The Meaning Of Hockey, Chapter 24

Instead of celebrating his team’s first victory Bobby sat silent, frozen by fear, on a bench in the hallway outside the Visitor’s dressing room. He had promised to phone his son. Mike had promised to deliver a verdict on whether or not a man he barely knew could play father on his team. But this was a mere benchwarmer compared to the star of Bobby’s anxiety: Intimacy. No, much, much worse — male-to-male intimacy. In return for being allowed into his life Mike was demanding that Bobby act like a woman. It was an understandable mix-up for someone raised by lesbians. But how could Bobby explain this to his son without appearing to back out of their deal? Mike was demanding that he join La Cage Aux Folles chorus line of behavioral cross-dressing, so how could his response be other than pretence?

The difficult decision was what sort of deceit? Should the fakery take the form of pretending he was comfortable answering his son’s questions? Or was the more honorable lie to feign ignorance? Either way he risked further alienating Mike.

Stop thinking about it. Just call. Dump and chase. Throw the puck at the net and you never know what might happen.

He punched the numbers on his cell phone and lifted the device to his ear. One ring.

“Hello.”

The quick pick-up startled Bobby.

“Hello?” repeated Mike.

“Hi, it’s me. I’m calling from outside the dressing room. We won, 3-0. Our new goalie was just amazing. Incredible. Best performance I’ve seen since Ken Dryden’s playoff run in his rookie season. This kid is absolutely sensational.”

The motor-mouth routine saved him the awkwardness of choosing between “Hi, it’s your Dad” or “Hi it’s Bobby,” another dilemma that had troubled him all day.

“Great. Congratulations.”

“Feels good,” said Bobby.

“Ya,” said Mike. “I know how much losing hurts.”

What did he mean by that? Don’t make anything of it. He didn’t mean it that way.

“So, you have a chance to think about what we talked about last night?”

“Ya.”

“And?” said Bobby, trying his best to sound upbeat.

“Why not,” said Mike.

Silence.

Why not? What does that mean? Yes or no? If it means yes, he’s not very enthusiastic.

Why should he be enthusiastic?

“I’m not clear on ‘why not’,” said Bobby, trying to maintain regular breathing to keep his voice calm. “You mean why not join the Totems? Or why not let me into your life as your father? Or both?”

“Sort of both.”

More silence.

Sort of? Sort of?

Bobby’s heart raced like a rookie at center ice about to take a penalty shot against the league’s top goalie.

“Sort of both?” Bobby repeated his son’s statement as a question.

“If you’re serious about the anarchist hockey idea?” said Mike.

“Of course I’m serious.”

Where is he going with this?

“Great. Then I’m willing to try the father thing and I’m willing to join the team, but not as a player, at least not yet.”

Not as a player? What then? Let him talk.

“I’ve got some ideas about marketing the team and spreading the word about anarchism. Stuff like tie-ins with the local punk-revival music scene. There’s a really active anarchist movement here in Vancouver and I’m thinking it would be fun to do some promotions going after that demographic. You know, sort of like the bad, gang-banging Oakland Raiders. Instead of waving white towels we hand out black flags. We design a third black and red jersey.”

Amazing. Why amazing? He’s smart. You thought he was stupid? They say kids get their brains from their mothers”

“Sounds great,” said Bobby. “I never knew you were interested in that end of the hockey business.”

“I wasn’t, but then I started thinking about it and the ideas just came to me. Kind of got me excited.”

“Okay!” said Bobby. “You’re hired.”

“You mean it?” said Mike.

“Sure, why not,” said Bobby as he thought about his options. “I’ve been using this marketing guy that my so-called partner recommended, but he’s useless. I’ve been trying to figure out a way of dumping the partner, so why not everybody associated with him?” “I’ll need some help. People who know the Vancouver media and stuff.”

“The three women in the department do all the work anyway,” answered Bobby. “You’d be their boss.”

