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Because my late father ran a hockey arena, I spent my formative years in Quebec and Toronto in rinks, and at its best, the game was always accepting of those who are different — usually well ahead of the societal curve, in fact.

I remember “the Wire Boy,” as he was called in my hometown. Now, he’d probably be on the autism spectrum, or perhaps diagnosed as intellectually disabled. But back then, he was just the Wire Boy, so called because he always had in his quick hands a length of wire which he twirled non-stop.

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I don’t remember him ever speaking. I never saw him in school, though he could have gone to the Catholic one.

The game is magnificent at its best, as I said, but it is not immune to the usual quotient of dolts, bullies and even the cruel

But at the rink, he just … fit in.

He came to all the games, with his wire of course, and would sit and twirl frenetically, or pace about. Everyone knew him. No one stared. No one made fun of him or bugged him.

Every rink I’ve ever been in, and many of the minor teams I followed for years, had a fellow or two like that.