This is written in London, from a flat in the Bloomsbury, steps away from the

British Museum. Apparently I had to uproot my entire existence and come to

London to write a book about a guy from Saskatchewan. The why of this eludes

me at this moment.

I am following in the fine tradition of Richard Holmes, the amazing biogra-

pher. He begins Dr. Johnson and Mr. Savage by including their obituaries. Imita-

tion is the finest form of flattery, Mr. Holmes.

It has been demanded of me that I justify my decision to write a biography of

a “minor sports writer.” In response to this demand, in this chapter, I will use the

voice of others. None of these people thought that this man, this man I have come

to love, was a minor sports writer and would join me and my umbrage

The words of praise, shock, and adulation at the death of this fine man are

written on yellowed copies of a newspaper, the Regina Leader-Post of July 12,

1948. These clippings were slipped into my luggage by my cousin Gail. I was re-

turning to London from my mecca in January of 2016.

The first voice is that of Peter McLintock who wrote for the Regina Leader

Post of the funeral.

Under leaden skies Dave Dryburgh’s friends gathered in First Presbyterian

church Wednesday afternoon to bid a last farewell to the red-headed sports writer.

They came by the hundreds. From big cities and tiny hamlets in every part

of the west, they filed into the quiet church to pay their last respects.

Not all Dave’s friends could make it. For in his capacity as sports editor of the

Leader-Post for the past 16 years, he had made thousands of friends for himself

and for sport in every corner of the Dominion.

Those who were there were truly representative of Dave’s widespread inter-

ests and enthusiasms.. Many were brother newspapermen from Regina and other

cities. Many were prominent men in the sports world. But many others were peo-

ple from all professions, who had come in contact with him, perhaps in arguments

along “coffee row” or who knew him only through his dry-humored column.

Before a high bank of many-colored flowers, they heard Rev. N.D. Kennedy

remind them that Dave was a man who held to the high ideals of his exacting pro-

fession. His insistence on maintaining the highest standards in sport would be an

incentive to those who were left.

After the simple service, the funeral possession—six blocks long—made its

way slowly to Regina cemetery.

There, as the sun broke briefly through the western clouds, his friends said

goodby to Dave Dryburgh.

The next voice is that of Scotty Melville. I read it from a yellowed piece of

the Regina Leader Post newspaper. The real thing, not the Internet archive. It

makes it more real.

WINNIPEG (Special) As Dave Dryburgh’s personal friend for over 20 years

and his co-worker for over half that period, it is difficult to realize that he is gone.

Dryburgh was a great sports editor in every sense of the word. Possessor of

an analytical mind, his stories went far beyond the mere action and score of a

game and it was always a delight to pick up the paper the next day and read his

account of the happenings even though you had sat in on the same show yourself.

His comments in Sports Byways, in short, pithy paragraphs, brought out further

angles and made you wonder how he could glean so much from something that

could easily have been brushed aside as just another game.

He was at this best writing hockey, rugby football and curling, probably be-

cause they were the big sports in the western field. A soccer player in his younger

days, he know that sport backwards and could write a breezier account of a base-

ball game or a girls’ softball tilt than any of the others on the staff who covered

those sports regularly.

To my mind, the greatest stories he ever wrote were on the second Billy-

Conn-Joe Louis heavyweight fight which he covered for the Winnipeg Free Press,

The Regina Leader-Post and The Saskatoon Star-Phoenix.

He called the shot on the bout when the two boxers weighed in at noon be-

fore the fight and his account of the scrap topped anything the name writers of

the North American continent produced that night. And he still found time to do

a human interest piece about New York—nothing to do with sport—which would

have been full value to his papers even if there had been no heavyweight fight to

cover.

Behind the scenes he was a powerful factor in moulding the destinies of more

than one Saskatchewan team, senior and junior. He pulled no punches, was the

sort of guy who walked where angels fear to tread, and if he stepped on a few toes

it was usually all for the good. More often than not he was right.

He knew hockey in Saskatchewan as no other did; as secretary of the

S.A.H.A. he was Mr. Hockey to everyone from the president down. He made deci-

sions, the others backed them up.

As an editor, he insisted there was only one way of doing things. The correct

way. He did not tolerate mistakes and called for “clean” copy at all times, there

were few penciled corrections on his own stuff and he expected similar work from

others. He could whisk through copy in nothing flat and write heads that placed

plenty of punch just as quickly.

