grab a java, then attend an outdoor live concert in and around Victoria Park.  Those summer concert days were glorious.

And Brad had endless summers.  All summer long, certain friends and certain family members gathered at Terry’s (Brad’s mom) for Sunday barbeques.  (In wintertime we would gather at our place, a downtown condo.)  From his place to his mom’s, in clement weather Brad would roll solo, four city blocks down the Hill Avenue road to get to those barbeques, whereas to our place, he would roll solo around Wascana Lake to Speaker's Corner, where I would meet him on the Devonian. 

Anyone who ever visited Brad in his home at Wascana, will agree that Brad was always the perfect host.  I can recall several zany and even a few Zen moments visiting Brad in his room at Wascana.  One time Jared Livingstone and I entering Brad's room at the same time, caught Brad watching curling!  (NHL scouts do not watch curling.)  Another time, his long-time hockey team-mate, Kenny McIntyre asked Brad what number he wore in hockey, to which Brad actually replied, "Eight."  (Brad's number 8 had been retired in the rink rafters since his injury.  Brad's license plate on his van was BRAD 8.  Brad's permanent parking spot at the hockey arena was designated in big bold print, BRAD 8.  EVERYONE who knew Brad knew he was #8.)  Coincidentally, when his best friend, former NHL'er and AHL'er and European hockey player, Gary Dickie, and I went to see Brad in hospital just a week before he passed, his room in ICU at the General Hospital was #8.    

Unbeknownst to most, but certainly known to a chosen few, Brad was a connoisseur of licorice.  Brad always had a stash of licorice and jujubes and sours and other chewy candies of the ilk and texture of licorice in a plastic tub in his closet.  The jujubes were always fresh, supplied bi-weekly by his mom, Terry.  Terry's friend, Tina, too, greatly contributed to the licorice stash.  True confession:  I supplied lots of  licorice because I ate lots (maybe most or all) of the licorice, the long-nib red to be precise.  For years and years and years I stole from his licorice supply.  

Factoid: Every birthday and every Xmas we exchanged the gift of licorice.  That is how important the sharing of licorice really was.  Bradley was my friend and my favorite NHL scout, and my licorice provider. 

Brad was also my nephew.  Forty-two years ago I was fortunate to marry Carol Hornung, sister to Brad's father, Larry.  Carol and I have sons, but they did not contribute to the Hornung-Hockey legacy -- our sons did not play hockey.

Carol and I, as well as his mother, Terry, and sister, Leanne, his Uncle Bill, his best friend Hollis, and a couple other longtime friends, were in the room with Brad when he passed.  On Tuesday, February 8^th, Bradley John Hornung died at exactly 6:31.

Brad’s funeral was 1:00 Wednesday February 16^th.  

Brad, I just needed to say a few words about you in this soliloquy of sorts.

AND YES, BRAD HORNUNG, YOU WERE HOCKEY.  AND YES, BRAD HORNUNG, YOU WERE LICORICE.

Though my reference to licorice may seem blithesome …

 

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE: I AM A BOUNTY HUNTER

 

I am a bona fide bounty hunter.  And I have the Clint Eastwood bounty hunter creds.  At thirteen years of age I was shot off a horse while riding over a bridge on the Notekeu Creek, one mile south of Vanguard, Saskatchewan.  At 15 years of age I rode across 26 sections of Turkey Track Ranch to meet a girl at a rodeo in Herbert, Saskatchewan.

Yes.  I am a bona fide bounty hunter.  A bounty hunter is a private agent working for bail bonds who captures criminals for a commission or bounty.  I am a private agent; I am a guitar-slinger on hire for the BUSHWAKKER BREWPUB, Regina, Saskatchewan. 

I am a bounty hunter.  But I do not carry a gun – I carry a guitar.  As for the criminality in my profession, I deem it only criminal if the quarry that I seek never gets the chance to play on the Bushwakker stage.  I deem, too, be it criminal for the Brewster-drinking public never to see, never mind applause any such raw singer-songwriter talents.  

Factoid:  The art of the capture is a win, win, win situation.  The first win is the Bushwakker stage gives opportunity for fresh singer-songwriters to grab their fifteen minutes of fame.  The second win is that a live audience has the opportunity share the experience, even offer applause for the performance.  And the third win is for me, for a few dollars more than just a bounty of beer.

