The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 33

“I feel good. Happy. Content.”

Again.

“I feel good, happy, content.”

Now, for Frida.

“Thoughtful, kind, caring, a good story teller, funny, strong but gentle, wise, well read, capable of clearly explaining complicated theories, not too career focused, a good friend, a good lover, a good father, finds you sexy at every age, possesses a smile that lifts your spirits, is an eternal optimist, is patient, is considerate of your side of the story, is neat, smells nice, wants to snuggle an awful lot, loves to go for long walks holding hands, is interesting, finds you fascinating, has a face that lights up every time he sees you, looks at the world in a weird and novel way like a perpetual child, but is mature and responsible — a multi-faceted individual.”

Good.

“Anarchism and socialism share a desire for liberty, fraternity and equality for all.”

Bobby sat at his desk between meetings and repeated these words for at least the fifth time that morning.

I can be whoever I want to be.

Desperation?

Bobby’s life seemed to have become a series of never-ending circle drills. He skated round and round without ever touching the boards at the other end of the rink. He had forgotten where he had begun and where he was supposed to end. As soon as he solved a critical business problem, an urgent hockey issue arose or he had a deflating conversation with Frida. When things were going well in his love life and hours spent with Mike were blissful, bankruptcy once again jumped over the boards to catch him with his head down.

Through it all though he made sure to focus on his promise to Frida. He would be all he could be. And he would practice happiness.

Underlying his complicated life, like the pipes buried beneath a rink surface that carried the coolant to make the ice, was Bobby’s insomnia, which froze him in a state of suspended activation. The few moments that spun slowly enough for him to make sense of, to enjoy, to remember, involved Mike or Frida or his players.

It was great to talk business, politics, hockey and life with his son. Somehow, his very existence made the sleepless nights, the nightmares about money, the fear of failure all bearable. If only Mike would agree to join the team, life would be as good as the season Bobby finished second in the scoring race. And, if Frida and he could find a way to consummate their relationship, life would be as good as the season he finished second in the scoring race and the Canucks made it to Stanley Cup finals.

These job interviews are a big waste of time, thought Bobby as he listened to yet another candidate for the vacant assistant coach spot.

At least this guy is a good storyteller.

“Coaching junior-age players is like taking the worst parts of teaching kindergarten and crossing that with guarding murderers and rapists at a maximum security penitentiary,” said Brendan Lee. “Sixteen to 20-year olds will eat you alive. They got all those hormones running through them, plus most of them are spoiled brats. Never had to grow up because daddy or mommy or the trainer has wiped their bum since they put on a pair of skates. You can’t trust them. You’ve got to assume they’re lying. Give them the opportunity and they’ll be lifting every skirt in town. Try to be a nice guy, give them a little free time? An hour later they’re stoned or drunk.”

A Chinese-Canadian assistant coach — that might be a first in major junior, thought Bobby. And a good storyteller. On the other hand, do we really need another one of those?

“I’ve seen it all. When I was the assistant in Creston I’d phone every player every night to make sure they didn’t break curfew. One night I’m coming back from scouting a bantam game and I’m doing the phone checks from my car phone. I get the star of the team — I won’t tell you his name — and he says ‘Yes coach, I’m in bed. Ain’t been feeling well coach so I hit the sack early. I really need my rest.’ Just then I pull up at a stop sign and look over at a car in the parking lot and who is in the back seat with two babes, talking on a cell phone? We would have dumped him from the team but he was our leading scorer.”

If he makes me laugh one more time, he’s hired.

“Worst team I ever had was when I was an assistant for a group of mostly 20-year olds back in junior A in Castlegar. Twenty-year olds give you the most problems, especially in junior A and especially in a league where pretty much everyone is going nowhere. I mean, what can you threaten them with? I’m going to tell the scouts how bad you are? Ain’t no scouts for two hundred miles. Castlegar Rebels, that was the name of the team and they were. Rebels. One little bastard from North Vancouver, not a half-bad skater, but a serious head case was smoking up every day, right in the billet’s house. He was selling the fucking dope to the billet’s 13-year old. I heard rumors so one day I decide to pay a little unannounced visit about 11 a.m. and I just walk right in. Nobody locked their doors in the Kootenays. Anyhow, there he is, sitting on the couch, watching The Price is Right and puffing on a reefer as I come in. Doesn’t miss a beat. Cool as ice. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t get up. Offers me a toke. I sat there thinking to myself, what do I do now? Call the cops? Wouldn’t look very good for the team, or me. Kick him off the team right there? I’d have to tell people something and we were having a hard enough time attracting billets as it was. So, I took a toke and walked out. Cut the bastard’s ice time for a few games and sent him to Creston at the trading deadline.”

“So what do you think about what I said regarding anarchist hockey?” said Bobby. “Does it sound like something you can live with?”

“Sure, I always treat them like I respect them, even if I don’t trust them.”

“You sure you want the rep of working for me?”

