Ron Wicks: - the Game Clock Runs Down - 00:00

1155 published April 3, 2016

Ross Brewitt

           The drive from Guelph to the William Osler Hospital in Brampton, is 45 minutes, door-to-door. That’s 401 minutes. They tend to go by quickly when you’re on a mission.

I spent every one of those minutes wondering how I’d handle seeing Ron Wicks, former NHL official, my tournament golf partner, and fellow author, one of the truly “nice guys” you always hear about, but seldom meet.

He was battling cancer, and I’d received an inside tip, actually a warning, that the end was near.

It had been three months since we had lunch at the Brampton Country Club, arranged by Pat Differ a former official himself and accomplished lacrosse player from B.C., and Rick Drennan the managing editor for Mississauga News, and Brampton Guardian of the far-flung Metroland Newspaper empire. We talked easily and laughed, about hockey, and business, the good times of old, and the pitfalls of getting old.

That Ron had lost weight was obvious. He was never a big guy to start with, and later when we went our separate ways, I recall wondering if this lunch date might be the last time we’d see each other.  

But I was reassured in the knowledge that we were always in touch, phone calls, and emails on a weekly basis. Being been on “my list,” receiving the weekly column for many years, he was always quick with a comment each week, sometimes two, on my scribbling.

                             *        *        *

Riding the hospital elevator to the fifth floor, I kept coaching myself that this was a last opportunity to say goodbye, and not to lose control. In fact I had no viable idea how to hold it together, didn’t believe it would be possible.

Before I left home that morning, trying to stay positive, Sylvia and I talked about the good times. Reliving the annual golf events where we got together, especially the 20-year Syl Apps Classic in Kingston, and the John Ferguson Tournament in Windsor. Our consensus was, we both had the easy familiarity that grows into friends.

Now, having navigated the impersonal, medical hallways, then entering the usual cramped room where privacy and space is a uncontrolled luxury, concerns about my staying power came up again.

After greetings and introductions with those already in the room, an OPP Sergeant, a real estate agent, an ex-golf pro, I watched Ron and Barb’s interaction in this worst of times scene. Two words came to mind, first was “brave,” the second was “courage,” qualities and words we don’t see or use every day. They were handling it a lot better than I was.

 Watching Ron, it was obvious his medications were working, and a couple of times I thought he would drift into sleep. But, he’d come around again, the smile never gone for long, his active eyes behind half-lens reading glasses perched across his nose, following the subdued laughter and conversation from side-to-side as it moved around the room.

Barb, ever attentive, was there to smooth the sheets, make sure the lines carrying his meds were clear of obstructions, and making sure his glasses were in place. Lying flat on a hospital bed is never as easy as it seems.

Armed with the knowledge more people would soon be dropping in, I wanted a private moment, an opening to say goodbye, and when a lull in the conversation arrived, made my way around to the bedside. Finding the only spot not snarled with lines, needles or bruises, I put  my hand on his bare arm. “I’m so glad we had that lunch, pal…” and I began to falter.

 Looking down at ron I believe he saw through the false bravado for what it was… desperation.

 “Me too,…” he answered quietly through the smile. Taking a few seconds I tried to gather myself, but realized it was a battle I wouldn’t win.

“God will be with you, Ron…,” was the best I could muster, the last part ending as my voice cracked and broke.

“You too, Lefty,” he smiled, a tear brimming behind the glasses.

Unable to speak, I patted his arm and managed to turn and make it out   to the hallway. Once there, stepping out of any view from his room, I let it come. A few seconds later a nurse approached, offering a box of tissues.

                             *        *        *

Early Friday we were advised the support medications had been stopped, and that evening Ron Wicks, passed away.

He made it through 26 tough NHL seasons, starting as a linesman, ending as a top-echelon, red-armbanded official, back in the days when NHL referees managed the game on their own.

“The Five Star Generals,” as I once wrote.

For those that knew him, he destroyed the old adage that says, “nice guys finish last.”

Over his lifetime, my friend Ron led from start to finish.