The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 12

Once again Bobby had not slept, but this time it was because he had read every single page of all eleven “beginners” guides that Frida had given him. He encountered such a cavalcade of new ideas that he didn’t once think of time until the sun came up and the city, the Strait of Georgia and the mountains of Vancouver Island became visible from his Vancouver Heights penthouse.

When the display on his alarm rolled over to 7:00 he called Frida.

“Have you thought about what I said?” he said, after she answered on the third ring.

“Bobby?”

“Tell me what your perfect man would be like,” he said. “I need to know.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“I’m just waking up.”

“Please, I’ve been up all night thinking about it.”

Silence.

“Okay,” said Frida. “Let me see. How about thoughtful, kind and caring.”

“I try,” he said as he took notes.

“A good story teller, funny, strong but gentle.”

“‘A good story teller, funny, strong but gentle’. Describes me perfectly.”

“He’d be wise, well read, capable of explaining complicated theories in a manner that ordinary people can understand and he’d care about me more than his career.”

“‘Care about you more than his career.’ The last one I got and I’m willing to work on the rest.”

“He’d be a good friend, a good lover and a good father.”

“‘Friend, love, father.’ Okay.”

“He’d find my body incredibly sexy, even if it is 50-years-old and almost on the other side of menopause.”

“Definitely got that one covered.”

“He’d have the sort of infectious smile that made me feel good when I was down. He’d be an optimist who could convince me the world was going to someday be a better place. He’d be incredibly patient, especially with my mood swings and he’d always be prepared to listen to my side of the story.”

“Wow.”

“He’d be neat and smell nice and want to snuggle an awful lot.”

“‘Snuggle an awful lot,’” he said, writing.

“He’d love to go for long walks where we’d hold hands and talk. I’d find him interesting and he’d find me absolutely fascinating.”

“Are we getting near the end of the list?”

“Every time he looked at me his face would light up so I could tell he still loved me.”

His hand was getting sore from all the fast writing.

“And?”

“He’d have the most wonderful imagination, surprising me every day with his weird and utterly novel way of looking at the most mundane things. In that way he’d be like a perpetual child, but he’d also be mature and responsible.”

“A mature and responsible child?”

“He’d be a multi-faceted individual.”

“He’d be fucking Prince Charming.”

“Bobby …”

“A character from a fairy tale.”

“You call me at seven in the morning and ask me to describe my perfect man,” said Frida. “It’s what I came up with.”

“I was kind of hoping it would be someone somehow connected to reality,” he said. “It’s tough to compete with a fantasy.”

“But that’s what perfect is.”

Fantasy? That’s what perfect is? He thought perfect was what you strove for. Had he been wrong?

“Bobby?”

“Sorry.”

“Can I get ready for work now?” she said.

“Sure. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Frida,” he said urgently. “You are my Rex Harrison and I am your Audrey Hepburn.”

“Talk to you later,” she said, hanging up the phone.

He smiled. The first one in how long?

He re-wrote everything Frida had said into a notebook then read it over a few times. He could never possibly achieve all that.

But he didn’t let himself get discouraged. Instead, as he prepared for work he thought of the books he had read last night. The ideas of political philosophy moved around his brain like the puck on the power play of the great 1972 Soviet hockey team.

Socrates passes to Plato, but it’s blocked by Aquinas. Machiavelli slaps it around the boards. Locke knocks it down and attempts to do it all himself. Smith is trailing on the play and as the puck squirts back he throws it over to Bentham. It’s back to Smith, then across the ice to Mill. He shoots. But it’s blocked by Marx. Marx skates with it as Bakunin harasses him. It’s over to Lenin, to Trotsky, to Luxembourg, who is tripped up. Gramsci is open, but the puck instead goes to Russell and the horn blows to end the period.

The thought of Lenin and Marx on skates caused Bobby to smile. But then the reality of the busy day ahead intruded. He decided to walk down Hastings Street, through the PNE grounds, to the Coliseum where he could take a shower and shave before getting ready for practice as the squad prepared for the Totems’ first extended road trip.

He had some important decisions to make. There were interviews to do with television, radio and newspaper reporters. He desperately needed to make a trade to shake up the team. What should be done about an assistant coach who was in open rebellion? Money. The upcoming road trip would make or break the team and it would make or break him.