His Sports Byways column ranked with the best in Canada. In my opinion it

was one of the top three. He played no favorites in a realm where favoritism is of-

ten charged. Whenever necessary, his criticism was pungent, but he had the stuff

to back it up.

Dryburgh was a forceful character. He was always sure of himself and, of

course made enemies because of it. But he made friends, too. Around the office

we tabbed him as the “Iron Duke” and the name stuck to him through the years.

A lot of the “new” boys wondered about the name. They found out when he took

over as city editor for six months or so after the Second World War. He shook

some of them out of their shoes, but when he left—-sports was his first love—they

were sorry to see him go.

Dryburgh got great kick out of life. He liked the penny ante games on Satur-

day afternoons in the winter time; the little fishing trips in summer. He caught his

share of good hands at the former, but the fish usually were too much for him.

Perhaps his favorite pastime was trying to pick a winner at the races and he

often slipped down to Polo park when the ponies were running in Winnipeg to see

if he could outguess his good friend Lou Davies in selecting winners.

At Saturday night affairs he was right in the midst of things, singing and

dancing—he wasn’t very good at either—and was always the last man to call it

quits.

They’’ll miss the “Iron Duke” around The Leader-Post editorial office, they’ll

miss “Ice Berg” around at Gus Protopapas’s house of plenty when the boys gather

for a Saturday afternoon game… and around Saskatchewan and elsewhere they’ll

miss his printed word.

Sport lost a fine recorder when “30” came up for Dave Dryburgh.

The Saskatchewan Roughriders magazine entitled its piece “He Won’t Be On

the 55 Yard Line, A Tribute to Dave Dryburgh”.

No Dave Dryburgh won’t be up in the press box at Taylor Field this fall. He

won’t be there next year, not the years after, judging appraising, casting a critical

but friendly eye over the Roughriders and their opponents, as well as the juniors

coming up. For Dave is gone, but if they have a gridiron in that other land he’ll be

on the job.

As Hon. J.T. Brown, Chief Justice, Court of King’s Bench, had to say in an

article on the editorial page of the Leader, the day after Dave’s funeral:

The figures “30” in floral design were high over the centre of the floral display

in large red colors on a spotless white background. It spelt ‘finis’ for Dave. No

one believed it meant just that. In one sense, yes. In another, no. Dave’s last

sports article has been written—his last word has been spoken. But much that he

has written and said and done will be remembered and talked about in the days

still ahead and he himself will not soon be forgotten.

Probably no one is better fitted to judge Dave’s true worth, to his job and to

the sports world general, then Tom “Scotty” Melville who worked with him and is

now sitting in Dave’s chair in the Leader Post sports office. Here is what “Scotty

wrote the night of Dave’s death:” (The Roughrider article goes on to quote the

Melville story that appears above. The Roughrider article is accompanied by a

picture of my uncle, one I have not seen before. It shows him at the typewriter, at

work. He is not looking at the camera, but rather at the copy. He is dressed in a

suit and tie, looking most dapper. His hair is immaculate. He has a cleft on his

chin, a feature I have never before noticed. You can see his left hand. He wears a

wedding ring, and a square faced watch. I have always coveted a square faced

watch; my dream watch is a Cartier. If this book is published and sells I will buy a

Cartier watch with the proceeds. I will wait until 5:12 to set it for the first time.

That is because the Leader Post of July 12, 1948 reported: “Mr. Dryburgh’s watch

stopped at 5:12 p.m.” A single copy of that paper cost 5 cents. I wonder how

much the damn watch is going to cost. I am trying to make myself laugh and I am

wracked with tears and I sob as I write.

This article, which was ringed in black, solemnly announces that “It Won’t Be

the Same” The writing is not attributed to anyone.

The telephone on the sports desk rang Sunday evening but the guy who had

answered the phone a lot of times in the past 18 years or so wasn’t around to an-

swer it this time

“What’s this about Dave Dryburgh?” the voice at the other end of the phone

said. “It’s not true, is it? Dave was a personal friend of mine.” Unfortunately it was

true.

The phone rang again and again. Calls came from all over the province.

Surely it wasn’t true about Dave. Dave was too well known. He was too much a

part of the sport scene. Unfortunately, it was true.