“No bosses in an anarchist collective,” Mike answered quickly.

No bosses? Did anarchism mean that too?

Anarchists on and off ice? Why the hell not? What have I got to lose that’s not already at risk?

“You’re right,” said Bobby, as an even better idea appeared like a scoring opportunity off a deflection. “In fact, instead of marketing director, how about director of operations? Or assistant general manager? I need someone I can trust to run the office.”

“Run the office?”

“It’s not as complicated as it sounds. Mostly it involves listening to people and sometimes making a decision.”

“Me?” said Mike. “I don’t know. I’ve never even had a job other than working two summers at hockey school and a month making fries at the Cape.”

“Hey, if we’re going to try this anarchist hockey thing, we want someone fresh,” said Bobby. “Besides, like you said, there won’t be any bosses so your job will be more inspiration than telling people what to do. You do the marketing and learn the business, then keep me informed of what’s going on. Try it for awhile and see what you think. Maybe you’ll decide you’d rather be a player.”

Silence.

Owning a business with my son. That’s just about as good as having him play on my team.

“Do I have to call you Dad?”

He is being ironic. Isn’t he?

“You call me whatever you’re comfortable with: Bobby, coach, Dad, Old Man, hey you.”

He’s smiling. A thousand kilometers away and I know he’s smiling.

“It would be like an experiment about whether or not an anarchist collective could really work? In the hockey world, I mean.”

“Exactly,” said Bobby. “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. Who knows, maybe it will be a disaster, but it will fun trying.”

He will go for it. He will.

“Okay, why not?” said Mike. “I haven’t got anything better to do. I can’t go back to school until January, even if I want to.”

“Great,” said Bobby. “We’ll talk salary when I get back to Vancouver in ten days.”

“Sure.”

“What about a place to stay?” said Bobby. “You can move into my apartment, if you want. There’s lots of room and it’s only a couple of blocks to the rink.”

The silence caused Bobby’s heart rate to climb again. It was like a first date, thinking about whether or not to kiss her.

“You think that would be good?” Mike’s words were slow and deliberate.

“I don’t know,” said Bobby. “We can try it out.”

“Okay, sure,” said Mike. “I can stay where I am till you get back.”

“There’s a key in my office, if you want to move in right away. It’s up to you. I have to call Marge and let her know what’s happening with your job. I’ll tell her to give you the key and you either use it or not.”

“Sure, that would be great.”

Bobby felt better than he could remember. Better than … better than ever. He had a son who was going to share his home and his business.

“This is really great Mike. You’ve made me extremely happy.”

“You remember the other part of our deal?”

Oh shit, here it comes.

“I’m committed to being your father. You can ask me anything.”

But then he chickened out.

“Except tonight I don’t really have much time. I’ve got to get on the bus, because we’re driving to Lethbridge.”

No response. Was he mad?

“I’ll call you tomorrow during the day, if you want. I’ll have some time after morning skate.”

“Sure.”

Bobby felt a mixture of relief and guilt like after a coach accepted a flimsy excuse for missing a practice.

“If there’s anything you need to talk about right now, the bus won’t leave without me.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Great. So I’ll call about noon Vancouver time. You’ll be at the office?”

“Sure.”

“Mike?”

“Ya?”

“Thanks again.”

“Sure.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

The word immediately stimulated Bobby’s adrenal gland. He looked up and down the hallway to see if anyone was watching, then he clenched his fist in a triple victory salute.

“Dad?”

Again.

“Ya?”

“I know you don’t have the time to answer right now. But can you think about something?”

There’s a fine line between an adrenaline rush that feels good and one of panic.

“Of course. Shoot.”

“Am I weird to be uncomfortable around naked guys? I mean, in the dressing room and shower? I mean it’s not like it gets me aroused or anything, so I’m pretty sure I’m not gay, but I feel not quite comfortable. Is that, like normal?”

Oh Lord.

Next Chapter: Wednesday

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 Gary Engler.