Two for the memories

 You pile up memories with the years, and there's Captain Obvious reporting for duty. The more time you put in on this rock, the more memories you have, duh. And sometimes they might resemble the truth.

For instance, I think of Daryle Lamonica, I think of him throwing deep to Fred Biletnikoff on every play. And I know that's not right.

I think of Guy Lafleur, I think of elegance and grace as the beating heart of a juggernaut. And I know that's not the whole truth, either.

The two of them died this week on consecutive days, and if these things will happen -- particularly as my own years pile up -- there's always a tinge of loss that attends it. And the memories, too, incomplete though they may be.

No, Daryle Lamonica, who died Thursday, didn't throw deep to Wells on every play, even though they called him the Mad Bomber during his salad days with the Raiders. He threw deep, he threw underneath, and occasionally he handed off to Hewritt Dixon and Clem Daniels, too.

But I think of those Raiders, and I think of Lamonica carving parabolas across the sky, and Ben Davidson's luxuriant 'stache, and the guy who wore double-zero, Jim Otto.

And Lafleur?

He was indeed the star of those mighty Montreal Canadiens in the 1970s, but hardly the only one. They called him the Flower, but around him others blossomed: Ken Dryden and Jacques Lemaire and Serge Savard; Larry Robinson and Steve Shutt and Guy Lapointe. And of course the team captain, Yvan Cournoyer.

What I remember about that team, about Lafleur, is that in 1976-77 they went an absurd 60-8-12, and Dryden won 41 games in goal, and the Flower scored 56 goals and 136 points. 

What I also remember, weirdly, is the first thing I thought of when I heard Lefleur had passed: That some people didn't know how to pronounce Cournoyer's name, and how one night on the radio I heard some news guy butcher it as Corn-OI-er.

But of course it's pronounced CORN-why-ay.

And of course it's absurd Lafleur, who was only 70, is gone now.

And of course it's absurd to be surprised by that, and by the fact time passes, and by the way memory becomes an imperfect thing because of that.