The sport scene would not be the same any more. The man who called them

as he saw them with an almost legendary objective fearlessness would not be at the

sport desk any more.

There would be an empty seat in the press box up at Queen City Gardens.

The redhead who loved it wouldn’t be there. Mr. Hockey wouldn’t be there. And

because he would not be there it wouldn’t be the same any more.

In the brisk days of autumn when the air was cool with November and the

faithful were gathered together at the football field, Dave would not be there;

wouldn’t be there on the 50-yard line judging, appraising, casting a critical but

friendly eye.

When it was warm in summer and the faithful were gathered at Taylor field

to watch the ball game, Dave would not be there; wouldn’t be there in the press

box silently wondering why the coach didn’t call for a squeeze play. When the

curlers were pushing ’em down and the golfers were batting them out, Dave

wouldn’t be there.

Things wouldn’t be the same around the office. Dave wouldn’t be there. He

wouldn’t be bustling in with a cheerful word for everyone he passed en route. He

wouldn’t be in to the office to scan with meticulous care the sport page he loved

and that was his life.

Yet, it was probably about the way he would have liked it. He was on the job

to the end. He worked Saturday and there was a note on his desk for Monday.

He was on the job.

The man who loved sport and gave it every ounce there was in him to give

was gone. But, if they’ve got a baseball club in that other land, if they play hockey

or sport is part of the program, Dave will be there.

The 5 cent newspaper that gave me the time Uncle Dave’s watch stopped also

contains, on that front page, the comments of Al Ritchie, Regina Sportsman.

In the passing of Dave Dryburgh, the Canadian sports world has suffered its

greatest loss in recent years.

Our leading Canadian sports writers are outstanding: they rank with the best

in the world, Andy Lytle of the Toronto Star, Baz O”Meeara and Elmer Ferguson

of Montreal, Him Coleman of Toronto, and many others are brilliant writers, but

in my opinion Dave Dryburgh was the best of them all.

Dave had a grand vocabulary—a fine command of English, a unique and

pleasing style—a style all his own.

Despite the fact we had many a hot argument, I was at all times one of his

most ardent admirers. I favored his column above all other sports columns on the

continent. He was thoroughly conversant with every branch of athletic endeavor.

The pen pictures he gave the public of every game he covered outclassed all ef-

forts of any of his contemporaries. His clear, graphic portrayal in that sparkling,

graphic style was something we all fed on. It was part of our life. We developed a

terrific appetite for his utterance. We devoured his column like hungry kids and

were always sorry it wasn’t longer.

Dave was a versatile writer, classy and sparkling—he was growing more popu-

lar with each successive year, because his readers in ever increasing numbers were

beginning to realize that his honesty of purpose, his fairness and sportsmanship,

were commensurate with with the quality of his writing. It would be hard to pay

him any higher tribute.

It’s a pleasure for one who knew Dave really well to be in a position to say to

those who did not know him personally—here was a man who could not be com-

promised, who would never sidestep an issue, who always tried to be fair and hon-

est with every athlete, and with every club, with every sport; a man who had the

courage of his conviction; a man who was the personification of tolerance and fair

play.

Dave broke into the sports world via the soccer field. A brilliant player in his

teens he played for juvenile, junior and senior Regina teams, including the Royals,

Thistles and Wilson Harper’s famous Leader-Post team. He played right half

against a Scottish touring team when he was 20.

In those days the Regina newspaper had nobody assigned to cover soccer

games, so as well as playing in them, Dave wrote up the games for the next day’s

paper.

Father Athol Murray, Notre Dame College Wilcox, said:

A national disaster. Dismay will fill the sports world of Canada. With shocking

suddenness, Canada has lost a man whose fire, vision and drive vitalized every

outlet of that ancient Greek thing—sport—which has made our world. Dave was

different. He wasn’t just a sports writer; he lived the game he wrote. Many a time

his reader could catch the very atmosphere and feel of the fight. We’ll miss him.

Hundreds of western boys owe him their career. They must not forget his name.

The July 12, 1948 Regina Leader Post chronicles Wild Bill’s thoughts back

then:

This is a very great shock to all of us. Dave Dryburgh, besides being one of

my best friends, was very closely associated with myself and the boys of the Regi-

na Capitals hockey club. I always found Dave a real sportsman and a man who

deeply loved his home town of Regina. He would go far out of his way to assist all

sports bodies in creating a good record and name for our city. All Regina, and

sportsmen throughout the Dominion, will miss Dave deeply. The sympathy of

Mrs. Hunter and my self goes out to Mrs. Dryburgh.