I am on the hunt day and night.  During the daytime I scour the streets searching for guitar-slinging gritty buskers who front the bars and liquor stores.  At night I stakeout the open mics in the downtown taverns.

It takes a busker to hunt a busker.  Whenever I venture into the buskerlands, I comport a shock of hair messy, don a white tight t-shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans, and trod about in heavy leather work boots.  (I dare not present as priggish, prim, or prissy, for that would only hinder any attempts to interpenetrate the quarry that I hunt.)

Quite unlike those duster bounty hunters on television who ride into Dodge City or Tombstone or Santa Fe or Deadwood on their Appaloosa and Arabian horses, I am the pale rider of an Acura RDX having 272 horses under the hood.

For my profession, my skill set needs to be impressive, and it is! My curriculum vitae boasts extraordinary investigative skills (I was a university professor for 22 years leaving no question with regard to my research proficiency), Brobdingnagian communication skills (university degrees in English Literature and Psychology), and whopping self-defence skills (martial arts training in Karate, Tai Chi, and Muay Thai).   

Over the years I have captured the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Fortunately, most of my successes have proven more than their worth, whereas the bad and the ugly comprise only counter-patterns. Knock on rosewood – so far so good.

Here are some thumbnail sketches of the guitar-slingers that I last captured.  These singer-songwriters, in particular, really personify the type of bounty I am seeking for that on-stage aplomb.

Top row left to right:

CORI, who I collared by happenchance whilst picking up my bounty from the Bushwakker Brewpub one fine evening, is the perfect blend of Joni Mitchell and Mary Travers. (I grew up in the ‘60s and so speak with authority when I make the comparison!)

Next to Cori is moi.  Though my thrumming skills can best be described as adequate, and so too my basso profundo vocals. My only calling card is the quality of my song writing. 

NATHAN responded to my note that I posted at B-Sharp: “If you are a singer-songwriter wanting free beers and extra cash, please Neil at (306) 591-7131.”  Nathan is a professional musician with at least three new releases to his credit.  

Bottom row left to right:

TRENT is a guitar virtuoso.  Trent is a super talent on whose coattails I have ridden for, literally, hundreds of gigs.

ALBERT is the quintessential busker.  Albert, with uncanny musical ability, channels ‘40s legends, such as Lead Belly, during every performance.  I snatched up Albert while he was busking with his dobro in front of a downtown liquor store.

JOHN was a jackpot win. This multi-talent instrumentalist, guitar, flute, and keyboard player was referred to me by Albert on a plea deal.

CECIL continues that time-honoured folk tradition of writing and singing protest songs.  Cecil was plucked from a community service open mic night.

Like most trades, being a bounty hunter has both lagniappes and liabilities.  I will mention first, the fame and fortune lagniappes:

Having performed 50+ folk gigs, I have become a known regular strummer at the Bushwakker Brewpub. I regard this recognition as fame.  And my bounty for having performed 50+ folk gigs on the Bushwakker stage, I have imbibed endless pints of free beer, and boodles upon boodles of bucks.  I regard these consumptions of beer and money as fortune.

And now for the laborious liabilities:  As a bona fide bounty hunter, I make it a daily regimen to do downtown walkabouts.  Whenever I happen upon a guitar busker strumming unfamiliar songs, I stop and listen.  If I like what I hear, and the songs are originals, and if the busker is neither smarmy nor in need of lavation, I snare that busker for the Bushwakker stage. 

And why would this be a liability, one may wonder.

Factoid:  I would much prefer a walk or run around Wascana Lake, or better yet, a hike in the country.  Singer-songwriter buskers are not commonplace, and to uncover these outliers, I need to be always on the hunt, need to be always at work.  Such toil!  And so arduous!    

Another liability is when I must sit at a barstool and sip bourbons for evenings on end at downtown open mic nights.

Factoid:  I stay the entire performances to make sure I listen to all the players, most of whom are not singer-songwriters.  And I also make a practice of focusing on the quirks and quiddities of all those that I like, culling who are worth the capture for the bigger stage at Bushwakkers.

To close, I am always hunting for that million-dollar baby to collect more than just a fistful of dollars.  And until I apprehend such a prize, shall I ever be unforgiven.