The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 16

Bobby knew that once he had spoken to Baxter and Marshall it would be only a matter of minutes before the entire squad would hear some version of what transpired in his office. The knowledge he was being described as completely demented pleased Bobby. It was useful to confuse your opponent before entering battle.

He tried to focus on preparing to engage the enemy but all he could think about was his son who was supposed to be there any minute.

The dread that had been building all day gathered in his chest as if he had taken a big hit along the boards, knocking the breath out of him. Inhale. Exhale. Too late to turn back.

“Coach, are you busy?”

B.J. Brisco, his first string goalie, had interrupted his panic attack. Bobby looked up and then glanced at his watch before answering. Mike was five minutes late.

“I’ve got a meeting that was supposed to start five minutes ago,” Bobby said. “But he isn’t here yet, so go ahead.”

B.J. looked nervous as he entered the office.

So B.J. is the first one, thought Bobby. Never would have guessed him.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“Blurting it out always works,” said Bobby.

B.J. looked up at the poster on the wall.

“My dream is making it into the NHL and I’m having a real hard time focusing on hockey here in Vancouver. I’m thinking a smaller city might be better for me, you know hockey-wise.”

“You want to be traded?”

“No, I’m not asking. I like the Totems and I think we’ll turn out pretty good. It’s just that if the opportunity comes up and you think you can improve the team, I just want you to know that I would prefer to play in a smaller town. I just want you to know that would be better for me, that’s all. So, if it was better for the team and better for me, then I guess I’d like to be traded.”

Clever, thought Bobby. “You talk to Baxter?”

B.J. shrugged.

At the moment he was about to repeat the question Mike appeared at the open door. Bobby’s train of thought immediately jumped the tracks. All he could do was stare at his son, who stared back.

“Coach?” said B.J.

It was impossible for Bobby to take his eyes off Mike.

“Coach?” repeated B.J. “What do you think? About a trade? Not that I’m asking for one.”

“Sure,” said Bobby, without turning his head. “Soon as I can arrange it.”

“You mean it?”

“Soon as I can arrange it.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. I don’t care what any of the other guys say about you. You’re alright.”

Mike entered as an excited B.J. left the office.

Both men looked ill at ease.

“That was my first-string goalie. He just asked to be traded.”

Mike did not respond at first, but then shrugged.

“You guys are on a losing streak, right?”

Weird, thought Bobby. My flesh and blood. He noticed, maybe for the first time, that Mike had his eyes and shoulders.

Incredible. Geez, he looks good.

“Winless to start the season,” Bobby said.

“That’s tough.”

“Sit down,” said Bobby, pointing to the couch. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” said Mike.

“I’m glad you could come.”

Little over six feet. Maybe a bit on the skinny side. Not a power forward. Finesse player, like me.

“Vancouver is beautiful,” said Mike. “You can see the mountains, and the ocean from the place I’m staying at, out by the university.”

“It belongs to that friend of your mother?”

Mike nodded.

“Sheila. She’s a professor in the creative writing department at the University of British Columbia and a pretty good novelist. I’ve known her ever since I can remember. Sort of like an aunt. She even wrote a book about me called The Boy Child. You ever hear of it?”

Bobby shook his head.

“It won a few prizes.”

The Lesbian Literature Awards, probably. Sheila, the dyke. Not that I care.

“There’s a pretty amazing view from my place too,” Bobby said. “A penthouse on top of a hill not too far from here. You can see mountains, ocean, downtown and all the way to Vancouver Island on a clear day from the living room and a volcano called Mount Baker from the bedrooms.”

“Sounds great.”

“There’s two extra bedrooms. You’re welcome to one or even both of them.”

Mike’s sole response was a nervous shuffling of his feet.

“I guess it’s sort of a family responsibility to stay with an aunt,” said Bobby.

Oh shit, why did I say that? Family responsibility? He’s going to think I meant me. Made him uncomfortable. Look at him. Change the subject.

