The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 5

The psychologist, Frida, had regained her composure. Her look was "ice woman" again. Bobby waited for her to answer his question, but she did not, so he repeated it.

"Are you Frida from Moose Jaw? My first love?"

Her lip trembled and Bobby knew, even before she nodded.

"I should have told you. It was a long time ago and I thought it would not matter, but it does, so I do not think it would be appropriate for this to continue."

"I understand," said Bobby.

The bottom, this is it how it feels.

The span between them, as Bobby stood and Frida remained seated behind her tidy metal desk, filled with hundreds of unspoken questions.

Bobby managed to voice one. "Were you pregnant?"

She tried to remain expressionless, but the attempt only exposed her vulnerability. Bobby felt like holding her close and sharing a good cry.

Finally she nodded. "My mother took me to Seattle and I had an abortion. We moved to Vancouver. My mother got a job teaching at the art school."

Bobby's eyes were swamped with tears. "I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry."

Frida spoke her next words carefully, as if they had been well rehearsed. "I want to tell you something else. The stories about my sleeping with the whole team, before you, were not true. I had seen you in the first game, sitting on the bench, looking so lonely and I developed a huge crush. One of my friends knew another player on the team and I asked him if I could meet you. Our first date, when we slept together, I was a virgin."

Frida stood up and opened the door to her office as an instruction for Bobby to leave. He stood slowly, as the ache in every sinew of his body grew into deep malaise.

A memory invaded his soul as he left Frida's office. It was something a goofy goalie said back in the early 1970s. It was around the time "A Love Story" was at movie houses.

Being a star means never having to say you're sorry.

But what happens when fame is over and it's time to take roll call in the real world?

Being a star means never having to say you're sorry.

Bobby was officially no longer a star, because he was very, very sorry.

***

Bobby couldn't help himself. Despite being only a few minutes away from a meeting with Gordon Anderson regarding his financial future, all he could think of was Frida. Was it fate that took him to her office? Or was it some Supreme Being sending Bobby a message that he would pay a price for every bad thing he had done. Wasn't that what Sister Bernadette had told them in Grade Three catechism?

First, his son Mike and now Frida. His life was shit. He was shit. Bobby felt like hopping onto a plane to Las Vegas and disappearing into some cheap hotel, where his only daily duty would be to enter a smoke-filled casino where the crap tables were either hot or not and the booze poured freely. He could take all his money and move there and spend the rest of what passed for his life, drunk and high on a gambler's rush.

It was a comforting thought that was interrupted by a knock on his office door.

"Hey Bobby, how are you?" said Gordon Anderson as he entered and headed straight for the black leather couch that had been a long-time resident in Bobby's ground-floor Coliseum office. Anderson, a fiftyish sleaze bag who dressed like a 20-year-old rock star and covered his balding head with a jet-black rug, was never one to wait for an invitation to do anything.

He looked around Bobby's office as he sat down.

"Thought I told you to redecorate this place," said Anderson.

"Like I said the last time you spoke your words of wisdom, I got better things to spend my money on," said Bobby. "And, since this office was good enough for the general manager of the Vancouver Canucks, who play in the National Hockey League, it should be good enough for me, the general manager of a Western Hockey League team."

Anderson performed his signature toothy smile that Bobby understood was really a sneer.

My partner. Self-satisfied, arrogant bastard. He was probably a schoolyard bully when he was ten and still is at fifty.

"Just ask me, if you need more cash," said Anderson.

"I'm asking," said Bobby. "That's why we're having this meeting. I need some more money, but not to redecorate this office."

"A successful business needs to look successful, Bobby," said Anderson. "I told you that. Remember?"

"You've told me lots of things, Gordon. Some useful, some not," said Bobby. "Each of us has our own expertise. I'll respect that, if you do."

Bobby could see the muscles on Anderson's face tighten as his smile/sneer became a smile/grimace.

"Honesty. No bullshit, straight from the heart, that's you. Right Bobby? I appreciate that in a partner. Makes it clear where I stand."

As he said the word "stand" Anderson splayed himself across the couch.

"So, tell me what you need, partner," said Anderson, his hands tucked under his head as he spoke.

