The Meaning Of Hockey, Chapter 14

It was a good sign that Frida’s house felt more and more comfortable, thought Bobby. Maybe like a home is supposed to feel, although he wouldn’t really know. When was the last time he had felt at home?

What was I saying? The Max Ferguson story.

“Old Max was about the toughest coach I ever knew. That son of a bitch was mean. If his team had a lousy game, the next practice he’d skate them so hard guys would start puking. Usually took three pukers before Max would let up. Or one puker and one blood spitter.”

Frida was staring at him like he was from another planet. Bobby wished he could read her mind.

Or maybe not.

“Max loved to play head games. Especially with goalies. He’d pull one guy after a goal and then put him back in a few minutes later, then pull him again, just for the fun of it. A goalie would have a great game, maybe get a shutout, but Max wouldn’t start him the following game. Always said it was his job to keep the netminders off balance.

He had this theory that a goalie should hate his coach. ‘Better the poor bugger worry about me than think about how good or bad he’s playing.’ I don’t know, never made much sense to me. But Max was adamant that you had to treat goalies like shit. And if a goalie was having a bad game, that bastard would ride him. Might leave him out there with the fans booing, just to torment him.

Anyhow, one game, I think it was Quebec City playing in Johnstown, the Aces top goalie, Pete Smith, gets cut in the first period — 46 stitches I think he took —- but Max gives him a hard time because he really doesn’t like the back-up, a guy named Tubby Wells. Of course the rink doctor won’t let Smith back in the game so Tubby is it.

At first he plays not bad. Makes a couple of good saves, but then one of the Johnstown players floats a puck in from the red line. Just a line changer, really, but somehow Tubby flubs it and the puck ends up behind him.

Well, Max doesn’t say anything at first. I mean he knows Tubby is all he’s got. Ain’t no way Smith is coming back. But then Tubby gives up another bad one and then a third and Max goes quietly ballistic. Still doesn’t say a word but everyone on the bench can see the steam coming out his ears.

Finally Tubby gives up a fourth straight bad goal — another real stinker where he’s flopping around like a fish just pulled out of the water — and Max calls him over to the bench. Well, Tubby looks like he’s going to shit himself as he skates over from the net.

He’s imagining all sorts of terrible punishments. Maybe Max will make him switch to the left-handed blocker and right-handed catcher like he did once in practice. Maybe Max will make him take off his goalie pads and put on regular shin pads like Tubby heard he did to another goalie a few years earlier.

Or maybe Max will scream and humiliate him in front of players, fans, everybody. As if he wasn’t humiliated enough already. But Max doesn’t even raise his voice. He just has the team gather around him and he pats Tubby on the shoulder and he says, ‘Tough game hey?’ and Tubby nods. Then Max says ‘Listen I got an idea.’ The whole team is looking and listening and every one of them is amazed at how calm Max is being. ‘Yes coach,’ says Tubby. Max smiles and says ‘How about you try something a little different?’ ‘Yes coach,’ says Tubby again. Sweet as a choirboy Max says. ‘Instead of flopping around, make like a statue and just stand there. One of them fucking pucks is bound to hit you.’”

Bobby grinned, but Frida failed to find the humor.

“The entire team laughed, except for Tubby. Max was meanest when he smiled.”

“You made five of your players throw up?” said Frida, repeating something Bobby had said earlier. “And this story is your attempt to make me see the logic of it?”

“Five pukes is not bad for a six-hour practice,” said Bobby, running his index finger along the silver clam figure sitting on the coffee table. Frida had told him that Bill Reid, one of B.C.’s most famous artists, made it.

“Six hours?” said Frida, again adding a question mark to his declaration.

“It was an experiment based on what you told me,” said Bobby. “You got anything to eat?”

Frida looked at her watch. Bobby knew it was almost 10:30, but he had not eaten since lunch, having gone straight from the rink to her place.

“Leftovers from last night,” she said. “I could nuke them.”

“Are you hungry?” said Bobby.

“No, I ate after you called,” she said.

“It’s in the fridge?” said Bobby as he got up.

“I don’t mind,” said Frida, walking into the kitchen ahead of him. “Sit down.”

“I’d rather be with you in the kitchen,” said Bobby, following her. He was thinking that feminists were supposed to hate it when men made them do the kitchen work. But Frida seemed pleased when he allowed her to do things for him.

Maybe feminists aren’t as … aren’t as what?

She opened the almost new side-by-side fridge with ice dispenser and pulled out three foil containers. Bobby sat at the square pine table.

“How am I to blame for a six-hour practice?” said Frida, as she spooned leftovers onto a plate.

“I was testing your idea that every political philosophy is present in the world of hockey,” he said, remembering the point he had forgotten. “So, the first part of practice was fascist, then it became communist, then capitalist, then socialist and we ended off the evening with anarchist hockey.”

Bobby smiled as Frida turned from the counter microwave and presented him with a look that again said he was an alien species.

“Okay, you’ve piqued my interest,” she said, catching Bobby’s infectious smile.

“It was a brilliant idea,” explained Bobby enthusiastically. “I stayed up all night reading those books you gave me and then when I walked to work this morning a plan hit me.”

“A plan?” said Frida as the microwave beeped.

She opened the door and gingerly pulled the heaped, steaming plate from inside as Bobby grabbed a fork from the utensil drawer.

“I’ve got the perfect opportunity to experiment with political philosophies,” he said. “I’ve got this small group of people who will do whatever I tell them. We can try anything and see what works.”

“What is anarchist hockey?” asked Frida, as she passed him the plate of leftovers.

“This is what I did,” said Bobby, capturing a green bean on his fork. “At the start of practice I laid into them, tough as any coach in the history of the game. Yelled whatever I wanted as loud as I wanted to scare the shit out of them. Real Nazi, fascist stuff.

Then, we had a revolution. I gave control of the practice to the two players who spoke up, who sort of challenged me. That was the communist, workers’ control phase. Then I told them we’d try capitalism. We did drills and the guy who performed best got to pick what the next drill was going to be.

After an hour or so I said I didn’t think that was working out very well, so I modified the plan. The three best players at a drill plus the three coaches got together to plan the next segment of the practice. Sort of a mixed economy or socialism.

Then we had a meeting of all the players to reach consensus on what we should do for the last hour of practice. Each of them had to encourage their teammates. Mutual aid. And if one of the players didn’t agree, he could simply leave. Anarchist hockey.”

Frida had a big smile on her face as he finished the story. “Very clever,” she said.

As Bobby wrapped some Shanghai noodles around his fork and shoveled them into his mouth she took a step toward him and put a hand on each side of his head. He stopped chewing and a grinning Frida kissed his right cheek.

“Very, very clever,” she said. “Except you own the team, so I’d say fundamentally it’s still capitalist hockey.”

Her smile grew into another kiss.

“I’m trying,” he said, happier than he had felt in years. “That’s something isn’t it?”

“It’s more than something,” said Frida. “It’s the most important thing.”

Next Chapter: Monday

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