It was never the game...

“The moment the ball went into the air, they played as

one…so it was in the game…so it was in their lives…”

– Anonymous

Imagine yourself the Canadian woods sometime in the month of January. It's a snowy evening with temperatures hovering around zero Fahrenheit (-18C). It's early evening, and you have come out to gather an armload of cedar from the two cords cut last year to dry.

The black sky is filled with stars. The waning moon reflects against the snow covered ground like an enormous eiderdown blanket. Just before picking up the wood, glance around, shiver and feel the total solitude that only a winter’s night such as this can bring...sensations of piercing cold, smoky evergreen-scented air, and the crispness of each breath.

Inside the mudroom, arms full, the first thing to notice is the smell of hot chocolate mixed with the musky odor of a crackling fire. The wood goes into the box by the fireplace. The toque (woolen cap), gloves and coat are put aside. The sensation of warmth oozing into your body as it dispels the cold winter’s night brings a small tingle. Stepping into the main room of the cottage, voices of the small group of people playing a rousing game Crokinole, express their gratitude that it was you who drew the short straw to get the wood.

Wait! Crokinole! What the heck is that?

I can’t remember when it began, I only know that as I passed through puberty, there were a two of things that I thought about as the dog days of summer approached. One was baseball, the other was beating my father in the game of Crokinole! It was a while before I figured out the girl thing.

The month of August from my youth was spent in the woods of Central Ontario. Muskoka was a mythic place for an imaginative youngster. There was the cottage itself. Lake Joseph upon which it sat was surrounded by Maple, Birch, Pine and Cedar trees, bringing a cacophony of subtle odors to the air. Stand in one place, and the scented mixture would tell one story…a gentle breeze and the narrative changed. Even as I write, I can feel the familiarity of this place as comforting as an old friend.

The days were filled with adventure. The land was always the same…it was always different. A mistress with many mysteries bringing me back, again and again, never once feeling full.

The nights, however, took on a very different flavor. What does one do at night in a cottage in the woods, in the waning hours of the day, waiting to go to bed? I’ll tell you what one does! He plays Crokinole!!

While my days were filled with curiosity and exploration, the evenings I played Crokinole with my father are by far the best memories I have of him. The church was his seductress, and truth be told, it took preference over everything. But on those August nights, with the fireplace standing as a barrier to chilly the Muskoka air, I had my father completely to myself.

The origins of the game are not entirely clear, but it is thought to be the late 1860s. The circular playing surface is 26" (66cm) across and is divided into four segments. There are four concentric circles worth 5, 10, 15 and 20 points respectively. The game pieces are small wooden discs that look a little like checkers. They are flicked with a player's finger toward the center of the board.

The point of the game is to move your pieces as close to the center as possible (preferably in the center) and to knock your opponent's pieces into the surrounding gutter. Making the game more difficult, pegs surround the 15-point ring acting to protect your pieces or as obstacles to hitting your opponent's pieces. 

Each player takes turns flicking one piece until all twelve are gone. At the end of a round, pieces on the board cancel each other. For example, if one player has 15 points (a 10 and a 5), and the other has 20 points, the score is 5 to 0.

The game is played to 100. Because of the score canceling the process, the winner always finishes 100-0.

These games could go on for hours, and for my dad and me they often did. Over the years I became a good player but never beat my father. There were many times I led the game 95-0. He would look across the board, smile like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland, and go to work. The next thing I knew, the game was over…a win in his column. The thing is, he always made me feel like I could get him the next time…another chance at the old man.

On the wall in my office is the board my father and I played for so many hours. It is worn and has a missing peg, but it serves as a daily reminder of hours and hours we spent together.

This last year, I decided to look around to see if people still made them. They do, and I now have a brand spanking new board sitting nearby my desk. As it turns out, my friend Frank likes to play.

On those cold winter night's in Ontario when small groups of friends gathered together, Crokinole often occupied much of their time. One can almost hear the laughter and fun this old Canadian game brought so many people. While I can only imagine those times, the evenings I spent playing Crokinole with my dad generate a warmth of spirit no winter’s nights chill could penetrate.  When I close my eyes, I can see that knowing Cheshire Cat's smile across that board as he once again goes to work....

- ted