George Reed was the rare person who could elicit a spontaneous standing ovation by simply, unobtrusively walking into a room.
I saw it happen, multiple times, and it was as amazing as the man himself.
George always looked surprised, bordering on embarrassed, by the attention and adulation he did not court but routinely received.
Not for a moment, in all the time we were blessed to know him, did the Saskatchewan Roughriders icon perceive himself to be a big deal — which, of course, he was.
Over a remarkable life that spanned 84 years, less a day, he was recognized and revered to an extent that few people can imagine, let alone handle.
A mere enumeration of all the awards, achievements and accolades, in one voluminous file, could slow down the Internet.
This is someone, remember, who in 1978 received our country’s highest civilian honour — the Order of Canada.
And — get this — he was recognized in that manner for reasons that didn’t have anything to do with football, and that had everything to do with his tireless contributions to charities and the community.
Some of the initiatives were well-known, but he always found time (how, I have no idea) to help out with, say, the Massey School Home and School Association.
First and foremost, he was a proud husband (to Angie), father (to Keith, Vicki and Georgette) and friend (to everyone from Ron Lancaster to a starstruck fan).
It was like interacting with royalty and, as many times as it was my privilege to be around him, that little voice inside my head never stopped spluttering, “That’s George Reed!”
It started in the summer of 1972, when I was eight years old and No. 34 was in his 10th season as a Roughrider.
I was attending the Hicke Brothers Hockey School. Before the first session, I toted my porous goaltending equipment into the lobby of the Kinsmen Arena and saw (gasp!) George Reed, sitting inside the office.
Just like that, anything pertaining to hockey — ostensibly the reason for my presence — was unimportant.
After all, I was just a few feet away from GEORGE REED!
“Go up to him and get an autograph,” Mom said, as I hesitated. “Go on!”
Tentatively, I made my way toward the office and was greeted with a robust “Hi buddy!” He instantly put me at ease.
More than a half-century has elapsed since my goals-against average approached the century mark, but I still have a vivid recollection of that first encounter with the greatest fullback ever.
Sadly, other “where were you when …?” moments also come flooding back, with precision.
Sept. 18, 2008: Mom called, in tears, just after 9 a.m. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard,” she said, “but Ron Lancaster passed away.”
Oct. 1, 2023: Arielle Zerr, the Roughriders’ Director of Communications, phoned at 3:55 p.m., and with her voice breaking notified me that George had passed away earlier in the day.
Neither of us really knew what to say after that.
I am still at a loss for words — nearly 500 words into this column, mind you — because there is so much to say.
Where do you start? How do you stop?
George? Well, he was impossible to stop on third-and-short.
My fervent football fandom began in 1971, so I am fortunate to be able to recall the last five seasons of George’s playing career — and the final half of Ronnie’s tenure in his No. 23 jersey.
It generally gnaws at me to be old(er), but one benefit of pushing 60 is that I was around to see the Ronnie and George Show … alternately known as the George and Ronnie Show.
I felt it. I loved it. I lived for it. I still miss it.
Growing up in Regina, in the pre-cable days, we had two TV channels. The list of viewing options was short and attention spans were far longer than they are today.
As far back as I could even identify a football, I knew there was a George and I knew there was a Ronnie.
Their kids were, or would eventually become, schoolmates at Massey School, or at Campbell Collegiate.
We all knew exactly where they lived — the Lancasters on Emerald Park Road; the Reeds on Elgin Road, behind the grocery store and our favourite hangout, Larry’s Confectionery.
By day, George worked for Molson Brewery and Ronnie taught and coached at Central Collegiate.
On weeknights and weekends, they were Roughriders — the best we have ever seen.
It is impossible to mention one without citing the other, which explains why No. 23 and No. 34 are honoured with neighbouring statues outside Mosaic Stadium, the address of which is 1734 George Reed Way.
Everyone, everywhere, should emulate the George Reed Way.
Be polite. Be respectful. Be modest. Be authentic.
George was all those things, and so much more.
On top of that, he carried the football for 16,116 yards and 134 touchdowns over 13 seasons, exceeding 1,000 rushing yards 11 times.
He was the first Roughrider to be named the CFL’s Most Outstanding Player, after amassing a franchise-record 1,768 rushing yards — including 268 in one game — in 1965.
He was a member of the Roughriders’ first Grey Cup-winning team, in 1966.
He was often taped up from his neck to his feet, but he refused to leave a game, even for a play.
“Let George do it” was the default philosophy back then.
Nobody did it better, in any surrounding.
Which takes me back to the standing ovations …
Between 2004 and 2018, as Sports Editor of the Regina Leader-Post, I routinely collected and sold sports memorabilia for charity.
Each year, we would purchase a handful of tables at a collectibles show and have a wonderful time, with several thousand dollars in proceeds going to Raise-a-Reader or, later, the Leader-Post Christmas Cheer Fund.
One year, for a change, we decided to ask a prominent local athlete to appear at the show and sign autographs.
The short list consisted of George Reed, George Reed and George Reed.
I called him and asked if, by any chance, he would be available for an hour on the appointed Sunday.
“No,” he said, as I began to gurgle.
There was a pause, as I pondered the “what now?” and “er, thanks, anyway” stage of the conversation.
Then he broke into a chuckle and said, “I’ll do TWO hours.”
We settled on an uncompensated appearance that was to begin at 12 noon at the Conexus Arts Centre.
The lineup outside the Jacqui Schumiatcher Room, located in the lower level, extended far out the door, all the way up the stairs, and into the parking lot.
Necks craned and seconds ticked away as people held jerseys, photos, cards and virtually every other form of Roughriders memorabilia.
Everyone was waiting for the first George sighting.
Suddenly, there he was, walking down the stairs and toward our tables.
Everyone stood up, as if ejector seats had simultaneously been activated, and saluted him with a warm, extended ovation.
He somewhat sheepishly acknowledged the applause, shook hands with everyone in our delegation (including my gushing mother), sat down, and grabbed one of the Sharpies that we had placed at his table.
He greeted the first person in line and, as was the case at the Kinsmen Arena in 1972, said, “Hi buddy!”
He signed and chatted and posed for pictures, making everyone in his presence feel like the most important person in the room.
Kids whose parents were too young to have seen George play were in awe of the nice man behind the table.
People who did witness the Ronnie and George Show, first-hand, shared recollections of games played, yards gained … you name it.
If anyone wanted a photo — and it seemed like everyone wanted a photo! — George didn’t simply sit behind the table and wait to be approached.
He stood up, put his arm around the person beside him, and beamed. Then he would thank everyone for their time.
I remember standing to the side, marvelling at it all, and asking myself: “Is this really happening?”
George was in his early 70s by then, his playing days more than half a lifetime ago, but the stamina he demonstrated in green and white was still a trademark.
Beforehand, I had been a little nervous. OK, a lot nervous.
In some ways, I was still the eight-year-old kid who had apprehensively approached George Reed (!) while toting goalie gear that was, alas, unmarked by pucks.
Anxiety talking …
What if something goes wrong? And what if the (gulp) malfunction is my fault? I could never live with myself, or live it down, if … if … if … if …
To my enduring relief, everything went according to plan — except for one thing.
George didn’t sign autographs for two hours, as agreed upon.
Instead, he stayed for 2½.
