The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 26

Malcontent.

Bobby stared at the hotel room ceiling.

Is that right? Does that mean what I mean?

Even though he had begun to think in English by the age of twenty, sometimes he was confused by words that were too close to ones from his first language. Sometimes words came to him that were neither English nor French.

An inability to be content. What’s the word for that?

Once again Bobby had not slept. He should have felt good, satisfied, after his conversation with Mike. He should have dreamed about his bright fatherly future. Instead, he spent hours staring at the textured ceiling, increasingly irritated by the blatant attempt to cover up imperfections through the liberal application of grit. Like the neutral-zone trap or clutching and grabbing in general, it was an example of the triumph of mediocrity over the pursuit of perfection. Instead of striving for the greatness of perfectly smooth wallboard, the world settled for the illusion of messy intent. Worse, the system of mediocrity had defeated the individual struggle for greatness, just like in the NHL where teams now won Stanley Cups through planning rather than creativity. Get rid of the coaches. That’s what anarchist hockey could accomplish. Resurrect creativity from the morass of central planning.

Have I always been this cranky? Does it come with age?

Bobby suddenly realized it wasn’t the ceiling or the neutral-zone trap that was bothering him.

I have Mike but I don’t have Frida.

That was the source of his discontent.

Happiness is like a jigsaw puzzle. Even one missing piece destroys the effect.

He longed for Frida.

Bobby picked up the cell phone from the nightstand, pressed speed dial and then one.

“Hi, did I wake you?” he said.

“What time is it?” Frida said.

“Seven-thirty. Six-thirty Vancouver time,” he said.

“What is it?” she said.

“I want you. I need you. I’m sorry about not speaking to you properly about why I couldn’t … you know, get it up … the first night. I just panicked. You know that’s how it’s always been for me.”

As Bobby waited for her to respond he visualized her in bed.

Pajamas or naked?

“Are you telling me the truth?”

Truth? Of what?

“About?” he said tentatively.

“About desiring me?”

“What do you mean?” Bobby asked, feeling somewhat like he was beginning a conversation in a foreign language.

Quiet.

Bobby sensed an importance to this silence, but was unsure exactly what meaning she intended to convey.

Why can’t she just come out and say what she means?

More quiet.

“Bobby,” Frida finally said and he knew she was about to say something he didn’t want to hear. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the possibility of our relationship becoming sexual.”

“And?”

“It excites me. I’m almost 50, I’m in the middle of menopause and for some damn reason I have become obsessed with sex. Sex with you, day and night, over and over. I ache with the thought of you inside me.”

Panic and excitement in modulated waves.

“Me too.”

What a stupid thing to say.

“It excites me,” she said thankfully ignoring him, “but I don’t think it would be a good idea. At least not for awhile.”

Here it comes.

He finally had the determination to exhibit some self-confidence and motivation and she was about to ruin it.

“I’m past the age where sex, by itself, should be my primary interest. A relationship based on sex alone would be a mistake, even if it sounds incredibly enticing. And besides, there’s a good chance that even though you say you want me, in fact, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Sometimes people think they want something, but they really don’t. There’s a disconnect between mind and body.”

What was she saying?

“I made a mistake that first night. I wanted you but you are not ready. I am not ready. For a whole variety of reasons it’s too soon.

“Are you telling me you only saw me as a sex object?” said Bobby. “Just another muscular body? But you need to love my mind, my personality?”

Frida laughed.

“I want your mind and your body,” said Bobby. “All of you, every single bit.”

“You scare me Bobby.”

Focus on what you want.

He had been sitting up on his bed, but now flopped onto his back. “Scare you. Why?”

“I’ve had many patients like you over the years,” Frida said, her tone more serious than Bobby cared for.

“Like me?” he said.

“Experts at saying exactly what they need to say to get what they want when they want it,” she said.

“You think I’m a phony?”

“No, not at all. I think you mean what you say all the time. That’s what makes you so effective.”

“People like me,” said Bobby.

“I’m sorry,” said Frida. “It isn’t the first time my professional training has gotten in the way of something I really wanted to do.”

“Meaning?” said Bobby.

“Meaning I’d really like to let myself fall in love with you again, but my brain tells me it would be a mistake.”

“Because?”

“Because I would be falling in love with myself. Or worse, someone pretending to be the person I’ve always wanted to be in love with.”

