The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 20

During the second period of the game against Calgary, the conversation with his son finally reentered Bobby’s consciousness. It was Troy’s words, as the Hitmen opened the period with two quick goals, that triggered his memory.

“Fuck Bobby it’s 6-0,” Troy was saying. “This is bad. Half the fucking team has fucking quit on us. We’re drowning here. What the fuck should we do?”

Do? Nothing. Hopeless. In over our heads. Drowning. Do? Mouth to mouth. The kiss of life. He needs the kiss of life.

“What the fuck do we do Bobby?”

Bobby imagined kissing him. Right on the lips as he said, “Breathe and it will be okay.”

Troy would have been the most astonished person on the planet at that moment, but the four young guys in suits sitting directly behind the Visitor’s bench would have also been candidates for the completely dumbfounded male of the year award. And the only reason the half dozen players who would have witnessed the illicit buss would not be considered for the prize was that they had all been previously convinced that their coach was completely cracked and crumbling.

Maybe everything was a dream, his sleep-deprived brain playing a prank on him. Maybe he was still 30-years old and on top of his game and all this bad stuff was just a dream. How can you really tell the difference between reality and illusion? Is there any such thing as reality, really? Sleep. He needed to sleep. Then Bobby’s present thoughts vacated the premises, replaced by the memory of words, images, and emotions.

Mike was in his office, sitting on the couch, his eyes distributing twin lines of tears like a Zamboni flooding the ice between periods.

“Almost every night for the last season I had the same dream. My Mom and I are summering at the Cape. It’s a sunny day and I’m in the ocean, treading water. But a storm moves in so the waves get bigger and bigger. For some reason I can’t get out of the water. I feel like I’m drowning. I’m swallowing mouthfuls of salty water and gagging. I’m sinking to the bottom of the ocean, but then I wake up. Stuck in my consciousness is some stupid thing one of my teammates said the day before.

“Some of them thought they were being funny. ‘You’re pretty tough for a Lesbo Boy. What’s it like to have a pussy licker for a mother? Your Dad’s a dyke. The son of a dyke has got to be queer, right? You got any videos of them doing it? Just when I thought I had heard it all, some guy would come up with a new one. Hey is it true lesbos got tongues as long as cocks?’ Everything they said got to me but I never let it show. Never give them the pleasure, but inside … I had no one to talk to. My Mom, she loves watching the game but she couldn’t understand, not really. And you …”

Bobby hurt from the inside out.

“I need to ask a question. It’s the reason I came here. I thought about saying it on the phone but I need to see your eyes.”

While it wasn’t exactly déjà vu, Bobby knew what his son was about to say. Each beat in each sentence felt like the throbbing pain of taking a breath the time Phil Esposito broke four of his ribs with a crosscheck.

“Did you hate me because I cost you so much for child support?”

“I never hated you.”

“Did you resent me?”

“I never resented you.”

“Did you hate my mother so much that you couldn’t bear the thought of having anything to do with me?”

“I never hated your mother.”

“Did you hate kids?”

“No.”

“You just didn’t care?”

“I always cared.”

“Then why? Why?”

Why? Why hadn’t he been there? Why did his son grow up without a father?

“I don’t know.”

“You never thought about it?”

Bobby nodded. “Of course I did.”

“But came to no conclusions?”

The despair in his son’s voice added to the pain that was consuming Bobby.

“I can’t explain it.”

“You owe me some sort of justification.”

Yes, he did, but why start now paying debts that had been outstanding for years? Wasn’t there a statute of limitations for psychological damage suits? Shouldn’t there be provisions for emotional bankruptcy? Especially for parents?

“I’m a puck hog, on and off the ice.” The answer arrived from somewhere without conscious deliberation. All rational thoughts were disappearing from Bobby’s brain as he became consumed by panic. He was being cut from the only team that he ever truly desired to play for. All because he couldn’t answer a simple question. Why had he abdicated his fatherly responsibility? The truth would make no sense. Old explanations made little sense today: Already paid enough. Too busy. Not interested. I’m a hockey player, not a father. How could he?

“That’s it?” Mike’s tone was aggressive.

