The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 31

"Am I a freak for liking to be alone?" Mike asked him after father and son had talked business for a few minutes. "Sometimes. Lots of the time."

It was another one in the series of questions he had promised to answer.

"Is it like a guy thing?"

Bobby stared at the empty arena below him, thinking about what to say as he held the cell phone to his ear.

"My mother and her friends, they always seem to go over what happened, just repeating things and agreeing with each other and sometimes I can't stand it. I feel like 'what's the point.' I feel like taking a walk in the forest. I feel like the very best thing is for me to be all by myself."

"I can relate to that," said Bobby.

"You think men and women got separate wiring or you think all the differences are because of upbringing?"

"Nature versus nurture? Saw a program once on PBS, but I don't remember which side they came down on. You'd be better at answering that question," said Bobby.

"I think we're different by nature. At least in some ways," said Mike. "Different, not better or worse."

"I hear you."

"You agree?" said Mike.

"Ya, I do. Different, not better or worse."

Bobby decided to take advantage of the short silence to ask his questions.

"Speaking of better or worse, what's your opinion about the difference between socialism and anarchism? And are there two main classes or would you also include 'coordinator class' along with ruling and working class?"

***

The thing about a long road trip is that after a while everything speeds up and becomes a blur. Except for the moments that seem to take forever. Your mind plays tricks on you when your body gets exhausted. Your brain has too much information to process about things to do, people to talk with, aching muscles and overworked pain-attenuating hormone-delivery systems.

***

The Totems won 3-0 in Brandon for their fourth straight shutout.

***

"I'm calling from your apartment," said Mike. "I brought my stuff over this afternoon. I can't believe how beautiful Vancouver is."

"A cloudless winter day, after it's been raining for a week, is when the view is absolutely the best. The air is clear and you can see the snow on the mountains, even the snow on the mountains on Vancouver Island."

"Describes what I'm looking at," said Mike. "This place must be worth a fortune."

"I pay $2400 per month. Belongs to a former teammate and it's not worth all that much," Bobby said. "Maybe six hundred thousand."

"That's all?"

Bobby ignored his son's sarcastic tone. Instead he changed the subject.

"You looking towards downtown?"

"Ya," said Mike.

"You can see all the buildings I've leased from the city of Vancouver right in front of you, just past the wooden roller coaster. Can you see them?"

"Ya."

"The biggest one is the Coliseum where my office and the rink are. Sixteen thousand seats. Then next to it is the Agrodome with ice and five thousand seats. We can practise there if we've got a concert or something booked into the Coliseum. Just to the left is the Forum. The ice has been taken out, but it was the rink that the old Western League Canucks used. Now it's mostly rented out to Hollywood film companies. Just down the hill from the Forum, towards you, is the Garden. That's a great music venue that holds about two thousand. I've got a long-term lease on them all. First five years paid for up front."

"Must cost a fortune," said Mike.

"More than I can afford," said Bobby.

"Ya, right," came Mike's caustic reply.

"Nine million so far, counting the team and the repairs I agreed to pay for," said Bobby, once more ignoring his son's sarcasm.

"Nine million? You save that much from when you played?"

"Not really, I made some investments. Most I ever got paid was nine hundred thousand and that was for my second-last season."

"Nine hundred thousand? That's it? Almost a charity case."

"What is it with you?" snapped Bobby. "You think I'm this evil capitalist?"

"Aren't you?" answered Mike.

"Is something bothering you?"

"Maybe," said his son. "Maybe I'm having second thoughts about how serious you are."

"Serious? About you?"

"About me, about anarchist hockey, about being willing to try things a different way," he said. "I mean, what are the chances of someone like you really being willing to confront the system?"

"Someone like me?" said Bobby. "Have you been talking to your mother?"

"What if I have?"

"I'm not this faceless, evil capitalist. I'm your father. I worked hard for everything I have and I didn't hear you or your mother complaining when I sent five thousand a month until you were eighteen."

"Is that why you asked me to play on your team," said Mike. "You want a return on your investment? How much did you spend? Let's see, sixty thousand a year times eighteen years. That's one million, eighty thousand. You could have invested in two or three apartments like this with all that money."

