The Meaning of Hockey, Chapter 44

Bobby and eight women sat around the big table in one of two sparsely decorated private rooms at the back of the large restaurant on a busy corner in east Vancouver. It was an amiable conversation until Sylvia’s proclamation.

“How can you sit there and defend hockey?” the woman sitting beside him said. “It’s authoritarian, violent and militaristic.”

Frida placed her right hand on top of Bobby’s underneath the table.

“It can be,” said Bobby. “I admit that, but …”

“Name me one redeeming feature of the sport,” Sylvia interrupted him.”

Frida squeezed his hand.

“It’s fun,” Bobby blurted the words out without thinking, “exciting, full of action, an emotional release.”

“For who?” said the young woman beside Sylvia.

Carolyn, that’s her name.

“I don’t know, Carolyn,” said Bobby. “For anybody with testosterone in them. I may have more than you or Sylvia, but don’t we all have some?”

Frida released his hand and smiled.

“I agree with Bobby,” said the pink haired older woman — Pat. “It’s a form of theatre, a spectacle and it appeals mostly to men, but so what? It’s harmless.”

“Harmless?” said Carolyn. “Doesn’t it teach men that it’s okay to react violently?”

“Or maybe how to channel their violent tendencies in socially acceptable ways?” said Bobby.

“Doesn’t it really all come back to nature versus nurture?” said Frida. “Do we learn all our aggression or are we born with it at least some of it?”

“I …” Bobby was about to agree, but then stopped himself. Don’t dominate. That’s what Frida had said. Men do it and progressive women hate it.

“I was wondering what you two thought?” Bobby continued as he looked at the two women sitting across from him. What were their names? He had never met them before.

Both women smiled. Asking them had been a good move. Frida took his hand again as she looked over at the women.

“Marissa?” she said. “What’s your line on hockey?”

“I raised two boy children so I know they’ve got to be trained to channel their aggression. Girls too, for that matter, but their aggression seems to come out in different ways. Sure it’s good for boys or girls to get out and release their physical energy. My boys liked hockey, although I’m not so sure everything they learned there was good for them.”

Bobby nodded.

“Helen?” said Frida, looking at the 60-year-old, stern, shorthaired woman beside Marissa.

“If you’d have asked me that question forty years ago, I’d have said the only good use for a hockey stick was to bash a man’s head. But then they had to ruin it by wearing helmets.”

Bobby laughed.

“I had a few teammates who shared your viewpoint,” he said before realizing no one else was laughing.

Once Helen had smiled, the other women joined in.

“I’ve grown kind of partial to the Totems since I read about your anarchist hockey,” Helen continued. “I’ve been to four games.”

Sylvia began coughing so bad that Pat handed her a glass of water.

“It’s not worth choking over,” Helen said to Sylvia.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” asked Bobby.

Helen nodded. “I did. Something almost primal about the release of energy you feel when you walk out of the rink after a win. Our deeply buried warrior side. We won and I’m on top of the world.”

“You think we all have that?” said Marissa. “A warrior side?”

“More or less,” said Helen.

“Of course,” said Pat. “A nurturer/gatherer side and a hunter/warrior side. There’d be a significant evolutionary utility in having both present in males and females.”

“Especially in small groups where because of some sort of catastrophe, most of one sex or the other were wiped out,” said Carolyn. “It does make sense. And it would fit in with, like the whole butch scene.”

Bobby nodded, even though he was not quite following everything that was being said.

As the women on the other side of the table continued the conversation, Sylvia regained her composure and put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder to gain his attention.

His knees crashed against the bottom of the table, sandwiching Frida’s hand. Bobby turned to Sylvia as Frida winced.

“Tell me what you mean by anarchist hockey,” said Sylvia. “I mean you make it sound all so philosophical, like you’re Noam Chomsky on hockey.”

The table immediately fell silent. All eyes turned to Bobby. The pain from his bruised knees was subsumed by the panic that began pulsating from his gut. Just then the male waiter entered the room and headed straight to Bobby.

“Are you ready to order?” he said to Bobby, ignoring the eight women at the table. Glares came from all around.

“I … I …” Bobby mumbled as realized the predicament he was in. He’d look ridiculous if he ignored the waiter, but sexist if he answered him.

The red fluid in his panicometer burst past the highest reading.

“I think we’re still waiting for two more people,” Frida said calmly, once again providing cover for his state of terror.

The waiter turned to her and nodded.

“Maybe this is them now,” he said in a heavy Mandarin accent.

“I mean I’ve considered myself an anarchist for thirty-five years and I can’t see what possible connection there could be between hockey and anarchism,” continued Sylvia as if the waiter did not exist.

Bobby took a deep breath and then the words flowed from his mouth like the tightness from his chest.

“What is anarchist hockey?” he said, looking down at the table in order not to be distracted as he focused on his answer. “Anarchist hockey is about balancing the role of the individual player in a team sport. Anarchist hockey is about expanding the creativity of the game by focusing on the spaces between team members. The six players out there on the ice become greater than the sum of their parts. It’s about the collective, through mutual aid, becoming greater than individuals competing with each other.”

As he looked up, he saw everyone else at the table was staring at something behind him. He turned to see Mike and his friend, a scholarly looking seventy-year old.

“Please continue,” said Mike’s friend. “We can do introductions later. I am interested in this anarchist hockey.”

Bobby smiled and returned his focus to the explanation.

“Anarchist hockey is the perfect team sport philosophy. It proclaims your individuality but requires at the same instant that you be a teammate. You are an individual and also part of a collective. The thing is, unlike other more authoritarian philosophies, anarchist hockey doesn’t require that you give up your individuality. Instead, it demands that use your creative individuality fully to benefit the team and through the team to benefit yourself. That’s why we’re the most creative team in junior hockey. That’s why we’re so fun to watch.”

Bobby looked up again to see the women were still staring at Mike’s friend.

“How do you prove that anarchism can work?” he continued. “By demonstrating it. That’s what Mike and I and the rest of the team are trying to do. Right?”

“It’s been working great,” Mike said, nodding and looking proud of his Dad.

“We can spread the word better than most,” continued Bobby. “I mean, like lots of people won’t be interested in some heavy political meeting, but they might go to a hockey game, right?”

Bobby directed the question at Mike’s friend.

“They might,” he answered.

“Make anarchism fun. And when we win, it makes anarchism seem like a winner, right?”

“Let’s hope you keep winning,” said Mike’s friend.

“I’m sorry,” Bobby said, standing to shake the guy’s hand. “I just get so excited when I talk about this stuff. I think it’s because I’m so new to it and Mike here has been a great teacher.”

“This is my Dad, Bobby Benoit,” said Mike. “This is my next door neighbor for my whole life, Noam Chomsky.”

“That was very fascinating,” said Mike’s friend as he “Are you the Noam Chomsky who has written the books?” said Bobby.

Mike’s friend nodded.

“He drove me to practice when I was eight,” said Mike to Bobby.

“Ya?” said Bobby. “One of my biggest regrets is that I missed all that.”

“He was pretty damn good,” said Noam.

“I’d love to hear about it,” said Bobby, who suddenly realized all eight women had left their seats to crowd round.

“This is Frida Rodriguez,” said Mike as Frida held out her hand. “Noam Chomsky.”

As Sylvia held her hand out and said “Sylvia,” Frida smiled at Bobby. She grabbed his arm and pulled him a few steps from the excited crowd.

“I think I won my bet,” she said.

“I did good?” Bobby asked.

“You did great,” said Frida. “You passed with flying colors.”

“The black flag?” said Bobby, smiling.

Frida kissed him hard on the lips.

Next Chapter: Monday

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