William Dickenson “Wild Bill” Hunter went on from his 1948 comments to

become a famous Canadian hockey player, general manager and coach. He was

involved in hockey, football, baseball, softball and curling, but he is best known for

founding the Western Hockey League. He was awarded the Order of Canada in

2000 and inducted into the Canadian Sports Hall of Fame in 2011.

This is my brother Denis’ story.

BUSINESS CLASS, CANADIAN AIRLINES

Canadian Airlines Flight from Toronto to Edmonton

Business Class

February 22, 1994

Flight Attendant: May I take your coat, Mr. Dryburgh?

Passenger: You wouldn’t be related to Dave Dryburgh, would you?

Denis Dryburgh: I am! He was my uncle.

Passenger: He was the greatest sports writer this country has ever seen! him well!

I knew

The passenger was William Dickenson (“Wild Bill”) Hunter. I later learn do-

ing research for this book that Uncle Dave is the guy that gave “Wild Bill” his

moniker.

Father Murray, we have not forgotten his name. Perhaps the head of my cre-

ative writing program had, but not any more.

But as I type these words there is a back story. The trip to Canada in Decem-

ber/January of 2016 was planned with the efficiency of the D-Day invasion of

Normandy. I would be traveling from Edmonton, Alberta to Regina

Saskatchewan via Greyhound bus. Regina is the mecca as Uncle Dave centered

his adult life in that city. He is buried there, as you have learned. I decide to email

the Regina Leader-Post, tell them of my impending visit and see if I can get

someone from the paper to meet with me. Will Chabun, a reporter with the paper,

responds and we have a lengthly email correspondence. He is so incredibly help-

ful. Then when I am in Regina he meets with me, bringing a the newspaper file

with him. After our meeting he keeps working on things, trying to find someone

that might have met or worked with my uncle. He hits pay dirt (whatever that ex-

pression might mean). The timing could not have been more perfect. He connects

me to Cam Hutchinson, the editor of the Saskatoon Star-Phoenix who has an

employee, a certain Ned Powers who Will believes worked with my uncle. Will

writes and asks me how things are going. I respond with this email.

Will,

So what I am going to do is to copy and paste from an email that I send to the

Niece’s Nexus. They are a cobbled together group of my female Dryburgh cousins

– I cobbled them to help me find Uncle Dave. Pat lives in Australia, Faye in Regi-

na, Geri, Gail and Carol-Ann in Vancouver. When I started this project they were

strangers to me, and many to one another. I have now met (and bonded, in the

finest sense of the word) with everyone but Pat. As you will read I emailed them

about Ned. None of this would be possible without you. Faye in a responsive

email asks about you and your fine hand in all of this. It is there, it is core!

My email to my cousins, the Niece’s Nexus:

You guys!!!

I found somebody who worked with Uncle Dave. Somebody that was working

at the paper the night that he died!! His name is Ned Powers, he is still writing. He

is 86, he is willing to help out!! It is a miracle I think. Well not a miracle as I see

Uncle Dave’s hand in all of this. I am going to copy and paste from the email that

I sent Ned this morning. I got his email last night telling me about his presence

and incidentally mentioning that he knew my father, that is why I address that is-

sue at the end of my email to him.

Gail you were so incredibly instrumental in all of this because you gave me

the yellowed copies of the Leader Post and typing from them gave me such a sense

of immediacy, putting me back there in a way. Tears were streaming down my

face as I typed…and then to get Ned’s email. WOW!! And Carol-Ann you are core

to all of this!!! Anyway – here goes –

“Ned,

My goodness, I do not know where to start! All of this is just so unbelievable

– unbelievable that I should “find’”you exactly when I did . The day before yester-

day I was typing from yellowed copies of the Regina Leader Post, the accolades of

so many that had been gathered the evening of Uncle Dave’s death. Typing from

the yellowed copies made it more immediate than it would have been through the

archive on the Internet. Then yesterday I get your email and learn that you were

there that night. How in the world did you all manage to put out that paper in one

night, in one day? I am struck at the profundity of the writing of many. Al Ritchie

being one, Father Murray being another. All of that work, that profound testimo-

ny to my uncle was gathered together with such limited technology compared to

the magic we have today. I find it astounding.

