Momma’s boy that I was and remain, most of my early memories revolve around my mother.

But the memories I have of the 1976 Montreal Games are different; it’s one of the first times I remember doing something with just me and my father.

Why my mother didn’t come with us I don’t remember.

Four years older, my brother was taking a summer photography course and had a class scheduled for that day.

Even though I was only eight years old, I somehow grasped the historic significance of the Games. I thought my brother was nuts, absolutely nuts, for passing up a chance to attend the Olympics for something as dumb as a camera class.

The build-up had been intense. Sometime earlier, we had taken our Volkswagen camper to stake out the torch run.

My dad was so intent on getting a good shot he wound up putting his tripod on the roof of the van. People in the crowd glanced up and gave him odd looks, but the photos were magnificent. I guess we know where my brother got it from.

Although I knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, I was only dimly aware of the politics surrounding the Games. I remember nothing of Jean Drapeau’s pregnancy; what I do recall is that our family won $100 in the Olympic lottery, a staggering sum to boggle my young mind.

Montreal was a sports-mad city in a sports-mad era. The Summit Series was still fresh in everyone’s mind. It seemed the Habs won the Stanley Cup every spring; even cooler, Pete Mahovlich lived a few doors down from our family.

Like every other kid in Canada, I had watched the Games on television in the previous days — on our new colour (!) television. That was the year of gymnast Nadia Comaneci and high jumper Greg Joy.

Being a fan of shows like Space: 1999 and Star Trek, I loved the space-age design of Olympic Stadium.

What stands out most vividly in my mind isn’t the smells or sights, but the sound of the place.

After we sat down, I noticed a loud rumble passing through the stadium periodically. My dad and I exchanged theories for the noise, the best one being that a subway train was passing by nearby.

Gradually I figured it out. The plastic seats we sat on folded down; when you stood up, they snapped back because they were held in place by a coil or spring. Every time you stood up to get a closer look at the action on the track below, there was a loud thwack.

But what happened when, say, half the spectators in the stadium stood up at the same time? All those thwacks together made the rumble; it was like a burst of manmade thunder going off every so often all around us.

The things that amaze a child!

Then, when we got back to the car, a downer: My father discovered someone had stolen his sunglasses. Even though our trip ended on a sour note, that day remained stuck in my head for a long time.

The effect of the Olympics on Montreal lasted far longer. I remember after that my parents gave me a black plush toy, the Olympic beaver mascot, which I took to bed with me every night.

I don’t know if I ever dreamt of the Olympics, but when the summer Games roll around every four years I still think of that day I spent with my father.