“I’ve always been a puck hog,” he repeated, as he suddenly became aware of his pounding heart.

Beads of sweat poured down his cheeks. A sharp pain in his chest. Breathing was difficult.

Mike’s look changed from hatred to panic.

“Being a star was always the most important thing to me. More important than … ” Did he say it or think it? It was like he had crossed the blueline, head down, and his son had caught him with a shoulder, sending him into a different time zone. It was a clean check, completely deserved, but it still hurt. Had he blacked out? Maybe he had just closed his eyes. When he opened them, Mike was standing above him.

“Breathe and it will be okay,” his son was saying, helping him to the couch. “Lay down. Breathe slowly.”

He looked up at his son. He was saying something but the words floated out of reach. He gathered his strength to speak.

“I understand your dream,” he said. “Drowning. I’ve been feeling like that for a long time. Like I need someone to give me the kiss of life. Someone.”

“Should I call somebody?” Mike said.

“I’ll be fine,” said Bobby, sitting up. “Sometimes, when I don’t sleep for a long time I get these dizzy spells. Like the aftermath of a concussion, back when I played.”

“You sure?” said Mike.

“Just stay with me for a few minutes,” said Bobby, “and I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

Just stay with me for a few minutes. Just stay with me. Stay with me. Stay. Fainting. Is that all it takes to get my son to care? *** The game was a new low in Totem team performance. Not only was Bobby Benoit’s squad crushed 12-1 by one of the top teams in the league, but a fight broke out at the Vancouver bench late in the third period between Neal Marshall and John Baxter. The teammates had to be separated by Troy and sent to the dressing room.

After the game was over, Bobby told Troy to keep all the players in the dressing room for an important meeting. Then he sat at the visitors’ bench while the Saddledome cleaning crew swept up after a departed crowd of six thousand. Despite the humiliating defeat and the fear that what he was about to do might be a terrible mistake Bobby enjoyed the time and the place — fans gone — an arena being made ready for the next game. It was like in the old days when he played and the world made sense. This game is over and tomorrow is another day. Don’t feel too good if you played well, don’t feel too bad if you stunk. That’s the key to getting through a long season. And maybe the same goes for life.

Time to prepare for the next game. Time to prepare for the rest of life. What do I want and what must I do to get it?

He knew what he wanted. That was progress. He wanted Frida and he wanted Mike. To get Frida he needed to straighten out his life. Clear his mind. Focus. Demonstrate how much he needed and desired her. Become who she wanted him to be. Women, especially of her age, liked that sort of thing. To get Mike he needed to explain and straighten out his life. Get beyond himself, step outside the narrow, irrelevant world of the famous Bobby Benoit. Prove he was interested in and could understand Noam Chomsky as well as anyone. Become like Noam Chomsky. Be the Noam Chomsky of hockey philosophy. Prove how much he needed and wanted his son. Kids were supposed to like that. Kids were supposed to want fathers. That’s what the afternoon soaps and the late-night psychological phone-in shows taught you. He just had to prove his desire to be a good father. How could the truth be hard to prove?

He needed something to believe in, to anchor himself, so that he could climb out of this deep dark well that he had fallen into. The best way forward was through anarchist hockey. Noam Chomsky on hockey. Both Frida and Mike would be interested in that. Bobby was certain his son could be convinced to play for the first and only anarchist hockey team. And a successful anarchist hockey team was the key to getting Anderson off his back as well. There was no way on earth that slimy businessman bastard would want to be associated with The Boys in Black. Maybe he should announce a name change. “The Vancouver Black Flags.” That would scare Anderson off.

Bobby smiled.

He needed motivation and inspiration and Mike and Frida offered it. They belonged to some sort of alternative culture, a left wing, feminist milieu that he was completely unfamiliar with. But it offered hope or at least something different. That was better than he could say about his world of hockey, which had become an endless stream of boring clichés interwoven with tall tales told and retold.

He had to stop being a puck hog. A revolution in hockey and a revolution in his life.

His choices were more of the same and certain failure or trying something new. So, there really was no choice. The way forward was through anarchist hockey. But what exactly did it mean? Maybe Mike would join Frida in being his teacher.

Next Chapter: Monday

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]