The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 19

The half-asleep mis-firings of Bobby’s short-circuited brain included memories, maybe musings, more likely a dream, of discussing anarchist hockey with Mike.

“We’ll have fun, you’ll see. We’ll prove a successful team doesn’t need to be run like the Gestapo.”

Mike was debating with him the real meaning of anarchism and someone else had joined the conversation. It was Alphonse Picard, his defenceman.

The three of them were arguing and waving their arms and laughing, but Bobby could hear no words. It was impossible to tell if there was anger or laughter. Then, suddenly, Bobby could hear Picard. “I’ll never be treated fairly, because I’m black.”

“An all-black anarchist team, now that would be something,” said Mike.

“I’ll never be treated fairly, because I’m black,” Picard repeated.

And then Bobby was once again conscious. He must have been asleep for a few hours because he recognized the town of Salmon Arm. Always made him think about a crossword puzzle. Clue: A fish appendage. Nine letters. Answer: We’re driving through it.

Picard. “I’ll never be treated fairly, because I’m black.” What did that mean? It must have been a dream. But as the bus moved along the winding Highway One high above a lake he was not one hundred per cent certain.

So as the bus pulled out of the truck stop café parking lot in Sicamous, Bobby motioned for Picard to take the seat next to him. Protocol called for everyone to move back in the bus when the coach wanted a private talk with a player, so a few new card games immediately began in the last six rows.

“Alphonse,” said Bobby.

“Coach,” said Picard.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you since you got here,” said Bobby.

Picard nodded.

“How do you feel about your play so far this season?” asked Bobby.

“I can do better,” said Picard, who had an accent that Bobby could not place. It certainly was not French Canadian. “Takes a while to get used to new teammates.”

“Where did you grow up?” said Bobby.

“Halifax,” said Picard, who had obviously been through this line of questioning before. “My name is French, but I grew up English. My old man sort of took off when I was little.”

“Halifax,” Bobby repeated, thinking that he had been told one time that there were a lot of blacks in Nova Scotia. “That’s one place I’ve never been. I played in the A before Halifax got a team. Is it nice?”

“It’s home.”

“I’ve heard Halifax can be really racist. Is that true?” Bobby’s new-found ability to say what he was thinking was coming in handy. It certainly was having the effect of shortening conversations.

“Can be,” said Picard, wary of what coach was getting at.

“Then again, I’ve heard the whole Quebec league can be quite an experience for African-Canadian players,” said Bobby.

Picard just shrugged, but Bobby could tell he had said something meaningful.

“I hope you’re feeling comfortable here,”

“I’m really grateful for the chance you’re giving me,” said Picard. “The ice time has been great.”

“You’ve earned it,” said Bobby. “The only plus defenceman on a team with our record.”

“I try not to make mistakes,” said Picard.

“That’s important for a defenceman,” said Bobby. “I mean not that I ever played the position, but I’ve been around. Defencemen have got to be smarter than everyone else on the team. Know what’s going to happen before the opposition forwards do. That’s the key. Play smart and don’t make mistakes. You agree?”

“Sure coach,” said Picard.

What the hell am I trying to say, thought Bobby. He knew the general direction he wanted to travel, but how to get over the looming mountain. Ah hell, thought Bobby, let’s just blurt it out.

“You know there’s some people, ignorant people, who say blacks aren’t smart enough to play defence.”

There, he said it.

Picard stared down at his shoes.

“I don’t say this to get you down and I’m sure you know a whole hell of a lot better than me that there’s racism in this game.”

Picard’s eyes remained frozen on his Reebocks. This was a subject he had learned to avoid.

Say something positive.

“The whole idea of race is pretty stupid. My girlfriend, well friend really, who has a Ph.D. in psychology and knows all about this kind of stuff, says there’s no such thing. Genetic differences between what people call races are less than the variations among Europeans or Africans. She says the only things real about race are our perception of it and our behaviors based on those perceptions.”

Bobby thought his words sounded smart and Picard seemed to be listening so he continued to babble on.

“My friend also told me that because all human beings originated in Africa, people from there have the widest genetic variations. The tallest people, the shortest people, the strongest people, the weakest people, the stupidest people, the smartest people — all are most likely to come from Africa. So, when racists make generalizations about people with the widest genetic variation it proves how ignorant they really are.”

Picard’s reaction was a happy smirk.

“She also says the way forward, the way to human liberation, is to get over our old ideas about race and nationality. We are all human beings and we must treat the entire planet as our home. She says that’s what anarchists believe.”

Picard nodded, as if the words had meaning to him.

“So, why am I telling you this? I don’t know, except I want you to understand that I will try to understand what it is like for you. I want you to understand that I am someone you can talk to about anything. I’d like for us to be completely open. I can say anything and you can say anything. Anything at all, because we trust each other. Does that make sense?”

Picard made eye contact and nodded.

“Good,” said Bobby as he smiled and then changed the subject. “You got a temper?”

Picard thought about the question before answering.

“I used to,” he said. “Why?”

“I’ve noticed you always seem to be calm. Mellow even.”

“Mellow is good, mon,” Picard smiled as he said this and Bobby knew he had won him over.

“Mellow is good, mon,” repeated Bobby. “But anger can be useful too, if you focus it on the right places.”

“Rastaman teaches anger is the victory of your enemies.”

“Rastaman is right, especially when you’re playing defence,” said Bobby. “But anger can be a very good motivation. I’ll tell you a story about it.”

It was the same story he had told his son.

***

No more than a few minutes after Picard had returned to his card game Bobby’s eyes were closed and anyone seeing him would have said he was asleep again. But, during bouts of insomnia what looked like sleep often didn’t feel like sleep.

Mike was screaming at him.

“You’re fucking embarrassed about me!”

“No.”

They were back in Bobby’s office after the tour of Coliseum.

“You didn’t even tell the trainer and the equipment guy that I’m your son.”

“But …

“You’re embarrassed!”

“No, that’s not true.”

“Then why didn’t you tell them?”

“I… I… I…”

Bobby knew why, but the words would not form.

“Because they call me Lesbo Boy? All over the league that’s what they’d say. Tie me up in the corner and some half wit from Porcupine Point says ‘Hey Lesbo Boy, got any tapes of your dyke mother doing it?”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

Bobby couldn’t think straight. His brain was overloaded with explanations and it all came out so fast that instead of sentences the words amounted to nothing more than gibberish.

“But … couldn’t … I … assholes … don’t listen … no one … understand … he … I …cruel … your mother … nothing … crazy … think they already … complicate … sorry … sorry …”

Then Mike was punching him. On the shoulder. Stop it. Stop it. I don’t want to hit you. Stop it.

“Bobby, Bobby. Come on. Wake up. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

It was Troy. On the bus. On the bus. They were driving through snow sheds in Roger’s Pass.

Mike. Was it history or was it a dream? What if my brain can’t tell the difference? Is there any difference?

“Are you okay?” asked Troy, filling the seat beside him.

Bobby stared at his friend, took a deep breath and then smiled, but did not answer.

What had happened between him and Mike? He could not recall. Could not or would not? How long before he must face the demon? Which was? It was obvious. The devil that had tormented him all his life: Teamwork. Or his lack thereof.

Next Chapter: Friday

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