Bobby calmed himself before answering.

"Okay, sure, I can see evil capitalist would be a valid analysis of me. Evil for never being around when you were a kid. And a capitalist, sure. And an authoritarian hockey Nazi. That describes my life."

Bobby stared at his feet. He thought maybe a tear was forming, but when he wiped his eye, there was no moisture. He wished he could reach out and touch his son.

"You think you can just come into my life and talk about anarchism and offer me a spot on your team and all of a sudden we'll be like a regular father and son?" said Mike.

"No, I never thought that. Or maybe I did. I don't know."

"Mom says this whole anarchism thing is just to impress me or maybe that Frida you told me about. Either way, you look pretty phony."

Mike had obviously decided to let it all out.

This time there was dampness when Bobby rubbed his eye.

"I mean, thanks for the offer, but it doesn't really make up for not having a father. Right?"

"Nothing could make up for that," said Bobby. "Look...

"I'm sorry," said Mike, interrupting him. "That wasn't fair. My mother has told me the story. I know you were never invited into my life."

"I could have asked," said Bobby.

"My mother can be pretty intimidating," said Mike.

Bobby nodded as he remembered some of the worst moments of his life.

"She's not as bad as you probably think."

A son should love his mother.

Silence.

"Mike," Bobby finally figured out what he needed to say. "I know you have good reasons to be mad at me. And I'm glad you get it all out on the table. I want you to tell me if I say or do things that bug you. I need to understand how you think, so you've got to be honest."

Silence.

"On the other hand, if you want to have a father, I need a break. I'm new to this just like you."

Silence.

"Okay."

"I admit anarchist hockey was originally meant mostly to impress Frida. And, I guess, partly because of you. To impress you. But is listening and trying to learn from your son a bad thing? Is wanting your son to play on your team a bad thing? Is wanting to be with your son a bad thing?"

Telephone conversations were better than nothing, but he wished he could reach out and put his hand on Mike's shoulder.

"I feel like a failure," Bobby continued.

"You?" said Mike. "A failure? You've already accomplished more in your life than two or three ordinary people. If I can be half as successful, I'll be satisfied."

"What have I accomplished?" said Bobby.

"Other than fame and fortune?" said Mike. "You had tens of thousands of kids dreaming about being you. You were a role model. You still are."

"The fame and fortune thing is overrated. And I wasn't a role model for the one person I should have been."

"You were more of a role model than you'll ever know," said Mike.

"To you?"

"I've got all of your old cards, from rookie right through the Blackhawks."

These few words were as pleasurable as winning the Stanley Cup. As pleasurable as Bobby imagined winning the Stanley Cup would have felt.

"I learned that you were my father when I was eight. I found Mom's pile of post-dated support checks in her desk and asked why Robert Benoit was sending all that money. One thing about my mother, she's always told the truth. Someone told me you had played for the Bruins and from then on I was hooked on hockey."

"I always wondered why your mother let you play. Her being an artist and ...

"A lesbian?"

"Ya."

"She was a great mother. She encouraged me to try everything and pretty much let me do what I wanted. Besides, she always loved the game. Used to tell every coach I had the first time they met, that she was a lesbian. She found it amusing."

That's a different perspective.

"She's pretty funny. You'd probably like her if you ever talked."

"We never did much of that," said Bobby. "Except through lawyers."

"You should give her a break, you know," said Mike, the pitch of his voice rising. "She just did what she thought was best for me. Is a mother wanting what's best for her son a bad thing?"

Has me there, thought Bobby.

"She's not this man-hating dyke. She's not like that at all. Okay, maybe she went through a phase. She told me stories about before I was born. But then she had me."

"The boy child," said Bobby. "Like the title of the book."

"Changed the way she thought about things," said Mike.

"You seem to have that effect on lots of people."

"When I was ten I stole twenty dollars from her bag and went across the river to downtown Boston to buy your rookie card," said Mike. "I don't know what pissed her off more: the stealing, the going off on my own, the fact I bought a hockey card or the fact your face was on the card."

Bobby felt good. Father and son had had an argument and gotten over it. That was a good sign. Wasn't it?

Next Chapter: Friday

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