The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 41

As soon as the team arrived at their hotel, about two-thirty in the morning, he dialed Frida’s number.

“I’m sorry to call you so late, but I had to talk,” Bobby said.

“What time is it?” said Frida.

“It’s after two,” said Bobby. “Maybe two-thirty.”

“You guys win?” said Frida, barely awake.

“We clobbered them 7-1.”

“That’s great.”

“Frida?”

“Yes, Bobby?”

“I think I’m cured.”

“Cured,” said Frida. “What do you mean?”

“I just realized, as we were busing here to Spokane, that my life has meaning again. More than just winning or beating Anderson. You remember that first day I went to see you and what I said? That I didn’t see the point of the game, anymore?”

“I remember, Bobby.”

“Well, I figured it out.”

“That’s wonderful,” Frida said, yawning.

“You don’t want to hear what I figured out?”

“Sure I do, Bobby. It’s just that it’s late and I have to work in the morning and don’t you have another game tonight?”

“I don’t care about winning or losing the way I used to. I don’t care about scoring the most goals. I don’t care about staying in the league or even about owning the best junior team in Canada. And that’s okay, because the point of the game isn’t about me anymore. I’m all grown up. I’ve had my time. I’ve done what I wanted to do. I’ve got nothing to prove and I accept that. The point of the game is to pass onto the next generation what I have learned. The point of the game now is for me to move outside myself. The point is to care for my son and I do. The point is to care for the kids on my team and I do. I do care. You should have seen me tonight. Cheddar got his bell rung on the first shift and probably suffered a Grade Two concussion and Mike Ladner went after the guy that did it and he got his nose broken. But the Tamil Tiger laid out the culprit real good with a nice clean hip check and then busted the jaw of the American who sucker-punched him and the look on Brad Bower’s face made me feel good. But best of all, I cared that I was teaching my kids something valuable, something important.”

“What are you teaching them?” said Frida. “That revenge is sweet when you break your opponent’s jaw?”

“You’re not listening,” said Bobby.

“I think I’m dreaming,” said Frida. “Having a nightmare.”

“I’m teaching them about anarchist hockey,” said Bobby. “I finally figured out what it means. After I talked to you. After you told me your story.”

There was a silence and then Frida spoke. “I’m listening. Tell me what it means.”

“Anarchist hockey means you always think team first. But that doesn’t mean giving up your individuality. Anarchist hockey means you care about yourself and you care about your team. Anarchist hockey means you’re an individual and a teammate and both are important. Anarchist hockey means that I and us are inextricably bound together. I am part of us. And us is part of I. Anarchist hockey means you find your role in the game and you play that role to the best of your ability. Tonight I finally realized what my role in the game has become. I’m a teacher.”

Silence.

“Am I making sense?” said Bobby.

“In a general sense, sure,” said Frida. “But I don’t understand what you’re saying now that’s any different from what you said before.”

“Before I said it, but I didn’t understand it.”

“I’m happy, Bobby. I’m really happy for you.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“It’s hard when you get woken up at two-thirty.”

“I’m sorry, but this feels important and I thought you’d want to hear it.”

“I do Bobby, honest I do,” said Frida. “Just don’t expect me to sound as perky as you.”

“Perky,” repeated Bobby. “That’s a perfect description of how I feel. Perky.”

“Please,” said Frida.

“I’ve figured out the meaning of politics,” he said, excitement building in his voice. “Government, business, sport, it’s all the same. It’s how we get along. How we regulate the spaces between us. Politics is not just about individual rights, but about how individuals interact with others.”

“Government is a team sport,” said Frida. “I like it.”

“I don’t think I really understood the difference between what you called right-wing anarchism and left-wing anarchism until after you told me the story,” said Bobby. “Both are against coercion, especially by the state, but one denies the existence of and the necessity for the collective, while the other understands we are both individuals and teammates. Right?”

“It was never a test, Bobby.”

“It hit me after you told me that story,” he said. “I listened and it felt good. So good I actually fell asleep. Before, I was always the one who told the story. It was always about me. I had to perform because that’s what life was. Then, when I woke up after listening to you, it hit me. A good storyteller must listen as well. I listen to you and to Mike and I enjoy it. I listen to the guys on my team and I enjoy it. It’s not about me anymore and that’s great. This right-wing anarchist idea that it’s the individual against the world, the idea that only I is important, that everyone needs to look after only himself — all of sudden this seems so juvenile. So childish.”

“Congratulations, you’ve grown up,” said Frida.

Suddenly Bobby was not so perky.

