The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 40

Brad Bower glared at Bobby from the Tri-City Americans bench as the Totems filed into the visitors’ box for the start of the game in Kennewick, Washington. His former assistant coach had become the Americans’ head coach after only three weeks as Al Green’s assistant. The poor bastard hadn’t even noticed Bower, the snake, slithering through the grass.

The way the story was being told around the league, Green had been ordered by his owner, the infamous Charlie Dixon, to hire Brad. Dixon was a pal of Gordon Anderson going back to Dixon’s days as owner of the old New Westminster Bruins, before the team moved to the States. Dixon was the real reason Anderson had become involved in the Totems. Turns out Dixon had wanted, for some time, to sell his team in Tri-Cities and get a new franchise in Vancouver, where he still lived. The problem was he had made a few too many enemies among the other owners so the league was not about to do him any favors. The city of Vancouver also didn’t trust him because he had left unpaid bills during his last ownership stint in the Lower Mainland. So, when Bobby appeared with the Totems, Dixon had immediately begun plotting with Anderson to take the team away from him and get his Vancouver franchise through the back door.

Anderson had advised Dixon to hire Brad, telling him that the Totems’ assistant coach was the one person who prevented the total collapse of Totem team morale. And Anderson was probably right, except that Bobby had traded away most of that team.

So, when Dixon learned about Bobby’s venture into anarchist hockey and then about the Totems’ on-ice success and the likely fruition of the season-ticket campaign, he put Anderson up to the bet about first place by New Year’s Day. Then Dixon replaced Green with Brad and gave the slimy bastard an unlimited budget to buy the best team in major junior hockey. Rumors were flying around the league about all sorts of under-the-table deals to make trades that would ensure the Americans had a better record than the Totems come January 1.

The way Bobby had Dixon’s plan figured was that he intended to buy the best team in major junior, win a Memorial Cup, which would drive up the price he could get for the Americans, and at the same time get his hands on the Totems through his deal with Anderson. And he’d probably promised the slime-bag Bower the job as head coach in Vancouver when he was the new owner of the Totems.

So far, the Americans had traded for the three top NHL draft choices still playing in the Western League and the best 20-year-old goalie. Brad Loran was the first-round and twelfth over-all pick of the New York Islanders. He led the league in scoring the previous season with the Calgary Hitmen. He had come to the Americans along with his teammate, and the league’s top-scoring defenceman, Lubor Lanz. Lanz was the first round pick (third over-all) of the Nashville Predators. Billy Cheevers, a veteran of four major junior seasons, and owner of two league-championship rings, was the Americans’ new goalie. Finally, playing his first game as an American, was the highest drafted goon in the history of junior hockey, at six-foot-six and two hundred and forty pounds, 18-year-old Billy-Dean Rogers. The tough guy with the hardest punch in the history of the WHL had been taken fifth over-all in last year’s draft by the Tampa Bay Lightning.

Rogers was certainly a specimen of where professional hockey seemed headed. He was big enough and strong enough already to be physically dominant in the NHL. The only remaining question was, could he play at high speed?

He was lined up on the left side, across from Chedomensky, as the puck was dropped to start the game. Kiniski won the draw, pulling the puck back to Hollingsworth, who threw it over to Wickermasinghe on the right side, who bounced it off the boards to Chedomensky. The Totem right winger nicknamed Cheddar skated quickly along the boards until he slowed down, just past the Americans’ blueline, looking to make a pass into the middle to Vicente. Bobby knew immediately that the hit was coming and just as the thought landed in his brain, Rogers slammed into Chedomensky, lifting him off his skates and carrying him through the air three feet into the boards. The crowd cheered wildly, but then grew quiet as the whistle blew when the Totem player remained motionless on the ice. Max and Bo were across the ice in ten seconds and Bobby knew his best right winger was gone for at least the game.

He also knew what he had to do next. As Chedomensky was helped from the ice by his linemates, he tapped Mike Ladner’s shoulder. “Ladner, you’re on for Cheddar.” The 20-year old would know what was required of him.

As the boys lined up for the faceoff in the American’s end, Bobby watched Ladner yap at Rogers. Of course, he could not hear the words, but from long years of experience, he knew the gist of what was being said. It would be some variation on the theme of: “You fucking chickenshit, hitting a skater, not a fighter. Why don’t you try that with me? Momma’s boy scared? Come on, let’s drop them right now. You want to go? Come on, let’s dance.”

And just as the linesman dropped the puck, Ladner, who was a good three inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than Rogers, shook off his gloves and stood toe-to-toe, trading punches with hockey’s version of Tyrannosaurus Rex.

It was not a long fight. But it was not entirely one-sided. Sure Ladner was cut in two places and his nose looked flatter than it had been before the fight, but the smaller man did inflict some damage. Roger’s lip was fat and he was spitting blood. Perhaps a tooth had even been loosened. The four thousand or so fans in attendance cheered for their bloodied gladiator as if he had been the clear victor, but the Totems stood at their bench thumping their sticks on the boards in appreciation of the job their new teammate had done. Bobby watched young Mike Webster and knew that the kid was learning from his linemate to show no fear.

The fight seemed to motivate the rest of the Totems or perhaps it was Rogers sitting in the penalty box for seven minutes instead of patrolling the ice. Or maybe the team was playing for their hurt teammate. Whatever the reason, the Totems scored three quick goals. First Hollingsworth sent Buckinghorse in on a breakway with a brilliant pass over the sticks of three Americans. Then Kiniski tipped in a Vicente slap shot from the slot and about a minute later, Lalli picked up the puck behind his net and skated around and through five Americans before depositing it behind Cheevers.

