The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 18

After Troy left to play cards at the back of the bus, Bobby tried to fall asleep, but the conversation with his son kept replaying in his brain

In his office, Mike sitting on the couch.

“I don’t fit in hockey. The whole macho, authoritarian culture — it’s just not the way I was brought up. I hate it. It’s so mindless.”

“I understand.”

Bobby felt like he was staring into a mirror as he made eye contact with his son.

“I know you’re down on the game right now, but I’d like you to listen to a story. Then think about it before you make up your mind.”

Mike shrugged.

“You’ll listen to my story?”

Mike shrugged again, so Bobby began.

“More than forty years ago in a small French town in Saskatchewan there was this six-year-old who just loved to play hockey. He’d be out on the rink any chance he got, didn’t matter how cold it was or how windy. He’d clear off the ice and skate and shoot and stickhandle. And we’re talking cold here. Thirty below was a normal winter temperature, with a wind as well. We’re not talking Boston weather here.”

“I’ve been in North Bay in January,” said Mike.

“That’s cold but southwestern Saskatchewan is colder. We’re talking blizzards where people die. We’re talking cattle frozen solid like a Popsicle if they’re caught in an exposed spot. We’re talking geography where humans should not live, let alone play hockey.”

Mike was listening.

“Anyhow,” continued Bobby, “this little boy was always trying to play with the bigger boys because there weren’t many kids his age and besides, playing against the older guys looked more fun. Of course, the bigger kids didn’t want him around.”

“Sounds pretty normal,” said Mike.

“Sure it was, except for this one big kid. George Wilson was his name. Son of farmer from outside Cadillac, a nearby town, who took the bus every day into Ponteix because that’s where the school was. He was a pretty good hockey player too, always out on the rink, mostly I think to get away from his dad who beat him something terrible pretty much every chance he got.

“Anyway, this George kind of ran the rink and he ran the schoolyard, especially when there were no adults around. He bossed all the little kids and, of course, the six –year-olds thought George was pretty cool, especially because he had this stainless steel puck, which I guess someone had made in a machine shop. The older boys used that shiny silver puck as a kind of good luck charm. If George let you play on his team, you got to kiss the puck before the game and his team always won. Always.

“Kissing that puck was a big deal. All the guys on George’s team would go into a huddle and they’d pass the puck around, each one kissing it and then they’d all start chanting, ‘win, win, win.’” It looked like just about the best thing in the world to that six-year old. If only he too could kiss the puck and play with George’s team and win. That would be the greatest moment in his life.

“So, the little kid was always hanging around George at school and after school and at the rink, trying to do whatever it would take to be allowed to kiss the puck. ‘You want my dessert George?’ the little boy would ask. ‘I got a nickel for a pop, you want it, George?’ The six-year old was like a puppy following his owner. This went on for weeks, until finally one day George told the little kid he could play on his team if he did just one thing. ‘Anything,’ said the little boy. ‘Okay,’ said George. ‘What I want you to do is sneak into Miss Marshall’s house and take a brassiere from her dresser and put it into Mr. Buchanan’s desk.’

“Now, what you have to understand about this was that Miss Marshall was in her first year out of teachers’ college, maybe 22 years old and very pretty. She was also the little boy’s Grade 1 teacher and he had a crush on her. Mr. Buchanan, on the other hand, was the school disciplinarian and the meanest son-of-a-bitch vice principal southwestern Saskatchewan had ever known. He was also George’s Grade 7 teacher. Despite knowing all this, the little boy barely even thought about possible negative repercussions before agreeing to George’s scheme. He was so excited about the idea of finally being allowed to kiss the puck and playing on a winning team.

“Of course, there were a number of practical problems. First, the little boy wasn’t quite sure exactly what a brassiere was and he couldn’t bear the humiliation of a pack of sneering 12-year-olds when he asked. He was forced to give a dime to Isabel Gauthier so she would show him hers. Then he had to tell a lie to his mother, saying he was sick and couldn’t go to school the next morning. Then he had to sneak out of his house, and without being seen, make it over the few blocks to Miss Marshall’s place. Getting into her house was easy because those days no one locked doors, but finding a brassiere was quite another matter. He looked all over the bedroom, finding many things he was not familiar with, but no brassiere. Finally, just as he thought it was hopeless and he’d never ever get to kiss the puck, he opened the laundry hamper and voila, there it was. Right under a pair of panties with blood all over them. This worried the little boy because he really liked Miss Marshall and hoped she was well. Without really thinking, he put both the panties and the brassiere under his parka and sneaked back home. Then he convinced his mother that he was feeling better and it was okay for him to go to school and got there just in time for lunch.

“When he showed George and the other big boys what he had taken from Miss Marshall’s house they were impressed, even though none of them was quite sure about the meaning of blood on her panties. They sniggered and poked each other and they took the underwear into the boys’ bathroom and showed it around before bringing it back to the six-year old.

“Next was the hardest part. Getting the bra and panties into Mr. Buchanan’s desk would be tough because he kept his room locked at all times when he wasn’t in it. But as the saying goes, necessity is the grandmother of invention and the little boy simply felt it was necessary to kiss the puck. So, he had already thought of a way the task could be accomplished, even though it meant certain capture and untold punishment. He simply waited for Mr. Buchanan to show up for his 15 minutes duty as lunchtime playground patrolman and then went to him, tugged his heavy parka and said, ‘Please Mr. Buchanan sir, the principal wants a box of chalk from your cupboard.’ Of course Mr. Buchanan did not want to leave the playground unsupervised, and the six-year old looked perfectly innocent, so he gave the cute little boy his keys and the trap was set.

