by Bobby Orr
Two
LESSONS FROM MY PARENTS
Many years after I left Parry Sound, my parents received a visit from the parents of a young player who was about to explode into the hockey world. Eric Lindros was fourteen years old at the time, and his mother and father came calling to ask for some advice. It seems they had determined that my parents deserved some of the credit for the way I turned out, and they wanted to know exactly how the process of raising an NHL-caliber son should work. Specifically, they wanted some insight into how my father had handled my development as a player. What was it he had done to get me to the top?
My father’s response was short and sweet: nothing.
I tell this story to underline a point. I really hit the jackpot when it came to parents.
Certainly, Eric Lindros’s parents had every right to be concerned about their son, and especially about the impact his life would have on other members of the family. By the time he was selected first overall by the Nordiques, his was one of the most recognizable faces in Canada. In fact, he was probably the most talked-about player in the game even before he stepped on the ice for his first shift in the NHL. It makes perfect sense that parents would worry about how a family, and a young kid like Eric, might navigate the whirlwind surrounding the next big thing. Indeed, that spectacle, and the stakes involved, has only grown since then.
But some things never change. The game hasn’t really changed. And hockey fans never really change. You can no doubt appreciate that as my professional hockey career began to unfold, a certain amount of celebrity came as well. That had huge implications, not only for me, but also for the place I called home. By home I mean the house specifically, and in a more general sense the entire town. You can also bet that it changed the lives of my parents and siblings as well. For some people who suddenly find themselves the parents of a well-known athlete, the recognition that comes along with it can grow almost unbearable. But that didn’t occur in the case of my parents.
My mother and father were wonderful role models who never tried to teach me how to be a hockey player but insisted I learn what it took to be a decent person. It’s not easy to see the things parents do for you when you’re a kid (and even harder to appreciate the things they don’t do for you). While you may appreciate your parents when you are growing up, you understand their methods and parenting skills more fully once you have your own family. They were a wonderful couple united by a powerful desire to raise their children with character and substance. But the individual qualities they each brought into their union helped ensure their success as a couple over the course of their fifty-seven-year marriage.
I think that their core values and basic sense of family and community insulated them and their children from a lot of potential trouble. I remember hearing an account of something that happened involving my mother during those years, and it speaks to the type of person she was. My mom worked at various part-time jobs over the years, and one of them was at a coffee shop in Parry Sound. People knew who she was, and in any small town people are going to want to talk hockey. Whenever anyone asked, “How’s your son?” she would come right back with, “Which one? We have three.”
In every important way around the house, I was just one of the kids. I don’t think it ever occurred to my parents that I should be treated differently. My parents made sure everyone in the family had a special place and not just the one who happened to be getting noticed outside the house for playing hockey. Of course, like all brothers and sisters, we were always jockeying for our parents’ attention. I don’t imagine that sibling rivalry in all of its different forms was unique to the Orr household. For instance, as we got older, my brothers would stick the needle in a little bit by saying things like, “Oh, Bobby must be coming home—Mom’s made a lot of food!” We all dished it out and took our fair share of shots as well.
So how did my parents prepare me to be a hockey player? The answer is that they prepared me to be like anyone else. All parents want the same basic things for their children—namely, health and happiness. That’s what you should be preparing your kids for. Success comes and goes, but if your children are healthy and happy, nothing else really matters much. As for the success part, I suppose we all measure success differently, and I’ve no doubt that my parents had their take on what success was all about. What’s important, however, is that they never forced their views on me.
They never attempted to dictate how my life should unfold or how I might achieve my own success. They let me decide those things for myself. I can only imagine that Eric’s parents must have been a little surprised by my father’s one-word response, but the reality is it truthfully reflected what my mom and dad believed was their role in developing the young hockey player in their house.
My parents didn’t make long speeches or philosophize. But that didn’t mean we didn’t know what they thought or what they stood for. The leadership they both demonstrated for me was only made stronger by their saying little or nothing, especially at pivotal points in my development. All of us kids knew what our parents believed in, because they lived it right before our eyes. In my case, they weren’t at every hockey game I played in as a youngster, but they didn’t have to be in the stands for me to know they were supporting me. There was no pressure on me to win or be the high scorer or the star of the team. Actually, it was quite the opposite. I can’t remember my father ever trying to give me any instruction about how to play the game of hockey.
Every kid likes to win—I certainly did. And kids want to please their parents. Those two things together can really raise the stakes for a kid and make a game feel a lot like work. I was probably a pretty serious little guy, but Dad would often tell me to “go out, have some fun, and let’s see what happens.” When we talked after the game, he didn’t offer his assessment of my play or give me tips. And it seems to me that he was always very positive. That is, he played the role of dad, not coach or career counselor. Now there’s a perspective I wish more parents would buy into.
Unfortunately, many parents of up-and-coming athletes today try to live their lives through the child’s success, and it never works. That was the basis of the message my father shared with the Lindros family.
