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Hockey

The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 42

Playing time, confessions and sudden death.

Gary Engler 6 Jun 2005TheTyee.ca

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The night was short and the day was long and full of important work, but Bobby’s thoughts kept returning to New Year’s Eve.

Chedomensky would be out for a minimum of a week after his concussion and Steven Miller would need at least one practice to work with his new linemates. The team would be in Portland for a game December 31, so he’d book a room at a romantic hotel or maybe a bed and breakfast.

Should they call up another player to sit in the press box, just in case someone else got hurt? No, it wasn’t worth it. An old hotel. The honeymoon suite in one of those renovated old hotels in downtown Portland. A bottle of sparkling Oregon pinot. Or two.

Mike Ladner’s nose was broken, but he wanted to play so Bo rigged a full metal face shield on to his helmet. The more Bobby watched how Ladner was with his teammates, especially the younger guys like Webster and Miller, the more he was impressed. Should he buy condoms?

Vicente and Buckinghorse were continually getting on each other’s nerves. Bobby had noticed they glared at each other and a couple of the other players had made comments that seemed to indicate they were feuding. He needed to talk with them about it. Would showing up with condoms be an insult or would not showing up with condoms be an insult.

He needed to talk with Billy Weldon as well. Make sure he was still having fun. And call the league commissioner to complain about Mo’s game misconduct. And phone his son to see how the ad campaign that he had agreed to work on was going. And it was Chang’s seventeenth birthday. He had to get Brendan to buy a cake for the pre-game meal. Frida would probably worry that he had had unprotected sex with groupies or something like that. But, he had been tested. Should he mention that? Or would that be in really bad taste. Like maybe she’d think he was asking her if she had been tested?

The latest word from Vancouver was that seven thousand three hundred and twelve season tickets or equivalents had been paid for. That was over $2.5 million. That was better than his wildest dreams. But all would be for naught if the team didn’t keep up its great play. With last night’s win they were only four points behind Tri-Cities, but they only played the Americans one more time, so even if they won their last nine games of the year, someone else needed to give the Totems a hand. It would probably all go down to the last day when the Totems played in Portland and Tri-Cities played in Seattle. December 31, that would be some day.

***

It was Matt Hollingsworth who spoke the words that came to dominate Bobby’s month of December. It was in the Key Arena in Seattle. Bobby did not decide to tell the Totems about his predicament regarding Anderson and Dixon and the bet. It just sort of came out at the team meeting that was originally called to discuss the issues between Vicente and Buckinghorse.

Vicente had made some comment that Buckinghorse had taken as disparaging towards First Nations people. Vicente thought Buckinghorse had an “attitude.” But what was really happening was that the two young men were goal-scoring rivals. Both had spent their entire hockey playing careers as the top scorer, but on the Totems, Vicente was second after Kiniski and Buckinghorse was third.

“Just come out and say what you’re feeling,” Bobby said. “If you sound like an idiot, we’ll tell you you’re an idiot and then that’s it. Any bad feelings get talked about and then are left in this room. That’s how we agreed to conduct these meetings, right?”

It was all a little too touchy-feely for Bobby’s taste, but the whole point of anarchist hockey was to share the power and if this was how the players wanted to conduct the team meetings then so be it.

“Vicente thinks he’s better than everyone else,” said Buckinghorse.

“Look who’s talking,” said Vicente.

“You bet Cheddar that you’d end up with more points than Kiniski or the ‘Chief’,” said Buckinghorse.

“He’s already admitted that was a racist term,” said Lalli. “Get over it.”

“Of course he’ll get more points,” said Buckinghorse. “He’s on the first power play unit. He’s got Kiniski on his line.”

“Are you jealous?” said Picard.

“I’m not jealous,” said Buckinghorse. “I just think he shouldn’t brag and take credit for something when it’s not really him, but the situation.”

“Sounds like the situation pisses you off,” said Penny.

Buckinghorse shrugged.

“I’d say you need to ask yourself if your skills and potential skills are being used to the full extent,” said Ladner, who was emerging as the ‘wise old man’ of the team. “I look at it and I’d say you’re probably the best end-to-end rusher in the league and coach always puts you out with Matt, who is the best breakaway passer I’ve ever seen. How could you ask for anything more?”

“You’re not exactly an easy guy to play with,” said Ryan. “I’m always having to pick up your man on the back check.”

“Chang doesn’t mind, do you Johnny?” said Kiniski. “Little guy has picked up seven goals from garbage off the breakaways.”

“I don’t mind either,” said Ryan. “Just give me some credit.”

“I give you credit,” said Buckinghorse. “You’re a good winger.”

