The Meaning Of Hockey, Chapter 22

A knock at the hotel room door, then an electric clock reading 6 a.m. greeted Bobby’s consciousness as his morning began less than an hour after his night ended. Or maybe he had not slept at all. It had become so hard to tell.

“This had better be good,” he mumbled as he pulled on a T-shirt.

Troy stood in the hallway.

“I’m fucking sorry for fucking waking you before you fucking told me, but fuckhead Brad just fucking quit. Got a fucking coaching job in fucking Tri-Cities.”

“I know,” said Bobby, holding the door open to allow Troy in. “That bastard Green said he wanted the best assistant coach in the league if we were going to complete our trade, but I told him there was no way I was giving you up. He settled for Brad.”

Troy’s puppy dog smile made him look even goofier than usual.

“Fuck Bobby,” he said.

“It’s good that you’re here. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Counting the two you heard about last night I traded nine players.”

“Nine? Fuck Bobby.”

“Nine gone and five coming. Plus I gave up two draft picks and swapped one other.”

“Fuck Bobby.”

“Let me show you what I did,” Bobby said as he grabbed six letter-sized pieces of paper that he had taped together. “What I figure we need in order to have a team that can go all the way is one goalie, two defencemen and three forwards, all of whom have the potential to be all-stars, if they play to their potential. Plus you need one of the top heavyweights. Once you have that nucleus, you fill in the rest with hungry character guys and you’re talking Memorial Cup.”

“Fuck Bobby, we fucking haven’t won a fucking game yet.”

“Inspiration is where it all begins Troy and I am inspired. Look at who I got.”

Bobby straightened the sheets and then spread the papers across the bed.

“I started with Macklin in Brandon, because I needed an all-star goalie before anything else.”

“You fucking didn’t?” said Troy.

“I sure the fuck did,” said Bobby. “Billy Weldon.”

“Fuck.”

“Every scout, every coach, every player who ever went against him tells me he’s the best they ever saw. More intense than Patrick Roy. One old fart told me the only goalie he ever saw who may have been as good in junior was Jacques Plante. Played in 24 games last season as a 17-year old and had a goals against average of 2.10 on a team that gave up an average of 4.6 goals a game when he wasn’t playing.”

“No, I checked it out. He’s been playing Junior B, right here in Calgary.”

“Junior fucking B?”

“I talked with his Dad. Kid was getting an ulcer from worrying in Brandon. Couldn’t stand the pressure. Dad says he needs a situation where he can have fun and take his mind off the game away from the rink. Brandon, it was hockey, hockey, hockey. Vancouver is another story. Apparently the kid is some kind of whiz at art too, painting and sculpting, that sort of thing and we got the Emily Carr School of Art. Dad thinks he’ll go for it.”

“Who the fuck did you give up?”

“Brisco, Smith and our choice of one of any two players they choose from our protected list next June.”

“You gave up a fucking 19-year-old fucking goalie good enough to be fucking drafted by fucking San Jose?”

“In the eighth round.”

“And our fucking best stay-at-home defenceman?” said Troy.

“Smith told me last night he wanted out.”

“Fuck Bobby, and one of our fucking best prospects next year. For a fucking goalie we don’t even fucking know will fucking play?”

“He’ll play,” said Bobby.

“Fuck Bobby.”

“You’ve got to trade something to get something.”

“What’s fucking next?” Troy couldn’t make out the scribbling on the papers and in the light of day, Bobby was having difficulty as well.

“I can’t make out my writing,” said Bobby. “But I know I picked up Sam Lalli from Regina for Al Jones, Fee and our second round pick in the bantam draft next year.”

“Fucking Lalli? Fucking biggest head case in the league,” said Troy.

“I know the reputation. East Indian with a chip on his shoulder. Easy mark to get off his game. Just hack him a little and he throws a tantrum. Ends up in the penalty box. But he’s six-foot-two, 210 pounds, skates like Bobby Orr and had over forty points last season as a 16-year old.”

“Fucking Jones and Fee? Fuck. They could be the two top 17-year olds in the fucking league.”

“Jones maybe,” said Bobby. “Fee has no fire. It’s a good swap if we can teach Lalli to control himself.”