Bobby felt content when Brad pulled his 20-year-old star goalie for his no-name 18-year-old back-up. But he knew the Totems’ confidence could easily be shattered when Rogers returned to play. He was considering how to handle that return — whether or not Ladner could go another round or whether Webster might be ready to handle the league’s toughest guy — when the whistle blew and the two fighters gained their freedom. Uncertainty about what might work and the fact that the home team had the last change, caused Bobby to do nothing. And there, lined up against Jean Claude Ryan, was Rogers. The bastard Bower was planning to knock out another of his right wingers. He knew the right side was the Totems’ weakest. But just as Bobby was trying to pull Ryan over to the bench he noticed Mo and Matt, his two defencemen, talking. They were planning something.

Bobby watched, in awe, as Buckinghorse won the faceoff and sent the puck back to Hollingsworth who skated a few feet and then delivered the puck across the rink right onto Rogers’ stick. The big man seemed surprised at the gift and hesitated, but finally carried the puck into the Totems’ zone. Perhaps it was a flaw that Mo had picked up on, or perhaps it was a lucky guess, but as Rogers crossed the blueline, the tiny Tamil Tiger scrunched himself up and laid a perfect hip check on the big man skating with his head down. The effect was similar to a perfect strike at the neighborhood alley. Pieces of Rogers’ equipment flew in every direction like pins scattered by a bowling ball. The huge mass that was Rogers’ body made a complete three-hundred-and-sixty degree rotation before falling to earth and sliding the length of the ice into the end boards.

There were a few seconds of suspended animation as teammates, opponents and fans reacted to the spectacle. But then, as Rogers lay on the ice, one of the Americans made the mistake of jumping over the boards from the players’ bench and sucker-punching Mo as he stood looking back at his first victim.

In all his years of hockey, Bobby had never seen anyone land so many punches in such a short period as did the Tamil Tiger. The number would grow as the story was retold, but even then, while it was happening, Bobby was convinced that Mo hit that poor kid at least thirty times in six or seven seconds. And since Mo was so much shorter, most of the punches landed on the guy’s chin. Everyone watching understood that they were witnessing the shattering of a jaw.

Neither Rogers nor his defender returned to play the rest of the game. Wickermasinghe was given a game misconduct, a penalty that Bobby vigorously protested because the check had been clean and Mr. Broken Jaw had started the fight, not Mo.

***

Bobby and Troy sat beside each other on the bus back to the motel.

“Did I ever tell you what it was like playing against the Great One?” Bobby said.

Troy shook his head and smiled. He enjoyed Bobby’s stories even if he had heard most of them five or six times.

“I remember the first time I played against the little bastard. Didn’t impress me at all. I was a better skater, a better shooter, a better stickhandler; I had teammates who were better passers. In fact, I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about until I’d been out against his line a dozen or so times and it suddenly dawned on me that I wasn’t playing against him. I mean we were both centers and I was checking him, but I couldn’t play against him. When Gretzky was on the ice you played against five guys, not one. He had this knack of connecting the spaces. It was like you were playing against a prairie summer storm. Wind, rain, lightning, hail, a storm is made up of distinct parts, but they hit you all at once and you experience the totality, not the bits and pieces.”

Eloquent. Feels good to be eloquent.

Troy was waiting for him to continue, so he did.

“Teamwork transcends individual skill. It exists in the spaces between people. You understand?”

Troy nodded.

“Some guys just “click” with each other and others never do. The difference between a good line and a great line is that one has three strong individuals and the other is much greater than the sum of its parts. You agree?”

“Sure Bobby.”

“Hockey is teamwork. In other sports ‘the team’ is a motivational tool.”

Bobby paused to collect his thoughts, so Troy nodded like he understood.

“In football, for example, being part of the team means to accept the role the coach gives you. Team is really just a way of convincing individuals with different skills to do their individual jobs in an enthusiastic and coordinated fashion. The coaches and their plans are the keys to success. The perfect sport for Nazi Germany or Communist Russia.

“In baseball the concept of team is a way to make a bunch of individuals who need to spend a lot of time together accept each other and get along. You have a team but almost every play is individual. Pitching, catching, hitting, fielding, throwing. The manager’s most important job is to know when to put which player in where. But the key to success is individual players performing their individual skills. The perfect capitalist sport.

“Basketball is closest to hockey because out there on the court teamwork can also defeat individual skill. And, just like in hockey, teamwork does mean the creative interaction between individuals. But the differences between hockey and basketball are still huge. A coach and his plans can be more dominant in basketball because set plays are more crucial and one great player can take over a team in a way that’s not really possible in hockey except for, on rare occasions, a hot goalie. Basketball is the perfect sport for social democracy.

“Hockey happens too fast and exists on too many planes for a coach or any one player to dominate. In fact, the Greatest One was great precisely because he had the gift of inspiring teamwork. And teamwork makes the opposition feel like bits and pieces. Of all the pro sports in North America only in hockey is teamwork always the absolute defining characteristic of success. The interaction among individuals and their collective creativity is the key. So which political philosophy does that make hockey most like?”

Troy stared and Bobby knew that he had lost the connection and his assistant coach was on a different cellular network.

“I don’t know Bobby,” Troy finally said. “Anarchism?”

What the hell am I saying? Best to just keep talking. Who knows what will come out.

“Anarchism,” Bobby repeated.

Troy stared.

“Fuck Troy, don’t you see? Anarchism and hockey are made for each other. Freedom from government. Freedom from a stifling system. Old time hockey. Don’t you see?”

And it looked like just maybe he did.

Next Chapter: Friday

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