I guess we could start there by telling me of your memories of that evening. I

imagine that everyone must have been in shock. I imagine my uncle to have had

such a presence, I see him as being larger than life. (Incidentally I was alive at the

time and actually in Regina but I have no memory of ever meeting him but I have

no memories of my childhood so I could have).

So if you don’t mind – maybe we could start from there. I am so happy I found

you. I want to jump on an airplane and come and talk to you. At this moment I

cannot because of my responsibilities relating to my program at school. Now that

is ironic, the sole aim of my program at school is to write a biography of my un-

cle?!? But no time for irony!

As you may have surmised, Alex Dryburgh of North Battleford, is my Dad.

Surmise, by my first name. He lives in Edmonton, will be 95 next month, has de-

mentia. He is the only one of the eight Dryburgh boys of that generation still liv-

ing.”

So I did some closing words to Ned and then sent it off.

These are my closing words to you all and sending it off. By the way Faye (and

Gail) – yesterday I made that fantastic lentil soup from Nick’s in Regina. It is so, so

good. Gail got included in that because I made it when i was staying with her. Bye

for now. Alexis

The cousins write back. They are amazed and joyous.

This email is from cousin Pat who lives in Australia.

What a treasure of a find!! How incredible that you not only found Ned Pow-

ers but that he knew Uncle Dave and was there with everyone the night our uncle

left this world for his next plain of existence……I’m sure he is guiding you all along

the way – not because he is vain but is proud of what you are achieving. Uncle

Dave was a reporter…..and what is a reporter? Nothing less than a Detective and

you as a writer Alexis, are also a Detective and you have found some incredible in-

formation from sources that in just a few more short years would probably be gone

forever

Sorry Girls…..but I really really don’t want the Lentil soup recipe…..yuck!!

LOL

From cousin Faye, Regina

Well, the writing gods are definitely smiling on you lately.

I have never heard of Mr. Powers, so did an Internet search to see if he is still

in Regina, and found that he has been in Saskatoon for many, many years. Quite

the man – CTV Saskatoon’s Citizen of the Year a couple of years ago, too. I’m

sure he will be very helpful to you as a source of first-hand information on some-

one that none of us ever knew. How did you find out about him?

They are so supportive. Rather than being strangers to one another we are

uniting as a family. Uncle Dave is the Dad; I guess I am the Mom. Neither Dave

nor I had children, so I guess it is prophetic. (weird word that but it works

actually). Alexis

Will responds: “This is wonderful! Words fail me at this instant!”

I send all this off to the Niece’s Nexus.

Sent this email to Will, the Regina Leader-post guy. I am forwarding his re-

sponse.

Words failing a reporter?! I must be great. Cuz, a

Sent from my iPhone

Geri, a niece, writes back:

Hi all…Alexis all this news from you is so exciting you are amazing! Keep writ-

ing girl. As for the paper clippings Gail gave you I remember them well reading

them often over the years. All the info from all of you is fantastic. Pat I am with

you on the lentil soup…

But there is a back story to this back story because in the meantime Ned and I

are corresponding.

Hi Alexis: I am enclosing some memories about my short life with Dave and

how he influenced me. I got started and rambled on. As I say, most is inconse-

quential to what you are doing but it was the best way of explaining my working

days with him. What happened then could never happen today. You would have to

get a journalism degree to get in the door. I’ve always respected journalism de-

grees but I often found some who just came off the streets and succeeded. If you

want anything else, let me know. I really think the column he wrote before the

Louis-Conn fight was one of the classics. For now, that’s my trip down memory

lane. Good luck and be in touch if you need some help. I went to some baseball

meetings when I was with the StarPhoenix and your dad was representing the

North Battleford Beavers. I always enjoyed his company. Ned

Memories of Dave Dryburgh

I’m gathering that by your mention of typing from yellowed pages that you

have a copy of Dave’s obituary and Scotty’s tribute in hand.

