The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 21

Bobby kept the team waiting for almost an hour. After making a dozen short phone calls he walked slowly down the wide hallway, then opened the dressing room door. Max, the trainer, and Bo, the stick boy stopped what they were doing. There was a quick buzz of whispers, then the players, dressed in identical green Totem blazers and brown slacks, silently sat around the small space that smelled of blood, sweat and fears. Troy and Blair stood in the middle of the room and Bobby took a spot beside his assistants.

The room remained silent for a minute or so before Bobby spoke.

“Any of you guys ever hear about a guy named Chucker Billy Hayworth?”

Only Troy nodded.

“You know why they called him Chucker? Cause he had the worst temper of any coach I ever met and when he got really mad at a call some ref made, he’d stand up on the bench and chuck things. He’d grab anything nearby and throw it out onto the ice. Sticks were most common, but at one time or another he hurled just about anything you could think of. He threw helmets, shoulder pads, hats, coats, water bottles, his wallet, towels, pails, first aid kits, socks, jerseys, garter belts, athletic supports, skates … one time he tossed Moose Vasco’s teeth cause he made the mistake of leaving them on the ledge behind the bench.

Anyhow, about the 90th time Chucker pulled this stunt the league suspended him for 20 games. And the owner of the team tells Hayworth that his little baseball routine is getting kind of tiresome and if he wants to keep the coaching job he better clean up his act.

First game back from the suspension guess who the ref is? Blackjack Madison. Same guy who did the game where Chucker got hit for the 20. And you could tell Madison is going to prove he’s not scared of any goddamn coach. All us players are placing bets on how long it will be before Hayworth is up on the bench making like a quarterback back in the pocket. I have him for 10 minutes into the first period, but damned if coach doesn’t act all cool, calm and collected right through the second period.

It’s a close game and a couple of minutes into the third, Blackjack calls a bogus bench minor for too many men. Hayworth is livid. He’s cursing under his breath and he stands up on the bench and we’re all thinking he’s about to start flinging sticks, but he climbs down off the bench and just starts clapping his hands and encouraging us to kill the penalty. Shit, we’re all amazed. Coach has turned a new leaf. But then about 20 seconds later Blackjack calls another penalty on us. Hooking and again it’s a pretty marginal call. It’s clear Madison wants to see how far he can push Chucker before he starts tossing again.

Well, up Chucker goes on the bench and we’re all ducking our heads so we don’t get beaned, but just like before he steps down without tossing so much as an orange. This time he calls Blackjack over. Cool, calm and collected he finally gets Madison and both the linesmen over, who I guess are there in case witnesses are needed to testify at a murder trial. ‘So Blackjack, I need to ask you a question,’ says Chucker. ‘What is it?’ says Blackjack. ‘I just want to ask you if you can get a penalty for thinking?’ says Chucker. ‘Thinking?’ says Blackjack. ‘No, you can’t get a penalty for thinking.’ Chucker smiles all sweetly and says ‘That’s good to know, cause I think you’re a fucking stupid asshole and the worst goddamn blind referee ever to lace up a pair of skates.’”

A few of the players sniggered.

“Anyone tell me the point of that story?” asked Bobby.

“There’s a lot of ways you can express your anger?” said Picard.

Bobby nodded.

“Be creative, even when you’re mad,” said Kiniski.

He nodded again and then turned slowly to make eye contact with each player in the room.

“I just want to say that none of you are to blame for what happened on the ice tonight or for our season so far,” said Bobby.

“I mean that,” he said. “I, and I alone, am responsible.

“We have played six games and have lost by a combined score of 48 –10. That’s about as bad as it gets. And the single most important reason for this unacceptable performance has been because I have been suffering from what is commonly called a nervous breakdown.”

There was a lot of shuffling but no one spoke.

“I can’t expect honesty from my team if I can’t be honest first. The truth is I have been miserable for the past couple of years and I began seeing a psychologist just before the season started and I now see what my problems have been. Not that I have solutions, but I think I know where to begin. Anyhow, most of that is not any of your concern. What you do need to know is that you have not received any direction from me and that’s the primary reason for our sorry record.