“You want a tour of the arena?” Bobby said quickly.

“Sure.”

Bobby was aware of his heartbeat, like after wind sprints or before a big game. This fine young man was the flesh of his flesh, but claiming the title of father would debase the good name of parenthood.

Concentrate. Remember. He has good reason to hate you. Good reason not to stay at your apartment. Just be thankful he still cares enough to see you.

As Bobby stood up he remembered the D.O.A. CDs he had purchased. An old Vancouver punk band. He showed them to Mike.

“I bought these for you,” said Bobby. “I remember you telling me how much you liked the band. The lead singer, Joey Shithead, he’s on the local cable TV channel sometimes talking about politics.”

“Ya?”

Bobby nodded.

Mike took a look at the three shrink-wrapped CDs. Cool,” he said. “Thanks.”

“You want to start with the dressing rooms? We use the old Canucks’ room.”

“Where you dressed, when you played here?” asked Mike.

Bobby nodded, feeling a rush because his son hinted at some lingering interest in his old man’s career. Or had he presumed meaning where there was none?

As they went through the small outer office and down the corridor towards the main concourse Bobby thought of all the things he should say, starting with “I’m sorry” and “I wish there was something I could do to make up for all the lost years.”

The words that came out were much less profound.

“You think about what I said? About playing for the Totems?”

“Here in Vancouver?” said Mike.

Bobby nodded.

“With you as the coach?

Bobby nodded again.

My hands are shaking.

“I don’t know,” said Mike.

“I don’t want to pressure you.”

Bobby walked behind his son down the stairs.

“I’m not sure if I want to play hockey anywhere anymore,” said Mike, turning around. “I didn’t have much fun last season.”

Would he tell the story of what happened that night in the playoffs? The Anarchist Revolution? Bobby looked into his son’s eyes. Whatever was there was enough to scare him into immediately severing the connection. Time to change the subject. He walked ahead of his son, nodding at Max and Bo who were busy piling equipment on to a cart outside the dressing room.

“This is Mike Mackenzie, who used to play with the London Knights in the OHL. This is Max our trainer and Bo, the equipment manager,” said Bobby.

“Hi,” said Mike.

“I heard of you,” said Bo. “You were like in the top 10 in scoring in the OHL, then there was this big thing in the playoffs. Hockey News did a story.”

“Ya,” said Mike, who looked embarrassed.

“I’m just showing him around,” said Bobby. “We’re going into the dressing room.”

“Sure,” said Bo.

Max looked at him like he knew everything about the Anarchist Revolution, so Bobby immediately turned away.

Sweat on my palms. Heart racing. Calm down. Relax. Concentrate. Can’t. Try. Can’t.

“This was the Canucks’ room back when you played for them?” said Mike.

Bobby managed to nod, but he felt nauseous.

No puking. Please.

“Which was your stall?”

Point. Breathe. Slowly. Calm. Think about something else. What? Tell yourself a story. Which one? Anyone.

“How about Thomas Gradin? Which one was his? He was a great player.”

Bobby pointed to the stall next to his and maybe even spoke, but he could not hear himself over the pounding of his heart.

Talking to his son. What was he saying?

Bobby was showing Mike the training room and then the weight room.

Mike was standing on the bench at the home players’ box and looking around at the arena’s 16,000 empty seats.

Father and son were talking in Bobby’s office. What were they saying? He needed to know.

The sensation resembled the five or six times Bobby had suffered a concussion in his playing days. First, all thoughts are jarred from your brain like trinkets on a car’s dashboard during a crash. It begins to hurt when you try to think. Then the real headache arrives. Dull, deep pain with moments of intense agony.

Elbows had mostly been the cause back then, but now it was a visit from his son.

What did Mike say?

There was a void in his memory where two hours spent with his offspring should have been.

Float. Imagine a hot summer day floating on an inner tube on Lac Pelletier. Feels better. What did I say? Don’t think. Hurts.

Next Chapter: Friday

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]