“Fucking good luck.”

“Hey, he won’t be the worst of our problems,” said Bobby.

Troy immediately knew what Bobby meant. “You didn’t trade for him too?”

It was the first complete sentence Bobby had ever heard Troy speak without a single “fuck.”

“I fucking did Troy, I fucking did. I sent Baldwin, Barnes, Dean, Jones and a swap of our first round picks in next year’s draft to Portland for Paulo Vicente.”

“Geez Bobby, that puke has the worst attitude of any player I ever saw. Portland has been trying to get rid of him since that punch-up with Pedersen last season.”

Three straight sentences without a fuck. Maybe the shock of the trades has cured him, thought Bobby.

“Sixty-five goals last season.”

“And four fucking assists,” said Troy. “Biggest fucking puck hog in the fucking history of fucking hockey. Fucking fourth round pick and a fucking sixth rounder for a fucking seventh rounder.”

“That was before he scored 65 goals.”

“Fucker maybe wouldn’t have been fucking drafted at all after he fucking punched his fucking coach.”

“You scared, Troy?” Bobby smiled. “Kiniski, Vicente and Chedomensky, the top scoring line in all of junior hockey?”

“If they fucking don’t kill each other or us fucking first,” said Troy.

“I’m counting on you to protect me,” said Bobby with a big smile on his face.

“Maybe I’ll be fucking busy out on the fucking ice,” said Troy. “You fucking traded away our fucking muscle. You had to dump both Marshall and D.J.?”

“Ah, but my last trade has fixed that problem. A third round pick in next year’s draft, plus assistant coach Brad Bower to Tri-Cities for Mike Webster.”

“Fucking Webster? Fucking chickenshit. Fucking too scared to fucking fight. You fucking saw him fucking turtle when fucking Marshall went after him.”

“I saw a six-foot-five, 240-pound, 17-year-old who can skate and throws a left that can probably knock out anybody in this league.”

“Fuck Bobby, the fucking rumor was fucking Tri-Cities was going to fucking drop him. You could have fucking picked him up for fucking nothing.”

“I didn’t want to pick him up for fucking nothing. The kid needs confidence. Needs to feel like we want him. And the bonus was I got rid of Bower as well.”

At that Troy smiled.

“You’re my associate coach now,” said Bobby. “I’ll need you to take on a bigger load. You ready for it?”

Troy nodded, his face once again easily mistaken for a well-fed, three-month old Labrador.

“We’ll get another assistant, someone good with forwards. You cool with that?”

“That would be great Bobby.”

“But we’ve got a lot of work to do now, so it’s going to be just you and me for awhile,” said Bobby. “We better get started.”

“You got a pen?” said Troy. “I’ll make a list of traded players. You want to tell them or you want me to do it?”

“Both of us. Together. And Troy, from now on, I don’t do anything without consulting you first. Okay?”

“That would be great Bobby, fucking great,” Troy smiled.

Give a man some responsibility and he even fucking changes the way he talks, thought Bobby as he listened to Troy do an interview with a radio reporter from Red Deer.

“We have totally changed the direction of this team,” Troy was telling the kid who looked barely older than the youngest Totem player. “We feel that this is not the same team that lost its first six games. We think you’ll see a much more creative group concept tonight and we believe that once these new players have a chance to gel the Totems will be able to compete with the top teams in the league.”

“Aren’t you worried about the reputations of some of these new guys?” the reporter asked and then stuck his tape recorder back in front of Troy’s mouth.

“Every player who comes to this organization comes with a clean slate,” said Troy. “We don’t worry about what’s happened in the past. We judge players on how they perform for us.”

“Thanks Troy,” said the reporter, who then hurried after Max Bentley, the Red Deer coach who was walking down the hallway to the home dressing room.

Bobby put his arm around Troy’s shoulder. “Hey big guy, you’re a natural with the media.”

“I did okay?”

“You did so great that from now on, you get to do all the talking with reporters.”

“Fuck Bobby.”

“You’ve got a natural fucking face for radio.”

Both he and Troy were happy.

Next Chapter: Friday

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