“So you do believe I am a phony.”

“I believed you when you told me you’re 50 and don’t know who the hell you are,” said Frida. “I believe you’re struggling to find out who you are.”

“Is that so bad?” said Bobby.

“No, it’s good,” said Frida. “But the therapist in me tells me what you’ll find after all the struggle.”

“Which is what?”

“It’s not the time for me to tell you,” said Frida. “It would not be professionally responsible.”

“I’m not your patient, remember,” said Bobby.

“But you’re my friend,” said Frida.

“I’m your friend who wants to be your lover and you’re telling me no,” said Bobby. “Don’t I deserve to hear why?”

There was silence and then Frida spoke slowly. “I believe that what you’ll decide after your struggle to find yourself, to discover what you believe, to define your inner self, is that you are you.”

“Please,” said Bobby. “What kind of psychological bafflegab is that?”

“You’re not ready to hear it.”

“I just want to know what the hell it means.”

“It means you’re 50 and you are who you are. It means that there are many, many people like you, who for one reason or another never discover who they are. But that’s who they are.”

Bobby was stumped.

“Look,” said Frida, “many successful people, like politicians and actors are just like you. Your ability to absorb and repeat back what people want to hear can be a strength. Rather than worry about how you’re not this and you’re not that, you’ve got to come to terms with who you are. People like you are the chameleons of humanity.”

“The chameleons of humanity?”

“Yes. And rather than worry about not believing in anything, you should revel in your ability to appear to believe in anything.”

“A chameleon? And that’s okay. I should feel good about being like this?”

“It’s better to feel good about who you are than to feel bad about it,” said Frida.

“But you don’t think it’s good, because you don’t want to fall in love with someone like me,” said Bobby. “Am I correct?”

“People like you tend not to make stable partners. You tend to have a lot of lovers. I wish I could believe something different.”

“So that about sums it up,” said Bobby. “You’ve got me pretty much all figured out and on the balance of probabilities, I’ll turn out to break your heart. Correct?”

“It happened once before.”

“When I was a kid.”

“It’s just one factor in my decision,” said Frida.

Suddenly a wave of honesty came over Bobby. He rolled onto his side on the king-sized hotel bed. He grabbed the television remote and clicked on the TV.

“Bobby? You okay?”

“I am fine,” he said.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Of course I am,” said Bobby. “I’m mad at you for your honesty. I’m mad at you for making me confront a difficult reality. I’m mad at you for reminding me how tough it is to become a different person when you don’t like the one you are. I’m mad at you for telling me that the odds of an old dog learning new tricks are not very high.”

He clicked the TV off.

“Maybe you’re right too. You certainly have a lot more experience than I do. But the thing is, I’m still convinced I never had an opportunity to explore exactly who I am and what I believe. And I want to. Maybe you’re right, maybe at the end of the exploration I’ll turn out to be exactly what I was at the beginning, but so what? It’s better to have fought and lost than never to have played the game. Right?”

“Yes, I believe that,” said Frida.

“And can’t you offer me at least a little hope,” said Bobby. “I mean, do these chameleon characters who come to you as a therapist always discover inner peace with who they are or do they sometimes turn out differently?”

“Many people never find inner peace.”

“That’s hopeful,” said Bobby.

“In over 20 years as a clinical therapist who has seen or has been consulted about a thousand or so patients, I’d have to say maybe forty became substantially different people.”

“Forty out of a thousand?” said Bobby. “Hell, I beat much worse odds than that just making it to the NHL.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Frida.

“And you’re still willing to help me, at least as a friend?” said Bobby.

“Yes, I am,” said Frida.

“And to keep an open mind as far as the other stuff goes? Becoming lovers?” said Bobby.

The moment of silence scared him so he filled it.

“Don’t answer because it doesn’t matter what you say,” said Bobby. “Because I am going to keep coming after you no matter what.”

Silence.

“How does that make you feel?” said Bobby.

“It makes me feel good and it makes me feel bad,” said Frida.

“That’s fair,” said Bobby.

“Why?” said Frida.

“Because that’s how I feel after this conversation,” said Bobby. “Just talking to you makes me feel good. What you said makes me feel bad.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Hey, no need to be. I feel a whole hell of a lot better right now than I did two months ago.”

Bobby stood up, clicking the television on and then off.

“I guess I better let you go,” he said. “I’ve got a winning team to build.”

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]