How the hell did I get mixed up with this low life, thought Bobby. It was the damn bank's fault. Just over eight million of his own dollars he had invested in buying the team, paying three year's worth of lease up front on four PNE buildings, redoing the roof of the Coliseum and then the bank said no to a loan. No dough because he had already spent all his capital. But Bobby needed another million or so for working capital and his associate coach Brad Bower, showed up one day with Anderson, who supposedly was the perfect match because of his background in the music business. "Sell him half of the concert side of the business," Brad had said. It sounded like a good idea, but like so many "good ideas" this didn't quite turn out the way he had planned. Sure, Bobby got his million, but he also got a partner who, it turns out, had been honored with a lifetime trading ban from the Vancouver Stock Exchange — and that was, by far, the best that could be said about him. And Anderson wanted 25 per cent of the whole operation, not just half of the concert side.

"I've got the numbers here," Bobby said, holding up a few sheets of paper.

"I asked Bill, the accountant you told me to use, to be liberal with the expenses and conservative with the cash flow. You'll see we're actually in pretty good shape."

Bobby offered the papers to Anderson, but he would not take them.

"The bottom line, Bobby, the bottom line," said Anderson. "How much?"

"Five hundred thousand. A loan to be paid back in three months. It's mostly for advertising and promotions. Stuff that will more than pay for itself over a couple of years. We're trying for seven thousand season tickets, which will generate over two million plus almost a million in concessions. But the deal will be nothing to pay until we've played ten games. Nothing to pay if you aren't completely entertained."

"Is that wise?" said Anderson. "People can watch ten games and then stiff you."

"So long as we're entertaining and competitive, I don't think that's a worry."

"I've always found the term "so long as" very worrisome when it comes to business," said Anderson.

"Let me worry about the hockey," said Bobby.

"It's not the hockey that I am worried about," said Anderson. "It is my area of expertise that concerns me — the money. Two weeks before the season is about to begin and you're short of working capital. That hardly seems like a sign of competent financial management."

"The numbers are all here," said Bobby, who again tried to hand Anderson the papers. "We can easily pay back the five hundred thousand, plus interest, in three months."

Anderson sat up. "And what would you offer me as collateral?" he said.

This transaction was headed exactly where Bobby feared.

"I was hoping the collateral would be my lease on these buildings and our cash flow."

"I don't think that would be good business practice," said Anderson. "I think if you checked with another financial institution you would find that those would be unacceptable terms."

He spoke the words "another financial institution" as if he was a Boston investment banker.

"Are you saying no to the loan?" said Bobby.

As Anderson stood up, Bobby noticed his rug was slightly askew.

"I'm saying my terms are these: I'll give you five hundred thousand. On December 1st, you'll pay me $550,000."

Bobby did some calculations in his head.

"Geez, that's 40 per cent yearly interest."

"And," Gordon interrupted him. "If you fail to pay by the agreed date, I get half your interest in the Totems."

"Half? That would put me at 37.5% and you at 62.5%."

Bobby felt his world was coming to an end.

"I put up $8,000,000 for 37.5% and you put up $1,500,000 for 62.5%? Is that fair?"

The grotesque scumbag smiled.

"Fair? That's an interesting concept," Anderson said, as he headed for the door. "Why worry, if your plan is as foolproof as you say?"

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked back at Bobby.

"And you always have the option of looking elsewhere for capital. Call me tonight and let me know what you decide."

The man had mastered the art of a dramatic exit.

Bobby's heart was racing. He sat down to take his pulse, but then realized a heart attack would be a welcome development in his miserable life. He put his elbows on the desk and sunk his face into his palms.

Can I get the money somewhere else? I have friends, former teammates, who've asked to get in on a piece of the team.

His pulse picked up, rather than slowed.

Like trying to avoid the dangerous street by taking a shortcut through the dark alley. What do they say about doing business with friends? You'll start with both and end with neither. The whole idea of owning a team was to be able to do things his way.

There was a knock at the door and Troy Best entered Bobby's office.

"How the fuck is it hanging, Bobby?"

Bobby looked up slowly.

"It's fucking hanging," said Bobby. "It's fucking hanging."

Next Chapter: Monday

The Meaning of Hockey runs three times a week for 16 weeks exclusively on The Tyee. To offer advice, to criticize or to reserve your printed copy of The Meaning of Hockey email [email protected]