An Open Letter to Andrew and Matthew Smith
A recent article in the Globe and Mail about two of my former teachers brought back a flood of memories. As the son of a great teacher, I have enjoyed many stories about my dad’s classroom antics and the positive influences he had on people. John and Shelley Smith helped shape the lives of many kids on the South-West Coast of Newfoundland. They left Port aux Basques in 1988 with their two very young kids and I am not sure if Andrew and Matthew would have heard many of those great stories from the voices of those who experienced them. I hope this helps.
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/travel/activities-and-interests/former-teachers-spend-their-retirement-on-the-road/article27665737/
Dear Andrew and Matthew,
Please let me re-introduce myself. We met back in the 80s when mullets were in style and I am pretty sure I had a pair of acid washed jeans and your dad still had hair. I was one of the many clumsy kids that was always around your house, dropping by to play streetball or play ping-pong or just to say hi. Your house was always busy and we always felt welcomed, your parents were neat like that.
I first heard of your dad while I was in grade five. My dad was part of the hiring committee and he came home talking about the new British gym teacher. I remember sitting at the table as we joked that he would know nothing about hockey but could probably muster up a mean cup of tea. My brother Ian and I were also worried we would have to play more soccer now.
As the year went on, the discussions about your dad turned from where he was from to what he was doing and how well he was doing it. In one story, he started a basketball team but the boys were all afraid to wear shorts in front of the school before their first game against one of the stronger schools in the region. A game that should have been a blowout was tight until the end when Grandy’s pulled away. The legend of John Smith was born.
It wasn’t until the next year that I met your dad. I was excited the day he substituted for our PE class. I had never talked to him before and the first time he acknowledged me he politely reminded me, “DO NOT WALK UNDER THE BADMINTON NET!!!” I jumped 50 feet in the air and to this day I always walk around the net.
During my first couple of years of junior high, I was a horrible athlete but I tried out for every team. I may or may not have missed a lay-up so badly during one tryout that the ball flew into his office. I was somehow six foot one in grade eight but not good enough to play basketball. I always volunteered to referee and score keep but I really wanted to play. It was also during that time that we started to hear about your mom. Apparently she knew a thing or two about volleyball… but more on that later.
I finally made the volleyball team in grade nine. I was very excited until we lost our first game to the high school kids. The next day at practice we ran lines for everything:
• Two sets of lines for each set we lost
• Two sets of lines for blowing a lead
• A sets of lines for every point we lost by
• A sets of line for losing to my “Ugly Brother!” Your dad’s words not mine.
He also discovered we were a little scared of the ball. So as we practiced hitting, he worked with us individually and threw balls at us. Your dad had a pretty good arm! Yep, as I dragged my sorry behind to the locker room I knew I loved playing on that team. (We eventually lost to your mom’s school in the winter game’s qualifier. I cannot remember if she was coaching that team or not.)
I also made his basketball team that year. After I did, he took me aside and said, “Corey, you have potential but are you ever clumsy.” He handed me a skipping rope and told me to wear it out. I must have skipped for over 100 hours that season. We were the first junior high school to qualify for the provincial high school tournament. To get there, all 11 of us piled into a rented cube van with 2 seats, no heating, only gym mats. Half way into the ten hour drive, the van broke down. I’m not sure how he managed to get us to the tournament but we pulled into Harbor Breton late for the opener and eventually got blow out in all three games. We did manage to beat the local junior high team on a tired Saturday morning though. Your dad referred to the best player on the other teams as the “Hot Dog.” Of course we would walk around behind him imitating, “Get the Hot Dog” to which he would snarl and shake his head. If you can believe it, your dad’s team won a Sportsmanship award. On the way back he entertained us with stories about his rugby playing days. If he hasn’t told you about playing the U13 team from France ask him, it has a great twist ending.