“The point is to give everyone credit, right?” said Ladner. “Maybe that’s Kevin’s point. Paulo needs to give Blair and Cheddar some credit for helping him pick up all those assists. Lalliman needs to give Joe some credit for saving his butt when he makes the big rush and I need to give coach credit for giving me this chance to play fourth line in major junior. A dream I’ve had, I may add, since I was nineteen.”

The guys were smiling.

“The fucking point is,” said Troy, “all of us feel fucking badly about some fucking thing and even if it’s fucking stupid, sometimes we need to fucking talk about it, right Bobby?”

Bobby nodded and then the question came. He could have ignored it. He could have lied.

“What’s the fucking thing that makes you feel badly, coach?” said Hollingsworth.

Before he had even considered whether or not talking about it was a good idea, the story about the bet on first place and the loans was spilled out for the whole team to hear. It was the first time his two assistant coaches learned about the problem.

“Holy fuck,” said Troy.

“You mean you could lose control of the team?” said Hollingsworth. “Just when everything is going so well?”

Amidst the chatter of concern and macho teen assertions of “why worry, first place is a lock” came a single statement from the business-wise Hollingsworth.

“If you get a good lawyer, that bet would never stand up in court,” he said.

Get a good lawyer. Play the bastard Anderson at his own game. Matt was right.

“And coach, if you need a new partner with some money, we’ve just sold the other half of WinJet and my share is nine million,” Hollingsworth added.

The Totems certainly had a lot to talk about after that team meeting. And Bobby knew Hollingsworth was right. He should talk to a lawyer.

***

Bobby sat on Frida’s couch, staring out at the gray clouds resting over the North Shore mountains.

“You know what I learned today?” said Frida, as she returned from the kitchen carrying a tray with a pot of tea and two cups. “One of my mother’s paintings is for sale on Granville Street for $25,000. Isn’t that amazing? I’m rich. There must be forty or fifty pieces in the studio on Gabriola Island and I’ve got six, seven …”

Frida stopped in mid-sentence as she looked at Bobby.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m a fucking asshole, that’s what’s wrong,” said Bobby.

“Nothing new?” said Frida, smiling.

“I’m serious. Completely, deadly, terminally serious.”

“What?”

“I went to see the lawyer today, the one that advises Matt Hollingsworth’s company,” said Bobby. “I told him about the bet and showed him the paper I signed.”

“And?” said Frida. “Good news or bad?”

“The worst fucking news I’ve had in months,” said Bobby.

“You can’t get out of the bet?”

“I can get out, almost certainly, he said.”

“So, what’s the bad news?” said Frida.

“There was an ‘if’ part to his advice.”

“An ‘if’ part?” said Frida, pouring the tea.

“If you’re willing to testify that I was under extreme stress and that I’d gone to you to seek counseling for that stress,” said Bobby.

“I still don’t see the problem,” said Frida. “Of course I could testify to that. It’s all true.”

“There’s also an ‘and if’ part,” said Bobby.

“Which is?”

“And if we’re not seeing each other, as lovers.”

Frida stared at him, still not comprehending.

“And if you could testify in front of a judge that we’re not romantically linked, because the lawyer feels that would completely undermine any testimony you would give,” said Bobby.

“Not to mention get my license lifted,” said Frida, suddenly understanding all too well. “Oh dear.”

“Oh, fucking dear,” said Bobby.

They sat on the couch, looking out the picture window for a minute, before staring into each other’s eyes.

“If that’s how it has to be, that’s how it has to be,” Frida said after a few seconds. “It’s too bad.”

“Too bad? Too bad?” said Bobby. “It’s the end of my fucking world.”

“How long would it last? That we’d have to remain apart?” said Frida.

“At least a year, maybe two or three, because of appeals,” said Bobby.

“Oh dear,” said Frida. “This is certainly not good news.”

She reached out to hold Bobby’s hand. He stared at her.

“I’m not giving up our date on New Year’s Eve,” he said. “Absolutely, totally, unequivocally no fucking way.”

“Bobby,” she said.

“That is going to be the single best moment of my life and I’m not giving it up,” he said.

“But …”

“I’ve got to win that bet of yours. We’ve got to be in first place. Then I have to prove to you that I can be a great lover.”

“That’s an awful lot of pressure,” she said, holding his hand.

“Sudden death overtime, seventh game of the Stanley Cup final for the next four weeks,” said Bobby. “Only thing is the prize is much more valuable than the Cup.”

They smiled at each other. Frida leaned over and kissed him gently and quickly. He longed for a lingering kiss.

“You told me you thrived on that kind of pressure,” said Frida.

That’s what I told you, thought Bobby, taking a big gulp of air. I hope I wasn’t lying. He held her hand tightly.

Next Chapter: Wednesday

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]  [Tyee]

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