Frida. I am Eliza Doolittle to her Rex Harrison. My Fair Gentleman. Our Well Above Average Comrade.

He had to clear the air with Frida about sex. Would they? Could he? And then most important of all, his son Mike would be arriving tomorrow for his first visit to Vancouver. What to say, do, think?

He walked down Hastings Street in front of the Kootenay Loop, a bus transfer point where, even at 6:30 a.m., hundreds of people were on their way to work or school. They all seemed to have some purpose to their lives. What to do about Blair? How could he dump Anderson and Brad? What exactly was the point of the dispute between the Marxists and the anarchists?

Bobby walked in front of a motel and then A&B Sound, the best place in Vancouver to buy music.

What was that band that Mike had told him was one of his favorites? A Vancouver punk band from the 1970s. D.O.A., that’s it. Joey Shithead was the lead vocalist.

He should buy some albums and listen. He’d have to come back when the store was open. Maybe just before practice.

He crossed Cassiar Street, beneath which ran a tunnel. Bobby remembered noisy neighborhood meetings and demonstrations 25 years earlier that forced the government to build the tunnel, which funneled freeway traffic quietly under east Vancouver.

If the team didn’t start winning, attendance would drop further and his entire investment would be at risk. Lenin seemed like the bad guy, not Marx.

Bobby cut into the PNE grounds, down the grassy slope that once supported the massive concrete stands of Empire Stadium.

What could be done to improve team morale? Would winning be enough?

The gigantic wooden roller coaster of Playland loomed ahead of him. One day, before they tore it and the rest of the amusement park down, Bobby wanted to take a ride.

The ideas behind capitalism seemed so immoral compared to the ideas of socialism or anarchism. Why was that? Would Frida agree to play Rex Harrison’s character in My Fair Lady? He had looked on the Internet and discovered the musical was based on a play called Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw.

The smell of the horse barns at Hastings Park racetrack grew stronger as Bobby headed west beside the old demolition derby and logging show bowl where wooden stands climbed the side of a natural amphitheatre.

Kiniski is the only Totem producing to his potential. Picard has a following and is playing well. He’s the only plus-defenceman on the squad.

A young woman led a beautiful dark-brown thoroughbred across the pavement in front of him towards the track.

How could a creature that runs so fast look so delicate? The Mensheviks, who were beaten by Bolsheviks, were right and Lenin was wrong. An economy needs to go through capitalism before socialism is possible.

Through the open gate beside the grandstand Bobby could see horses galloping during their early morning works.

Most of the Totems don’t like Kiniski or Picard. They don’t get along with the two guys who are fan favorites and are producing. So, who does the smart person get rid of?

While I’m not in the shape I used to be, I can still skate around some of the young pups and bench press two hundred pounds.

The backdrop to the green and brown of the track was the grey-green of Mount Seymour and Grouse Mountain, which welcomed the morning from across Burrard Inlet.

I wonder if Mike would play for me. Most of the ideas of anarchism aren’t anything at all like the popular meaning of the word. More like the perfect direct democracy. Mutual aid. No need for government and the forces of coercion because autonomous individuals come together in collectives small enough that decision-making is direct and if you don’t like the collective you are in, you can always join another. Sounds great, if a little idealistic. Maybe Mike and Frida are onto something.

Bobby walked up the stairs on the east side of the Coliseum, a route he had frequently taken 25 years earlier when he had been a player and had been allowed to park just outside the big doors where the Zamboni deposited the snow left over from ice-cleaning.

The Totems’ losing record means I’ve got to make big changes. Some players have to go. Sometimes, the job of general manager is unpleasant. But somebody has to take charge. Under different circumstances I might even regret what I have to do. This Noam Chomsky fellow sounds like an interesting and pretty smart guy. Anarchism is a beautiful ideal.

Then, as Bobby walked across the cement plaza in front of the Coliseum and turned north along the west side of the building, the looming presence of the North Shore mountains again confronted him. As he unlocked the office an important thought segued from his sleep-deprived consciousness. For a moment, the clouds in his brain parted and an idea shone through. It was almost a plan.

Creativity was becoming a habit.

Next Chapter: Wednesday

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