“You think that’s it?” he said. “You think that’s all it is? Because of being a hockey star and all that, I just never grew up?”

“You never had to accept responsibility before,” said Frida. “You were the stickhandler, the star. Your world was never about fitting in. Your world was about surrounding you with who or what you needed or desired. The point of your world was to get the most out of you, the star. Then fifteen years ago you stopped being the star and it’s taken you that long to figure this out.”

“You make me sound pathetic,” said Bobby.

“You said it, not me.”

“I was happy that I discovered the meaning of life, but now I realize I’ve just gone through something most people do when they’re twenty-five.”

“Some people never figure it out,” said Frida. “I work with them every day.”

“You sound awfully cynical,” said Bobby.

“I sound awfully tired,” said Frida.

“I’m glad I’ve experienced this side of you,” said Bobby.

“What do you mean by that?” said Frida.

Silence.

“What do you mean by that?” repeated Frida.

“It’s important to get to know the person you want to spend the rest of your life with,” said Bobby.

“Bobby,” said Frida with a sigh. “Why did you really call?”

“You know why,” said Bobby.

“Is this about sex again?” said Frida. “You know our agreement.”

“Our agreement was that we would wait until we both felt that our relationship was clearly beyond the counselor/patient relationship, right and that I was absolutely confident that I would not disappoint you again.”

“Right,” said Frida.

“So now that I’m cured, how can we have any counselor/ patient relationship left?”

“Bobby!”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” said Bobby. “If I feel like my life has a point. If I understand that I’m a coach and a father and a lover and I feel good about all these things, then I’m cured, right? I’ve memorized all of your traits of a perfect man and more important I’ve committed myself to being all that I can be.”

“And? The other part?”

“I won’t disappoint you.”

“How do you know that?” Frida asked.

“Because I’m no longer the star. That means I don’t need to perform, to impress.”

“That’s why you couldn’t …”

“Get it up?” he said. “Yes. Now I know I don’t need to impress you. I mean, of course I will. Impress you.”

“Bobby, it’s almost three in the morning,” she said, laughing.

“So?”

“I can’t think straight and neither can you,” said Frida.

“That’s because we’re not supposed to be thinking. At this time of night we’re supposed to be touching and kissing and feeling our bodies move together.”

“Bobby, stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” said Bobby. “I want you to tell me that you desire me. I want you to tell me that you’d love for me to gently run my index finger over every square inch of your body. That you want me to slowly massage your shoulders and then your head and then your back and then your legs and then your feet and then your bum and then your chest and then …”

“Bobby, please.”

“At least tell me that you want me.”

“I’ve told you that before,” said Frida.

“Tell me now,” said Bobby. “I need to hear it now.”

“I want you Bobby, as much as you want me.”

“Why?” he said. “Why would you want a washed-up hockey player?”

“Bobby.”

“Answer me,” he said.

“Why do you want me?” said Frida.

“Because you’re smart and beautiful and I enjoy being with you,” said Bobby.

“Same goes for me,” said Frida.

“But I’m not smart or beautiful,” he said.

“Yes, you are,” said Frida.

“Tell me something I can believe,” said Bobby. “Tell me why a smart, beautiful woman with a good job and lots of lefty-pinko friends would even consider falling in love with a retired hockey player capitalist businessman?”

“I never considered falling in love with you,” said Frida. “Never considered it at all. I just did. Why? You make me feel good. I desire to be with you. As far as you being a hockey star and capitalist entrepreneur, that interests me. Maybe for the same reason that my left-wing pinko world interests you. It’s something new, something different, something to expand my consciousness. I think what we share is a desire for adventure. We offer that to each other.”

Bobby smiled as he listened.

“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he said.

“We’ve got to wait until the time is right,” said Frida.

“And when will that be?”

“Soon.”

“When?”

“When you know what’s happening with the Totems,” said Frida. “After you win my bet. New Years. Let’s make love at the stroke of midnight to start the New Year.”

“That’s over a month away. More than 30 nights.”

“I waited for you for over thirty years,” said Frida.

Silence.

“I love you,” said Bobby. “That’s all I can say. I’ve always loved you, even when I was an asshole. Do you believe me?”

“Does it matter?” said Frida.

“It matters, because it’s true.”

“If it’s true, then it shouldn’t matter whether anyone believes you,” said Frida.

“I love you. And it doesn’t matter if you believe me.”

“I believe you. And I love you,” said Frida.

Bobby tasted a single salty tear that traveled down his cheek and on to his lips. Her words satisfied him.

“Good night.”

“Good night, Bobby.”

Next Chapter: Monday

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