The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 9

Bobby was startled by his return consciousness.

The poster on his office wall loomed above him. “Feed the Dream.”

Whose dream? What had Wallsy, the assistant coach for the Blackhawks said? “You are the center of your very own universe.”

A good line. Wallsy — he couldn’t remember why the players called him that — was full of good lines. What else did Wallsy call him? “Puck Porker.” That was it. “Hey, Puck Porker, come here,” he would say during practice. The brilliance of that nickname was that it elicited both the notions of “puck hog” and “fucking the dog.”

Puck Porker, that’s me, thought Bobby. Forty years of arrogance, of thinking only about myself. No responsibilities. Lazy in my own end. Let the other guys play defence. Forty years of puck porking.

He remembered the last conversation he had with Wallsy. They were drinking in the lobby bar of the Ritz Carleton in Montreal. Wallsy had been assigned the dirty duty of telling the 18-year NHL veteran that he was going to be put on waivers and that the team didn’t think anyone would pick him up.

“You could have been one of the great players, Bobby. You had the potential, but you never made it past being the best stickhandler of your era. That was the pinnacle for you. You had too much of the puck hog in you.”

Too much of the puck hog in me. Wallsy was always perceptive. Sold my soul to the devil for the ability to focus on beating the guy in front of me. From the age of 10 until over 40 I believed every thought that strayed from hockey was wasted.

Focus on the game. Use the masturbation muse. Spend the day imagining the moves you’ll make and then make it happen that night.

That’s what I used to say. Who told me about mantras and self-hypnosis? Sam, the longhair Sons of Freedom from the Kootenays. He was in training camp for a week when I was 16. “I am the center of the universe. The puck belongs to me.” After Frida left and I had no more friends in Moose Jaw I’d make myself say that a thousand times a day. Trained myself to focus. That’s what got me where I wanted to go.

Why the hell didn’t I recognize Frida the first time I stepped into her office?

What do they call it on those TV commercials? Erectile dysfunction? ED. I’d like to introduce you to my old friend, Frida. This is my new friend, ED.

Can’t get it up? That’s bullshit. Just need to concentrate.

The ability to focus. Where did that go?

What’s wrong with me? My first love, maybe my only love, and I didn’t even recognize her. Why?

I am the center of the universe and the puck belongs to me.

Maybe I should see a doctor and get a prescription for Viagra.

Love her? What is love? It’s not a prescription, that’s for sure.

I talk with my son for the first time in years and instead of asking him about his life I ramble on about mine.

What did Brad say? “Anarchists on ice.”

The ability to focus. The ability to push yourself to whatever goal you choose.

Burn out.

What was the goal I achieved?

It’s ridiculous to pretend it was not satisfying to play in the NHL, because it was. It was the goal and it felt good to achieve it.

But now?

Old enough to finally know better but too old to change.

A lack of sleep and that lingering malaise.

Bobby looked up at the poster again. “Feed the Dream.”

It was time to dream again. But of what? Making love to Frida? Women once dreamed of fucking me.

To be famous, to have lots of money? Been there, done that.

He had told reporters that “it was his dream to own a hockey team and that the Totems were the fulfillment of that goal,” but those were words about as meaningful as “we’ve just got to play one period at a time” or “let’s put that one behind us.”

The world of sport is make-believe, salesmanship, bafflegab and bullshit. How could you dream in that realm? Dreams require at least a little honesty. Otherwise, your fantasies are mere self-deception. It was time to take stock, so that he could move forward.

Take stock. That was the point of his memories. Take stock. Not tomorrow, not later today. Now. Take stock. Be blunt. Be brutally honest. Okay, good. Do it.

Bobby took a deep breath.

The truth is my familial, romantic, economic and professional prospects have never been worse.

Take stock.

The truth is I called Mike eight times back at his home in Somerville and when I finally talked to him I barely understood a word of what was said. He didn’t want to talk about hockey. The truth is my son is some sort of anarchist agitator full of stories about blockades and demonstrations and a guy named Noam Chomsky. Sounds like that Russian defenceman who got drafted in the second round last year.

The truth is the Totems lost their first five games by a combined score of 36-9.

To overcome the feeling of panic Bobby had to take a deep breath.

Take stock.