But the basketball season did not end there. We moved into the junior high portion of our five month season. After losing in the round robin of the Grandy’s River Invitational, you dad was furious with us. I remember throwing the inbounds pass that was picked off to give Belanger a three point lead in a game we should have never lost. We were hosting our own invitational the next weekend and your dad was determined we would be ready. We had seven practices the next week, three of which were in the morning. We learned new inbounds plays and we were going to be ready. We destroyed Grandy’s and then had a rematch with Belanger. Up 28-8 at half and feeling very good about ourselves, we walked into the locker room like champs and your dad wanted none of it. We did a combination of push-ups and sit ups and more push-ups for being too cocky. Needless to say, we continued to run up the score in the second half.
As I moved into grade 10, I assumed my relationship with your dad would be done as he concentrated on the next crop of kids. Instead, he checked up on me from time to time. He invited myself, Brian McNeil, and Ricky Finn to play in the local men’s basketball league and even got me to practice with the men’s all-star team. He also invited us back to the junior high to play the volleyball and basketball teams. Apparently, he motivated his team by saying, “I don’t want that Corey Crewe showing his ugly face and acting all cocky.” For the record, my team won both matches.
That year we also had to play the feared Grandy’s volleyball team coached by your mom. They could fly and they killed us. She was very fiery on the bench and controlled that team like a conductor. Wade Hardy, one of her players, would just float as he hit. He said that it felt like angels were pulling him up with strings when he jumped. They won the provincials that year and when I taught there years later, they still talked about that team and your mom. I remember after Matthew was born, she would bring you to games while she coached. We watched one time as she justifiably but quietly berated the team as she held you in front of them. My friend Lloyd commented on how brilliant an approach it was and I wished she was our coach. The next year I got my wish.
Being coached by your mom was like being coached by your dad on crack. She ran us and pelted us with balls and ran us some more. To qualify for the team, we had to run 10km. I missed the Terry Fox run because I was working so I got my dad to drive me up the highway. We had been driving for a bit when he looked at me concerned, “Are you sure you want to do this?” My response, “Mrs. Smith said I had to.”
I felt bad for your mom that year. She was a competitive coach but we were not dedicated like she wished we would be. Soon after the unfortunate death of one of her former players, Sheldon Buffet, she had had enough and wanted to quit. I am not sure why she didn’t but she stuck with us. Better times came when we hosted the provincials. We at least gave her the effort she deserved.
Your mom was also a great teacher. She brought Macbeth to life and even had us act it out in class; even the tough guys in class were willing participants. Your mom was also smart enough to know when we had had enough. We made it half way through On the Beach when she looked at us and said, “Yep, I am done with this book too.” We never read another page.
However, your mom lacked tech savvy. She wanted to show us a video on Captain Bob Bartlett. She wheeled in the VCR but did not notice when Paul Gosse (below) took the remote. Naturally, the video did not cooperate and she could not figure out why. She ran for help and the problem seemed to be fixed. With impeccable timing, the video began to act up again just as the teacher left the room. We howled as it continued to fast forward or rewind but the greatest laughter was saved for your mom’s reaction when Paul presented her with the remote just before the bell.
That spring I got the news that your folks were leaving and going to Germany. No one was a real fan of that idea but it seemed like a logical move. I dropped by to help them pack and to chat and to chat some more. We all just wanted them to stay.
Since that time, your mom and dad get talked about all the time. Their impact was best described by Darren Payne who also played for both of them. One time as we chatted about them over beers, he simply said, “You know, I would just like to see them and show them what I have done and how I turned out. Just to let them know what a difference they made.”
So last Saturday, the Globe and Mail had a story about John and Shelley. My dad said he wasn’t 100% sure if it was your dad but your mom hasn’t aged a day. When I posted it, it instantly garnered many likes and some positive comments. It was a well written article but I thought you would like to know some of the prequel.
Sincerely,
Corey Crewe
PS Matthew (I believe you are older), you would have to be the funny one since you spent more time in Newfoundland.
PPS Andrew, I assume you are the smarter one because I once ran over your brother while I was refereeing a basketball game. It was a bad smack but he was tough back then.
