What a story it’s been.

*Editor’s note: Hugh Townsend wrote this column last week prior to Friday’s announcement the Toronto Maple Leafs had parted ways with Kyle Dubas.

Whether you follow the Halifax Mooseheads closely or not, you would have to agree the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League franchise has been given lots of positive coverage during this 2022-23 season.

At Stanley Cup time, my thoughts often return to the 1960s when my pal Sterling Bain and I travelled to championship games and those notorious post-game frolics in the winning dressing rooms.

Dear Money Lady, what do think about reverse mortgages? I own my home but only have a widow’s pension and OAS to live on. Now that everything is a little more expensive, I am finding it really difficult to live and pay my bills. - Verna

It never ceases to amaze me how the simple mention of a particular word, a particular person or a particular event can instantly renew specific memories from the distant past.

Not only have I been writing this column for The Advocate for 19 years, I’ve been depending on the publication for Pictou County news.

Sixty years ago this month, I recall a pleasant spring-like afternoon in 1963, when I was parked on a homey street in Brookfield.

The timing was ideal.

No, I’ve never quit.

In the beginning, at the age of eight, I signed all necessary documents to become a die-hard fan of the New York Yankees.

My thoughts 10 days after the thriller?

Half a century ago, as I walked into the gym at Saint Mary’s University, I knew it was a day I wouldn’t forget.

Anse MacDonald told me a long time ago, “Our move to New Glasgow was the best move my wife (Bernice) and I ever made.”

It was one of those unexpected encounters.

Okay everyone, gather around.

In 1944-45 – as the world neared the post-war era – I was six years old in Grade 1 at the Temperance Street School in New Glasgow.

It was winners all-around.

It was tough for a young guy to make an NHL roster in the 1950s when there were only six franchises and about 120 players.

Well, the expected has happened.

While watching junior hockey phenom Connor Bedard’s brilliance at the recent world junior hockey championships in Halifax, I was reminded of an old, frequently used idiom.

Well, that was one hell of a party in downtown Halifax.

As I write my journey through the early months of my 69th year in newspapers, the question comes up more and more frequently: Why keep working so long?

Lest we forget.

As most die-hard hockey followers have known since birth, there are good times and bad times on the sports calendar. There are high points and low points wherever games are played.

At first mention, the idea may sound rather ridiculous, if not completely preposterous, even contrary to common sense.

I’ve often been told I was born with a love of sports in my veins.

An intriguing comment was fired at me by an acquaintance sipping a double-double at Tims one morning a few weeks ago.

Bob Ross wasn’t smiling.

Sometimes statistics mean everything.

Did the good folks at the Nova Scotia Sport Hall of Fame make their best decision by committing its future to its old location in downtown Halifax?

John Soosaar and I have crossed paths many times during the last 65 years – from our school days in New Glasgow, through our decades in the journalism world, to the publication of his riveting book about his family’s escape from war-torn Europe.

They played on a championship hockey club and, many years later, they were still telling me it was the finest team they were ever on.

I feel safe in saying that I’m no different than most Canadians when it comes to having a life-long love affair with hockey.

One hundred years ago – in October 1922 – a group of sports-minded individuals from Antigonish, Pictou and Colchester counties put their heads together and created a regional hockey league.

I’ve often thought about July 21, 1961.

The phone rang rather early the other morning.

I loved the comment.

An unexpected surprise was waiting for me when I arrived at the Hotel Meridien in downtown Montreal on a hot July afternoon in 1976.

Spryfield, a suburban community within Halifax, can rightly claim Troy Ryan as one of its own. His birth certificate testifies to that.

I discovered in time that you never forget where a life’s journey began.