Four of the first five games were home games during which attendance fell from 14,000 to 9,000 to 5,500 to 2,200. Only one hundred and twelve season tickets have been paid for and the walk-up gate has dwindled to a few dozen.

Team morale is as bad as the Totems’ record. The players have split into two cliques, one headed by Baxter and the other by Marshall. Both camps dislike the team “fag” Kiniski, who is averaging almost two points a game and “Rastaman” Picard, who is the only Totem to have earned his own cheering section — a dozen or so guys dressed like Bob Marley.

Bobby suspected that Brad was encouraging the factionalism and that he was secretly meeting with Gordon Anderson to plot the takeover of the team.

Life is shit, and it just keeps on getting worse.

I can’t get it up. I humiliated Frida and I humiliated myself.

When was the last time you tried to please a woman?

Take stock. Is there any good stuff?

The truth was, despite his woes, Bobby could see one ray of hope way off in the distance. For the first time in years, he was optimistic about one tiny corner of his existence. He had a confidante. He could talk to Frida like he had to no one before.

Sure there was despair that came along with the hope. His impotence, but they had gotten past it. Or at least the subject of sex had not come up again. He could be honest with her about anything else and she seemed to truly enjoy his company. Their relationship was the one part of his life that seemed remotely satisfactory. Frida offered the possibility of expectation. The opportunity to dream.

Of course he didn’t really fit into her life. Frida had invited him to dinner at a tapas bar on Commercial Drive with three of her friends and he made a fool of himself, he was sure of that. He had dominated the conversation like he was the banquet speaker, telling stupid hockey stories that no one cared about. Then they were going on and on about something called the “World Social Forum” and “participatory economics” when Sylvia, who Frida described as her best friend for thirty years, asked him “what do you think Bobby?”

First he pretended to be chewing on a piece of grilled octopus, which had tasted surprisingly good, then the best he could come up with was a shrug and “I’m all for participation. I even did a commercial once for Participaction. Remember that? Federal government program trying to get everyone participating in physical activity.”

The four women at the table looked at him like he was from another galaxy and maybe he was. Frida never said anything, but he saw she was embarrassed.

And, of course, he had failed her that first visit to her house. She acted like it never happened, but he knew the truth. She wanted him to desire her. Middle-aged women have stronger sexual urges than at any other time of their life. Where had he heard that? Some sleepless late night program on Sex TV.

I do desire her. Touching her breasts, caressing her skin, feeling the inside of her thighs.

The image of making love was stimulating, but the thought of actually trying to do it produced panic.

Breathe deeply.

Bobby’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Blair Kiniski entered.

“Coach, can I talk to you?” said the lithe blond who was suffering the remnants of an adolescent acne attack.

Bobby nodded.

I don’t need this. I really don’t need this.

Kiniski sat on the couch and stared at Bobby.

He knows. What does he know?

“Coach?”

Answer him.

Blair’s body language spoke of unhappiness.

Bobby attempted to smile.

Not now. I can’t deal with this. I am the one who needs help; I’m not the one to offer it.

Blair stared at his feet, obviously trying to work up the courage to say something. Bobby recognized the paralysis of emotional distress.

“I’ve been very pleased with your play,” Bobby said, finally finding some words to send out like sonar searching for the ocean bottom. “You’ve been our best forward.”

Blair tried to smile, but could not. He did manage to look up at Bobby and for a moment their eyes connected. Blair sighed.

“I want to quit hockey,” he said.

The next moment was pregnant with possible responses. If Bobby had considered his reaction and planned the best words to say, his reply would have been measured and thoughtful; instead he just laughed.

“You too?” Bobby blurted out. “That’s exactly what I was sitting here thinking about. Hockey is a stupid game that’s making my life miserable and who the hell needs it?”

Blair looked stunned, but only for a moment, and only because Bobby himself seemed bemused by the words that had come from his mouth.

The older man began the smile and the younger man finished it. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was the tonic both needed.

“Is that true?” asked Blair, the smile receding.

“I swear on Maurice Richard’s grave,” said Bobby.

A half smile appeared on Blair’s face. “There’s a lot of screwed up people in this world, aren’t there?” he said.

“I’d say yes and I’d also say it takes one to know one,” said Bobby. “I know I’m totally screwed up.”

“We’re all screwed up, each in our own way?” said Blair.