“I’ve never been offered a spot in major junior despite my winning record at every other level. You take a chance on me, I’ll take a chance on you.”

Bobby thought about it for a few seconds.

“I’ve even got some ideas about getting kids hockey involved. If you’re serious about this anarchist thing why don’t you let the minor hockey associations buy a stake in the team by selling tickets? Something like twenty-five per cent of all the ticket sales they make goes towards shares in the team. There’s lots of ways you could do it and it would be great for putting bums in the seats. There’s over forty-five thousand minor hockey players and their parents, just in the Lower Mainland. And that’s not counting uncles, aunts and friends.”

And that’s not counting how much Mike would like the idea, thought Bobby.

“You’re hired,” he said.

Mike was showing him posters of Alphonse Picard, his dreadlocks swinging free, with the words “Blueline Rastaman” which had been plastered all over the city’s eastside, Kitsilano, Point Grey and the central suburbs of Burnaby and New Westminster.

“The idea is to target the college and left-wing neighborhoods,” said Mike. “We got the hockey crowd interested because of the way the team is playing, but we want more than the traditional demographic so we go after a whole new younger audience with this advertising.”

“Sounds great,” said Bobby, marveling once more at the genetic fluke that had rewarded him with such a brilliant offspring.

“A ticket to Sunday’s game also gets you into an all-ages concert afterwards at the Garden,” he continued. “It’s a hot local ska-revival band called Not So, who model themselves on the 70s British band The Specials. Very popular with the skaters right now.”

Bobby nodded, even though he was unsure what “skaters” meant.

“We’ve spent about ten thousand and we’ll get a little back from the concert concessions, but we need your say-so for the rest of the campaign.”

Bobby winced. Thinking of paying bills was the same as planning to block a slapshot — a great deal of the pain was in the anticipation.

“Did you check out the university like I suggested?” It felt weird, but in a good sort of way, to have fatherly concerns.

In his excitement about the advertising campaign, Mike ignored the comment about school.

“Think of billboards all over the city: There’s a crowd of hockey fans, clad all in black, staring glumly over rink boards. Over top of the fans are the words ‘Tired of the boring trap?’ And then below the fans, in red letters, ‘Totems — These guys play Anarchist Hockey.’ Think of radio spots: You hear babies laughing. Real feel good stuff. And then a voice over saying “Have fun with young legs and young minds. Catch Totem hockey. Or TV ads: You have a clip of a defenceman wrapping his arms around a forward and the word ‘clutch’ flashes on the screen. Then a clip of a player holding on to another guy’s jersey as the word ‘grab’ flashes. You get a couple of bursts of that. Then there’s a short clip of a fancy passing play that ends in a goal and you see Alphonse Picard celebrating, his dreads poking out of his helmet, as the voice over says: ‘Set yourself free with anarchist hockey.’ A crowd cheers as the Totems logo appears. Good?”

“Fantastic,” said Bobby. “These are all your ideas?”

“Ya, mostly.” said Mike. “Plus I made a couple of friends down at the bookstore. We got talking about Noam Chomsky and I was like telling them about the hockey team. And they helped me out. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a marketing genius.”

The compliment caused Mike to beam.

“Sounds perfect,” said Bobby. “But, how much?”

“For ten spots a day on three radio stations for the next two months and twenty billboards for the same length of time we’re talking over a hundred thousand. Plus creative costs of at least another sixty thousand so we can change the spots every two weeks. And double it all if you want some TV too.”

“Three hundred thousand?” said Bobby. “Geez.”

“Probably closer to three-fifty,” said Mike. “But the marketing guy tells me we might be able to save a hundred thousand through some creative contra. Rink board ads, free tickets for contests, that sort of thing.”

“A quarter of a million?”

“That’s what the agency guys tell me,” said Mike.

“That’s a lot of dough,” said Bobby.

The marketing plan was brilliant. But how could he get the money? A quarter of a million on top of the four hundred thousand already spent. How many full payments had they received for season tickets? Four hundred and twenty-one.

If we win the next couple of games that should triple. And Mary says that single ticket sales have already hit seven hundred for Sunday.

The problem is that damn loan payment to Anderson, Bobby said to himself. Five hundred and fifty thousand by December 1 or he has control of the team.

He phones every day, just to make sure it’s always on my mind. It shouldn’t be a problem with eight thousand season ticket commitments. Even if only half of them end up paying that’s $1.4 million and another six hundred thousand in concessions.

Two million, thought Bobby. That’s about what we’ll spend this season.

If we continue advertising and keep winning, maybe we’ll get six or seven thousand paid-up season tickets and then I could pay off Anderson completely. Continue advertising, draw in the fans and in three seasons I could make back everything I’ve spent. And the concert business would be all gravy.

The key was drawing fans, which required advertising, which cost money.

Sort of like a Las Vegas craps game. Bet the fortune on hitting my number?

How he could say no to his son?

Next Chapter: Wednesday

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