“Well, as soon as the six-year old had done the dastardly deed he began to worry. Mr. Buchanan would certainly figure out who had planted the panties. He would no doubt tell Miss Marshall and she would never again give the little boy a gold star. And what would his punishment be? The older boys told stories of a big leather belt, the kind used to cinch a saddle around a horse, that Mr. Buchanan wielded to whip those who broke the rules about lining up after recess. So what horrible torture would he face for this even larger crime? The rest of the lunch hour was spent worrying and fretting as he watched the older boys and the older girls chanting something like: ‘Mr. Buchanan and Miss Marshall up in a tree. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a monster in a baby carriage.’ They laughed and ran off in all directions.

“Well, about ten minutes after lunch, an even bigger roar of laughter, which could be heard everywhere in the small school, spilled out of the Grade 7 classroom. This was followed by Mr. Buchanan’s howl, then bellow, then thunderous rage, all with a background chorus of pre-pubescent giggling. The little boy learned later that Mr. Buchanan’s habit had been to stand at the front of the class and to pick one of his favorites, almost always a girl, to retrieve whatever book was appropriate to the subject at hand. When Sylvie Gelinas reached into his desk that day, instead of a book, she pulled out the panties and bra and held them up for Mr. Buchanan and the entire classroom to see.

“In the pandemonium that ensued Mr. Buchanan grabbed the underwear and held them like Napoleon’s flag bearer waving the tri-color as he marched around the classroom demanding to know who was responsible. Sylvie Gelinas fainted. A couple of the boys started chanting ‘Mr. Buchanan and Miss Marshall up in a tree. First comes love and then comes marriage. Then comes a monster in a baby carriage.’ Well, under the circumstances, short of employing a machine gun nest to mow down the entire classroom, there was no way for Mr. Buchanan to regain control of the thirty or so 12-year olds. Instead, he marched out of his room and down the hall to the Grade 1 class — all the while still waving the panties and bra for everyone to see.

“What the six-year old saw next was Mr. Buchanan barging into his classroom and screaming at Miss Buchanan as he held up the underwear, ‘Is this your idea of a joke? Your idea of getting even? Well, I won’t stand for it. I simply won’t stand for it.’

“Then, Mr. Buchanan and Miss Marshall disappeared into the principal’s office, the little boy’s Grade 1 class was first sent to the gym with the combined two/three class and about 45 minutes later the entire school was sent home.

“The little boy sensed that he had unleashed something horrible, something he didn’t understand. Mr. Buchanan was never seen again. The older boys said he had gone stark raving loony and had been sent to the funny farm in Weyburn. And Miss Marshall, well, she seemed to be even nicer to the little boy after the incident, as it was referred to in polite company.

“But right then all he really cared about was getting home, grabbing his stick, gloves and skates and running to the rink where he would finally get his opportunity to kiss the puck.

“By the time he made it to the rink, after arguing with his mother about the appropriateness of playing hockey despite being sick in the morning, the bigger boys were already on the ice. And, it seemed, they were waiting for their little hero. Everyone congratulated the six-year old and pointed out the shiny silver stainless steel puck that was placed at center ice. Finally, after much laughing and re-telling of the day’s story George told the boys to gather around center ice, where they divided up into two teams.

“Finally the big moment was about to happen. George sent the opposing team to their blueline and his squad made a circle around the puck. George picked it up with his hockey glove and held it out for the six-year old to kiss. This was finally it, his moment of self-realization. The little boy puckered up and gave that glistening silver orb a big juicy smooch.

“Over the next few seconds the little boy had his first experience of his entire life flashing before him. In all his excitement he had forgotten what every kid who grows up on the prairie knows from the age of two or so. Don’t put your lips on a piece of metal in the wintertime. Why? Because they stick. Moist lips freeze upon contact with metal. So, there was the little boy, all puckered up with a shiny silver protuberance, looking much like one of those African tribesmen who stretch their lips in order to increase their attractiveness.

“And, of course, the older boys were laughing even harder than they had a few hours earlier at school. The stupid six-year old kissing the frozen puck was the whipping cream on the sweetest day of their 12 year-old lives.

“The little boy ripped the puck away from his face, taking layers of skin with it, and ran home to hide in his room, vowing never to go to the rink again.”

“Is that a true story?” asked Mike.

“Sure, but that’s not the end of it,” said Bobby. “The little boy spent that Friday night in his room thinking and thinking and thinking. He could hide in humiliation forever or he could show them. Come the next morning, his face covered with layers of ointment and a big scarf, he went back to the rink, put on his skates and hopped over the boards onto the ice. He dropped a puck in front of him and stickhandled over to where the bigger boys were pointing and laughing at him. He stopped. The older boys laughed. He stared. Finally they stopped laughing and the six-year old said, and these were his exact words: ‘I’m going to skate back to that end of the rink and then I’m going to stickhandle all the way to score on this net. None of you can stop me.’ That was it. And that’s what he did. Over and over, all day. Maybe two hundred times and not once did the older boys stop him. Not once.”

“That six-year old was you?” said Mike.

Bobby nodded. “I used my anger and my humiliation. Channeled it into my stickhandling. My anger at those older boys who had humiliated me motivated me to become a hockey player. After that day I knew, if I put my mind to it, I could beat anyone one-on-one. All through my career, whenever I needed that extra little boost, I thought about how I felt that day with my lips stinging in pain and my entire being aching with humiliation.”

Bobby could see that Mike was thinking about the story.

“You understand what I’m saying?” he said. “Humiliation is not a good reason to quit.”

Mike shrugged.

“It’s a good story,” said his son.

It’s a good story. Bobby remembered Mike saying that, but he couldn’t recollect anything more. His head hurt. He felt nauseous and it was at least a few more hours until the bus made its first stop. He needed to sleep. He needed to turn his mind off.

Next Chapter: Wednesday

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