Jim Rourke will not be remembered as a cautious man. “Jimbo” was such a character, he was what my pal Dan from Appalachia would call a “formidable personage.” This stentorian baritone used to belt out all verses of “Oh Canada” on the bench—periodically banging his stick on the boards whenever someone scored a goal or Tim “the Body Beautiful” made a big save in net. He was what is known in the hockey vernacular as a “grinder”—not a particularly good stickhandler, shooter, or necessarily even a decent skater. Jim loved to mix it up right in front of the other team’s goalie, giving the team a boost out of sheer enthusiasm, grit, and humor. When his opposite wing Andy thought he’d lost his wedding ring Jimbo offered his “slightly used” model right on the spot (He’d been recently divorced after 20 years of marriage). He told us a story in the parking lot as we put down a few High Lifes out of the cooler in the back of his 1981 El Camino. He and his Rugby team used to take a shot of Jack Daniels immediately before each game so the other team would think they were drunk in the scrum. Jim led team Kwyjibo in penalty minutes but refereed for the kids and even had his time behind the bench as coach of his son’s club. One time as team captain I had to assess him a 24-pack penalty for demonstrating the roughing penalty on an opposing player in the face-off circle. “Hey #57! Nice crosscheck back there…”Jimbo:“That wasn’t a penalty…Now That’s a penalty!” We laughed about that incident for awhile although that night it got him in deep with his girlfriend Margo who was watching from the otherwise-deserted bleachers. The night of his death Jim was planning to stay in a hotel because he was scheduled to leave at 6:00 a.m. the next morning on a business trip. This minor setback was not going to stop him from doing what he loved second-most to playing hockey—bullshitting with the rest of the team in the parking lot. He was the only one that could get the damned gas grill to work and he always had a well-timed wisecrack to keep us from dwelling on our many embarrassing losses. I’m not sure if Kwyjibo will continue as a team without people like Jim. He was an exuberant character, a “role-player” who loved the game and its weird foreign culture. He was also a friend to every player on the team. May Jim be buried in his Fighting Irish sweatshirt—a uniform that fit him better than a business suit. We’ll miss you Jim! —“Scratch”
Give 'Em the Lumber! 
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