• • •
My wife often tells people that my mother was a beautiful person and the backbone of the Orr family. And Peggy is absolutely right about that. Of course, Peggy had a particular soft spot for my mother, because Mom always maintained that I wasn’t good enough to land someone of Peggy’s quality, but that is another story for another time.
My mother was never out front seeking the limelight. She was very humble by nature and remained the glue of our family until the day she passed away. In fact, the very day of my mother’s passing, she spent a lot of time with Reverend Marjorie Smith. At the private service we held in my mother’s honor, Reverend Smith told us she had been instructed to pass along a wish that Mom had expressed for all of the Orr children. Her message was that we were simply to “all get along.” She believed in the importance of family, and that was my mother’s focus even at the very end of her life.
Many people have written over the years that at times during interviews and public appearances I have come across as somewhat shy and reserved. Others have gone further and said that I’ve even seemed almost reclusive. I believe that this part of my personality most certainly comes right from my mom. To this day, I have trouble sleeping the night before I have to make a presentation or speech, whether it’s for five people or five hundred, just as it was when I was a player. I have been in the spotlight more than my fair share ever since I was a kid, and I still dread it. That’s how my mother was, too. She was the family leader, but she didn’t lead from the front lines. She rarely went to my games, because she didn’t want the attention that would inevitably follow. The crowds kind of scared her as well, and sometimes it did get pretty crazy. As a result, she may have attended five or six games in total over my entire li
fe in hockey, though she was well aware of how my career was progressing. She chose to be our tower of strength from a distance, where the spotlight was not directly on her.
Our mom was a giver as opposed to a taker. Hers was a life built on service to her family and community, and her example had a tremendous and lasting impact on all of the Orr children. For Mom, actions didn’t just speak louder than words—they were more like commands. As our family friend Bill Watters has often said, “With Arva Orr, we could have turned around the saying, ‘Do as I say and not as I do’ to read, ‘Do as I say and as I do,’ because that is exactly the way she lived her life.”
She was one of the most caring people I have ever encountered and always put the needs of others ahead of her own. There was a television series back in the 1960s called Hazel about a housekeeper who was always helping the family she served in any way she could. My old childhood buddy Neil Clairmont was the one who started calling Mom “Hazel,” because that was exactly the role she chose to fill. She was the type of lady who had a servant’s heart and practiced that kind of giving every day. The result was that my buddies always enjoyed being at our house, because they knew that “Hazel” would inevitably have cooked something up and it would be there waiting for them.
Then again, I can’t deny that Mom possessed a slightly sterner side as well. She did not allow a lot of shenanigans, and her standards around our home were to be understood and followed. We didn’t have much in terms of possessions, but what possessions we did have were to be respected and cared for. Mom expected all us kids to mind our behavior and general attitude around the house, at school, or anywhere else in the community. She was the enforcer of those rules, and God help any of us who decided not to follow them.
My mother left no room for us to question her interpretation of right and wrong. For example, on one cold and rainy afternoon when I was ten, a buddy and I found ourselves in possession of a pack of cigarettes. I’m not going to say we stole them from a corner store, but I can’t recall exactly how they came into our possession. At any rate, we decided we would try our hand at smoking while we fished under the bridge that led right into the heart of Parry Sound. Unfortunately for us, someone spotted us from a shop window. Before we’d coughed our way through our first cigarette, Mom had received a phone call and knew exactly where her son was and what he was doing. I suppose I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, but my blood ran cold when I saw her appear under the bridge, marching purposefully right for me. All I could think to do was try to make a run for it, so I dropped my cigarette and bolted for the far side of the bridge. But when she yelled at me to stop, I froze.
I was busted, and if looks could kill, I’d have been a dead man that day. She grabbed me by the arm and led me back across the road to our house. That was not a very pleasant episode, let me tell you, and it was the last cigarette I ever smoked under that bridge.
What I’m about to say might not sound like something you would read in a modern parenting book, but Mom’s weapon of choice (for lack of a better term) when any of us veered off the straight and narrow was an old broom she kept handy in the kitchen. You could say Mom believed in the maxim, “Speak softly and carry a big stick”—literally! While her bark was always worse than the actual bite of that broom, it served nevertheless to dissuade us from getting on her bad side. We always knew how much she loved us and how kindhearted she was, but at the same time, we knew that she was the boss.
Mom never set out to be a best friend to her children. She wanted us to know what her line in the sand was and the consequences of crossing it. Inevitably, we did indeed develop closeness and a friendship with our mother in our adult lives. But I must tell you that even as an adult, whenever I found myself sitting at home in Parry Sound chatting with my mother, I would often think about that broom.