“But enough about what is past,” said Bobby.

He took a deep breath.

“Five minutes ago I traded Baxter and Marshall.”

A murmur of whispers traveled around the room and Brad glared at Bobby.

“I apologize to both of you for letting you know in this fashion. It’s not normally my style, but I felt under the circumstances, it was what I had to do. And I want you both to know that the reason I traded you was only partly due to what happened tonight. The biggest reason why you two were traded is because you are the players Spokane wanted.”

There was more whispering as the players tried to guess who was coming to the Totems.

“I traded Baxter and Marshall to the Chiefs for Kevin Buckinghorse,” Bobby said to answer the question everyone was asking.

Whispers grew into low moans and Brad stood up and crossed the room, before turning to face Bobby.

“I also apologize to the rest of the coaching staff for not keeping them informed. I wouldn’t blame them one bit if they quit on a head coach who has been acting the way I have for the past month.”

Bobby looked at Brad and couldn’t help but smile slightly as he dared his assistant to quit the team.

“And after what I am about to say, anyone else who wants a trade, just ask and I’ll try to accommodate you,” said Bobby.

He walked over to Baxter, staring down at him.

“You and Marshall can leave. Wait in the corridor until we’re done here.”

As Marshall and Baxter stood to leave, the former team captain muttered loudly enough so that Bobby could hear. “Thank God I’m out of this nuthouse.”

“Baxter,” said Bobby. “In the month that I’ve known you I’ve come to realize you’re a namby-pamby, teacher’s-pet suck hole and nobody really likes you.”

There were a few sniggers from players and Troy actually laughed out loud.

As Baxter and Marshall departed, Bobby continued.

“I’ve traded for Buckinghorse despite what most of you have heard about him,” he said, then stopped himself. “No, I’ve traded for Buckinghorse because of what most of you have heard about him. He’s a great player but … He’s got a major attitude problem. He’s got a temper. He’s got a chip on his shoulder. He’s a gang banger from the tough north side of Regina.

“Well, I’m telling you here and now, that this team, my team — our team if you want to join in — is going to be built around a crazy Indian who is probably the best stick handler I’ve seen since I looked in the mirror when I was 20.”

Bobby then walked over to Kiniski and Picard.

“And a faggot who can skate like the wind and make some of the best passes since Gretzky and a defenceman in dreadlocks. I’m also trying to get the Lesbo Boy aka the Anarchist Kid to lace up skates for the Totems. Plus whatever other highly skilled misfits I can find who want to be part of this experiment in anarchist hockey.”

Bobby paused to let his words sink in.

“That’s right, anarchist hockey.”

The faces staring at him were eloquent in their silent incomprehension.

“So what the hell is anarchist hockey? I’m not quite sure myself. I’m just working it out. What I do know is that this team will demand creativity from its players. This team will rely on that creativity instead of a top-down system imposed by me. This team will have a set of rules and a code of conduct that comes from the players and is enforced by you, not the coaching staff. What I do know is that everyone on the team will have a voice in team affairs. Decision making on the team will be done by consensus and if any individual cannot abide by that consensus he will have the option of asking for a trade. I, and the rest of the coaching staff, will be willing to talk about anything. We will ask for your input. On this team there won’t be any boring defensive schemes. We won’t play the trap. On this team your imagination will be the key to our success. With this team the fans will be entertained by wide-open hockey. This team will play to win but not by satisfying the ego of a coach that his plans and set plays can produce victories. This team will be all about creative, fun, exciting hockey. This team will be about you, the players, not about the coach or the owner. If you’re good enough to play on the team you’re good enough to share power.”

A few of the players were nodding as if they understood what Bobby was saying.

“For those of you who still have questions, and I include myself in that group, hopefully we can work out most of the details on the rest of this road trip.”

Amazingly the room was still silent.

“Okay let’s get on that bus and put this crappy day behind us.”

*** By the time the team got back to the hotel on the northeast side of the city and Bobby turned his cell phone back on, he had a dozen messages waiting for him from general managers around the league. Plus a two-minute rant from Anderson as Brad had already finked on him.