“I’ll only speak for myself,” said Bobby, who was beginning to get nervous about this level of honesty. “I’m totally bonkers.”

“Me too,” said Blair.

They shared another smile.

“So what’s bothering you?” said Bobby.

“I’m not having any fun,” said Blair.

“Geez, you and me are exactly alike,” said Bobby.

“My teammates hate me.”

“You think so?” said Bobby.

“Alphonse is the only guy who treats me like a friend. Everyone else is scared I’m going to rape them or something,” Blair said. “Maybe I just don’t fit in junior hockey.”

“Maybe you don’t,” said Bobby. “But I don’t think five games is long enough to really know.”

Bobby paused as he thought what to say next. This was a good, sensitive kid who deserved better than he was getting. He thought of his own son’s accusation that his father was hockey dinosaur. It was not true. He thought of a tack to take. “Do you still like playing?”

“Sure,” said Blair. “Out on the ice, things are great, except for all the losing.”

“That will not continue,” said Bobby, sounding surprisingly confident. “There will be changes, but we have a good core of guys.”

Bobby said it and then realized it was true.

Changes. Of course. Maybe…

“Why do they hate me?”

“Because they think you’re a fag. A fudge-packer. A shower queen.”

Again, Bobby only realized what he had said after it came out.

“Most of these guys have been brought up thinking that’s about the worst thing you can say about a guy.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The pain returned to Blair’s eyes. “I thought maybe junior would be different than minor hockey. I thought Vancouver might be different than Alberta.”

“Don’t blame Vancouver,” said Bobby. “Hockey is a very conservative world.”

“That’s what my Dad told me. He warned me and I didn’t want to believe him.”

“Your Dad is a nice guy. Maybe too nice. Maybe that’s the problem. You come from a good family, sensitive, caring people and that’s how you expect other people to be. There’s nothing wrong with that. People should be good and kind and sensitive. But the real world isn’t always like that. Hockey is never like that. I’d be lying if I told you anything different. Hockey is a cruel macho business.”

Bobby was amazed at this never-before-seen sensitive side of his personality. Where had it come from?

“I don’t know if I can take it,” said Blair.

“That’s for you to decide,” said Bobby. “Only thing I’ll tell you is that hockey is just one thing you can do with your life. The way I’m thinking right now, I wish I’d have quit when I was your age.”

“Do you think I should quit?” said Blair. “My parents always tell me never give up just because something is hard or because someone else wants me to.”

“Good advice.”

“They spent ten years breaking new land in Peace River.”

“So they’re tough people,” said Bobby. “I figured you were tough too, when I heard how Prince Albert had treated you. I figured compared to that, playing junior hockey would be easy. That’s why I wanted you on my team.”

“Thanks,” said Blair.

“But I wouldn’t think you were any less tough if you decided all the bullshit wasn’t worth it. I’d respect that. I’d respect you. And you should respect yourself whatever decision you make.”

How many times did I say “respect” — amazing — I sound like a fucking broad.

“Do you think the guys really hate me?”

This time Bobby thought for a moment about what he should say. “Maybe a few of them hate you, but most just go along with whatever the crowd says. You’re an easy target. You’re the leading scorer so there’s resentment about that. We’re losing and people need someone to blame. Losing teams always break into cliques and you’re caught in the middle.”

“How long do you think it will last?” said Blair.

“I could call a team meeting and stop it today.”

“No,” said Blair as he ran his long fingers through his hair. “That would only make it worse. Underneath they’d hate me even more.”

Bobby understood because he too had lived the hockey code.

“If I stay, I’ve got to earn their respect,” said Blair.

This is a smart kid, thought Bobby.

“I think you can earn their respect,” he said. “But it’ll be as hard as winning the league scoring title this season.”

“That’s all?” Blair smiled. “That won’t be hard at all.”

Bobby grinned.

Blair stood up and held out his hand to go along with the smile.

“Thanks coach,” he said.

Bobby shook his hand.

“I’ll hang in there,” said Blair. “I’ll give it some more time.”

“Good," said Bobby. “Try not to let the bullshit get you down, but don’t ever think it will go away. At least not completely.”

Blair nodded and headed out the door.

All the mushy, new-age, feel-good crap made Bobby feel better.

This is the first decent thing I’ve done in years.

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