• • •
Then there was the man of the house, my father, Doug, and he was another case altogether. I’m sure Mom sometimes figured she was really raising six kids, not five, because Dad could be a handful. As quiet and unassuming as our mother was, Dad was just the opposite. I guess the old idea that opposites attract must have applied to my parents. But given the course that my life would take in athletics, my dad was the perfect father for someone like me. As my skills in hockey developed, he was my greatest cheerleader and encourager. He never applied the type of pressure on me or any of my siblings you sometimes see in families. They might have been miles apart in personality, but much like my mother, Dad was the kind of person who consistently gave of himself to benefit his family and friends.
As a boy and into his teens, my father had been a fine athlete. In fact, he was once invited to training camp with the Bruins’ farm team. He turned them down, though, and enlisted in the Royal Canadian Navy instead. He spent several years on board corvette-class ships in the Battle of the Atlantic, escorting merchant vessels en route to England.
Dad was already married to my mom when he shipped out with the navy, and when he returned from his tour of duty he picked up where he left off, heading back to work and starting a family. The five children came along pretty quickly, and Dad held down different jobs during that time. In fact, to make ends meet, he often worked two or three jobs at once, and as I grew up, that did not escape my attention. At various times, Dad held the following job titles: beer rep for a brewery; taxi driver for a local cab company; employee at CIL, which, by the way, was where they packed dynamite; and bartender at a local establishment (or two).
Like our mother, he modeled a way of living that deeply affected all of his children. But make no mistake, Dad had a wild side. He enjoyed a good time, and I’m sure my mother often thought about taking that broom to him on occasion. Dad was human and had his faults, like we all do, but he demonstrated some great qualities for me growing up. There wasn’t anyone in town that I could name who didn’t genuinely like Doug Orr.
As far as his parenting skills went, he basically left us to discover things for ourselves. He was always there if you needed a hand or some advice, but he never forced anything on you. One thing that was non-negotiable, though, was the importance of hard work. I knew early on that he was a hard worker, and that attitude rubbed off on me. He always demanded that whenever we did something, we should put as much energy into it as possible. I truly believe that my passion for hockey can be traced to my father’s attitude about so many things, and his expectation that I would make an honest effort has stayed with me through all the years. That effort led to success on the ice, and that success in turn fueled my passion. One expectation of all of the kids at our house involved chores and eventually part-time jobs. Believe me when I say that as a young boy growing up in Parry Sound, life wasn’t all hockey for me.
My parents insisted that we learn the value of a day’s work, and summer employment represented the start of that responsibility. Looking back, I’d have to say that my job as a bellboy was the toughest on me, because I was so small at the time. The Belvedere was a beautiful old hotel that catered to the summer tourists. It was closed during the winter, so getting one of those summer jobs was a real feather in my cap. Of course, there were expectations at such a fine establishment as to how a bellboy should perform his duties, and there were standards to be met. Unfortunately, I had a little trouble meeting some of those standards.
For example, whenever I went outside to help people into the hotel with their suitcases, they felt sorry for me, because I always struggled to carry the heavier pieces of luggage. I was just a little guy without much meat on my bones, so more times than not the guest ended up carrying his own bags into the hotel. On more than one occasion, I could be seen leading them into the lobby of the Belvedere empty-handed. Now, this did not sit well with my boss, Mr. Peoples, and to avoid getting into trouble I would often have to beg customers, sometimes half wrestle with them in the parking lot, to let me carry at least something into the hotel lobby. I would have taken anything, from a hatbox to a woman’s p
urse, just so long as I had something in my hand, because if I wasn’t carrying a bag of some description into that lobby, then I knew what was coming next. But those suitcases sure were heavy! I’m still grateful to all the kind souls who tried to help out the little guy who was the bellboy all those years ago.
Before my time at the Belvedere Hotel was over, things actually got worse. As part of my duties, if I happened to pull the morning shift, I had to spend some time in the lobby with one of those huge electric floor-polishers. Those were big, heavy machines. Probably about the same size as I was. It took all my strength to keep the machine spinning the buffing wheel instead of spinning me. Anyone who caught a glimpse of me trying to handle that beast must have thought they were watching a rehearsal for a comedy show.
And I really wasn’t looking forward to going back to the Belvedere the following summer, yet I knew I had to. That was Arva’s rule. But after my first year’s performance, who knows if Mr. Peoples would have given me another shot anyway. As fate would have it, the hotel went up in flames that winter, so that was the first and last summer I spent at the Belvedere. My father used to chuckle about my employment at the hotel and said on more than one occasion that perhaps I despised the job so much I had resorted to burning the place down.
The other tough job I remember was the one summer I tried baling hay for a farmer. The farmer was a friend of my father’s, so he agreed to let me have a go as a farmhand. Everyone knows that working on a farm is tough, but I figured I’d keep myself in shape and put some cash in my pocket at the same time. After all, everything was done manually back then, so it couldn’t help but be a great workout.
It was a workout alright. That was a very tough way to earn some extra spending money. Let me tell you, I quickly learned to appreciate what it is to be a farmer and the work that goes into keeping a farm running. If I had ever thought about buying a farm some day in my future, those dreams were crushed.