I’m not sure what happened exactly in the office that night. At that point, I

was in high school, covering games whenever they happened, and going to the of-

fice almost every night except Saturday. I would often go to the office, usually af-

ter supper and stay until about 10:30 p.m. I found out about his death when I ar-

rived in the office. The way the obituary reads, it seems like it was a collaboration

of reporters – one learning about the accident at the lake, another writing Dave’s

history, another collecting some tributes. There was no byline on the story. And

that meant collecting some resources together because, normally on a Sunday

night, there might be one weekend reporter, maybe a photographer, a night editor,

and whoever was hanging around the sports desk. I can’t pinpoint who was on

staff that night but they did an awesome job. (In the history of newspapers, some

obituaries were prepared in advance but there was no way of knowing that Dave,

at 39, would die that early and have something prepared on him.) My own feeling

was one of sadness and sorrow because Dave was the person who took a real

chance on me when I was 13 years old and that would have been a remarkable

gamble in those days. On that night when I got home, I wondered how long it

would take me to accept the fact that he was gone and how much sleep would I

get.

I will share with you Dave’s gamble. I was a boy living in Eaglesham, in north-

ern Alberta, where we didn’t even have any sports activity, except summertime

baseball tournament. I grew up listening to Hockey Night in Canada on the radio

and as my dad saw my interest grow in sports, he subscribed to the Edmonton

Journal where I could read and learn. It came a day late and I can’t imagine how

we could afford it. I’d write my versions of the stories and got a chance to write a

weekly column for the Grand Prairie Herald-Tribune. After I turned 13 in March,

1943, my dad had already approached George Mackintosh, the sports editor of

the Edmonton Journal, and he promised a job as an office boy when I moved into

Edmonton to go to high school. That never happened because on June 13, our

house burned down and I lost two baby sisters and my mother in the fire. My

mother, who came from Ireland to teach school, was the writer in the family. She

had a brother, Christy McDevitt, who was a well-known journalist in Vancouver.

My dad and we three boys moved to Regina and somehow my dad went to visit

Dave at The Leader-Post, I got a tryout. The first football game I covered, I wrote

it in what we call Canadian Press style, short, sweet and just the facts. I soon

learned I had to go much beyond that. I was still in Grade 8 that first year. I cov-

ered high school sports, namely football, basketball, hockey, track and field and

baseball, for six years. In the summer months, I spent a lot of time covering soft-

ball games at Regina’s Central Park which was five blocks south of the Leader-

Post building.

While hanging around the LP, Dave trusted me enough to type up the baseball

box scores every game he covered. They’d be tabulated in the score book and I

would type them out. One night, I made a mistake and accidentally charged

catcher Ken Charlton with two errors. Of course, Ken raised the issue with Dave

and I got a strongly-worded reprimand. When you made a mistake with Dave, you

didn’t soon forget it and it is a lesson that has stayed with me all my life. He was

tough that way but I believed I was learning from somebody and learning by ex-

ample. He wanted the facts right, he wanted the stories to be breezy and brief. In

most of my early days in writing sports, I was the reporter – the person who would

set the facts right and make a piece of history. We described the play leading up to

the goals, the touchdowns, the hits and runs. Seldom did we quote the coaches or

the players (who all know the clichés) and the bottom line is that WE WERE AL-

WAYS THERE. I doubt if today’s local TV and radio sportscasters seldom get to

the games. TV usually installs cameras at sports events and the sportscasters can

sit back in the studio where they become more of a technician than a sportscaster.

The benefit of being at the games, as Dave was and Scotty Melville was and I was,

is that you built a network of friends and that network allows you to become bet-

ter-informed about teams, players and events.

So Dave was gone by the time I joined The Leader-Post on a full-time basis in

June, 1949. Scotty became my mentor. My primary beats were the Regina Pats

hockey team and junior football. Scotty had high hopes for me. But then one day

in April, 1953, I received an offer from The StarPhoenix and I jumped. Sister pa-

pers usually didn’t do that kind of thing. I think, and I often told Scotty, that it was

nothing personal and I needed to move away from home. Scotty and I stayed in

touch, he sending me stories, almost until the day he died. The LP didn’t suffer.

They have had many good sports reporters since.

I was in StarPhoenix sports until December, 1959, then went to work for a TV-

radio station for almost five years, and then came back to the SP,. When I came

back, there was no room in sports and I worked as an assistant city editor, the en-

tertainment editor for 25 years, and editor of the Sunday Sun for six years. I re-

tired in 1992, stayed on two and a half days a week at The Sun, was fired in the

big Conrad Black demolition of the empire in 1996, but came back six months

later to write features on part-time. I spent over 52 years with the StarPhoenix, ei-

ther fulltime or part-time.

