I'm Certain That Don Cherry Is My Dad!

This is me at a Maple Leafs game in Toronto.

But it was when I turned 17, and I was at a Maple Leafs game--they were playing the Montreal Canadiens--when I began to suspect that my mother was not forthright with my lineage. I had seen "him" before, the flamboyant hockey celebrity who appeared weekly on Hockey Night In Canada, but never in person, and never up close.

During the second intermission Don Cherry saw me from across the concourse level. Of course, he was surrounded by dozens of adoring hockey fans, mostly women--and why not? He has all the charm of a Baltic prince. But when his eyes caught mine, there was shock and realization, an unexplainable recognition that hit him like a Tie Domi hip check.

I knew at once that this was my true father. And Mr. Cherry must have concluded the same, as his demeanor changed. He must have immediately noticed the resemblance--and who wouldn't? I wanted to speak to him right then and there, but unfortunately he was swept away in a wave of admirers.

I should have figured it out sooner. It certainly explained my love for the Boston Bruins and my appreciation for high-collared shirts and grandiloquent suits. I had always thought it was a desperate cry for attention. I never had a father-figure in my life.

A picture of my mother with Don Cherry.

I'm not sure if I'm ready to accept the mantle of responsibility attached to the Cherry legacy. I know I could deliver the same brand of adversarial anecdotes as the Grape One--it's in my blood--but would I be accepted by the critical Canadian crowds?

I know I could learn to speak more like you. "Oh father, I know I'm a good-lookin' kid, doncha know. You're tops in my book too I tell ya. Hey, listen, I understand you've got your pride, and heck, you've got to what you got to do. Give it 110%, and do it for the team eh? That's hockey!"

So what do you say, dad? Do you think we could play catch someday, or maybe just pass a puck around? That would be super.