Perfect. Word had spread quickly that he had suffered one too many elbows to the brain and the vultures were circling. The hockey hyenas were never quite so hungry as when a meal of one of their own was on the menu. This was exactly the spot that Bobby wanted to be in. He preferred an over-confident foe, one who would underestimate his ability. Most general managers were more scared of losing a trade than of doing nothing. They needed to believe their opponent was an easy mark. It was a classic poker scam. Pretend you are a novice and then wait to clean up. What Bobby had accomplished by his erratic behavior and his apparently clueless trading for the player with the worst reputation in the league was to give himself the opportunity to talk trade with every GM in the WHL. No one was scared of Bobby Benoit now.

So Bobby was looking forward to returning phone calls. It would be crucial to accomplish what he could tonight, before the method of his madness became apparent. But rather than making his first call to Pete Macklin, GM of Brandon, who owned the one player Bobby most coveted, he dialed Mike in Vancouver.

“What do you want?”

Mike’s tone scared Bobby, but he answered the question, trying not to sound defensive.

“I want to say I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For how I talked to you yesterday, for not being able to answer your question, for being scared of telling you the truth, for being scared to be your father, for letting my fear build up over the years so that eventually I was more scared of explaining my absence than I was of being a father, but most of all I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you because I know how much you needed me and how much I would have enjoyed it.”

The words flowed like a chugalug beer, then Bobby coughed and sucked in oxygen as he waited for Mike’s response. The silence seemed louder than the crowd at old Chicago Stadium.

“What do you want me to do?” he said to fill a little of the space between them.

“Do?” answered Mike.

“To make up.”

“Make up?”

“How many minutes must I spend in the penalty box before I’m allowed back on the ice to skate with you?” said Bobby.

“Maybe the league commissioner gave you a lifetime suspension.”

“With no appeal?”

Silence again.

Bobby looked at himself in the mirror on the closet door. He was surprised at the dignity reflected back at him. He would have guessed pathetic or ridiculous would be more like it.

“I’ll do whatever you ask. Anything. I know it can never make up for all the stuff you missed out on … that I missed out on too, but if you want to give me a chance, I’d be really, really grateful.”

Begging didn’t feel as bad as he had thought it would.

“What are we talking about?” asked Mike. “Playing on your team or being your son?”

“Both, if that’s possible. But primarily being your father.”

“I don’t know if I want to play hockey anymore.”

Strange words to make me feel so happy, thought Bobby.

“That’s completely your decision,” he said, even though the thought of being on the ice with his son, even in practice, was as pleasant as any he ever had. “Just tell me how I can have a place in your life. The bigger the better, but I’ll be happy with whatever I get.”

“You’ll do anything?” Mike said.

Oops. Where was he going with this?

“Anything. I promise. You name it, I’ll do it.”

Play the game with no fear.

“I want you to answer some questions about guy stuff.”

Maybe a little fear.

“Guy stuff?”

“Mostly about sex and relationships.”

Way past fear, on the road to panic.

“I was always getting the women’s point of view, you know, from my mother and her friends so it’s always really bothered me that I never had someone, you know, a male, to talk to.”

Bobby tried to calm his breathing as his brain skated wind sprints.

Mike grew up with women so he doesn’t know men never talk about such things. But if I say that he’ll think I’m backing out of my promise. Breathe.

“Okay?” Mike said. It was his turn to be made uncomfortable by the silence.

“Of course, whatever you want, whenever you want,” Bobby heard himself say.

Be brave. Channel your fear. Would he ask something now? Breathe.

“So it’s a deal?” Bobby said to change the subject.

“I’ll think about it,” said Mike. “Can you call me tomorrow?”

“I will, after the game in Red Deer,” said Bobby.

“Did you play tonight?”

“We got clobbered again. I’m in the middle of making some trades.”

“Ya?”

“Major moves. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow night.”

“Sure.”

“Mike?”

“Ya?”

“Thanks for not hanging up on me, even though I deserved it.”

“Sure.”

“Talk to you tomorrow.”

Simple words had never felt so good.

Next Chapter: Wednesday/i>

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