Much if this is inconsequential to what you need. But I often imagine what my

life would have been like if Dave hadn’t given a tryout, without a strong reason,

and if Dave and Scotty hadn’t been my mentors. I learned more from those two

than I would have learned at journalism schools.

If you have read Scotty’s tribute to Dave, he was all of that and more. And

what was tremendous about his career, he never worked in an era of five-day

weeks. He never worried about days off and if the sports coverage demanded sev-

en days a week, he was the one to do it. He spent the good part of the day in the

office, Monday through Friday, and covered games after supper. That was his ded-

ication to sports and to the newspaper industry.

I think and I mull things over and I send this thank you email to Ned.

Ned,

I begin my thankful email to you by copying some of my earlier writing –

when I first began my quest to find Uncle Dave. I do so because your email an-

swered many of the questions I had about my hero. It solidifies many of my im-

pressions.

HE DIED YOUNG, I DIDN’T

Uncle Dave and I; we are polar opposites. I want to find something in

common. He died young. I didn’t. He was a guy. I am not. He did not graduate

from high school. I am ridiculously over schooled. His mother died young. Mine

lingered forever. He was athletic, played serious soccer. I could ice skate a little,

but lived in ice free California most of my life. He was married to the same

woman all of his short life; she was apparently a ding bat. I have been married

three times; my husbands’ sanity has never been at issue. Uncle Dave and I do

have one thing in common, neither of us had kids. But can you base a relationship

on a negative? Lord knows I have tried.

IV

MAKE BELIEVE

He is becoming the repository of all of the good feelings about me. I

see something about myself that I like; I say Uncle Dave had that. I do it the other

way around too. I see in him a trait that I admire and I look for it in myself. It is all

make believe of course. But make believe is fine as long as it does not take the

place of reality and as long as it does not hurt anyone. Here are the ways we are

alike. We are both first born, outspoken, kid free, smart (I admit it), nobody’s fool

(I like to think), brave (if need be), ambitious, hardworking, and not overly at-

tached to our families. The list will hopefully go on.

Back to now in this email. So one of the real mysteries for me was to try and

figure out how Uncle Dave was able to write as he did, seemingly without intricate

schooling. You answered that by telling me about your life and I have reason to be-

lieve that his experiences were similar to yours. You and Uncle Dave could just get

in there and do it. The Regina Leader-Post fostered the two of you. What a won-

derful legacy! As I alluded to in my writing I am “ridiculously over schooled.”

Creative writing programs are a joke. My “creative nonfiction” program allows me

to be in London on a student visa, that a marvelous opportunity. But otherwise,

NOT. I have never had the curse/opportunity to make a living from my writing

so I do not have that rough and tumble experience, which I am sure makes men

out of boys.

Your descriptions also confirmed for me the industriousness of Dave Dryburgh.

He worked so hard, he loved it but he gave it his all. Probably to the determent of

his marriage and probably to the determent of his attachment to this family but it

was a choice he made. No one could ever fault him for the difficult choice he

made. Uncle Dave was interviewed for a sporting magazine in 1948 and that is

one of the treasures that I have managed to uncover. If you like I will forward it to

you. The article made clear that he wanted to “die in the saddle.” Knowing that

he died doing what he loved gives me some comfort. Somebody famous, an atheist

said: “I don’t know God, but I miss him.” I feel that way about my uncle. I never

knew him but I ache for him. Thank you for making him real for me. Alexis

This is the end of this chapter almost. Humor raises its ugly head. Larry,

cousin Faye’s husband sends this email.

On Feb 2, 2016, at 3:10 PM, lsheffer@ wrote:

What I want to know is, if you get so emotional that you are reduced to sob-

bing while typing about a dead guy, what happens when you write a romance nov-

el with lots of steamy sex sections in it………..?

From: Alexis McBride

Date: 2/2/2016 10:11:38 AM

To: lsheffer@sasktel.net

Subject: Re: What I want to know……..

Jerk off, what else? A

Crazy cousin-in-law

Thanks! From you I know that is an incredible compliment and I am sure that

the field is not crowded. I am probably your only crazy cousin-in-law – not that

anyone would want (or need) more than one. Alexis