Down to the Dirt Page 6

  The championship. It don’t mean fuck all in the end. Banquet night is always good though; wings and chips, medals and a dance. Makes it easier to put up with the same faces winnin’ the same medals every year. Coach’s sons. Favourites. But, to be fair, it is usually the coach’s sons who deserves it. They’re made to live and eat and breathe hockey and they usually are the most valuable or most sportsmanlike. Well, they’re not usually the most sportsmanlike but that don’t seem to count for much. Most sportsmanlike usually goes to the second-best player on the team, no matter if he’s the sookiest cunt on the planet or not. That’s just the way it goes.

  Two years ago Keith won a medal for most improved player. Quite the shock at the banquet, but we figured it had to do with the last game he played. During that last game, last one for the season, he scored two goals, back to back, same shift. Only points he got the whole year. But he didn’t raise his stick or do a jig. He didn’t pump his arm and gloat. If anything he seemed embarrassed. After the second goal he kept his head down, skated on back to the face-off, then made a run at the right-winger as soon as the puck dropped. Five minutes for crosscheckin’. Still, his first goal tied the game and the second one won it. We were all more than happy to win, even if it was only for third place in the league. Better than last. Keith wouldn’t put up with any praise in the dressing room afterwards. He just muttered and cursed and shook his head like we were pointin’ the finger at him rather than congratulating him.

  Weeks later at the banquet dance he tried to use his medal to pick up a few young ones. None were impressed. Most valuable player gets the pick of the bad girls. Most sportsmanlike gets the pick of the good girls. Most improved? Well keep tryin’, maybe next year. I found Keith’s medal on the dance floor that night. The ribbon was busted off. I think I still have it home somewhere. It’s a nice medal.

  Nothing suits me better than steppin’ on a sheet of fresh cleaned ice with my skates laced tight and razor sharp. I’d almost say I likes the warm-up before the game better than the game itself. No pressures, just skate, just go. Faster. The feel of the blades slicin’ into the ice when you takes that turn behind the net. I loves the gear too. All I ever wants for Christmas is new hockey gear. I s’pose I gets a charge out of it, wrap-pin’ myself in a shell of hard plastic armour. You feels taller, heavier, faster and stronger. Bring it on. The uniform works for me too. Gives me a real sense of…belonging. Ten other bodies, dressed just like me, all with the same purpose in mind. Bring it on.

  Keith’s always late on the ice. Shaggin’ around in the dressing room or off tormenting some young one. He tromps across the bleachers, no skate guards on, and jumps the boards into the bench. Sometimes he don’t even set foot on the ice ‘til the second period. And he’s always missin’ something, havin’ to borrow a stick or a neck guard or God knows what. How can you show up expectin’ to have a game of hockey without even bringin’ your own stick? It’s beyond me. He treats it all like it was going on up in the meadow. It’s a big lark to him. I wonder if he knows how much his father forks over to sign him up every year?

  I’ve made a lot of decent friends in hockey. Fellas from all up and down the Shore. I finds it good like that. I never was one to be a part of the gang, one of the b’ys, or any of that shit. But I think hockey gave me a place to start from. It don’t seem to be Keith’s thing at all though. He couldn’t be bothered hangin’ around after a game. He never talks hockey ‘cause he don’t know how. He don’t even watch the play-offs! Still, everyone knows him. Not like he’s some poor unfortunate scrap over slunk in the corner with no one to talk to. He runs his mouth off often enough, just never about hockey. It’s like he shows up every week for the sole purpose of expressin’ his absolute contempt for the game and anyone involved in it. All he wants to do is slash people.

  That’s how everyone knows him. He’s got the dirtiest name in the whole league. Rather than tryin’ to rack up the points or the goals like the rest of us, he’s always in competition with his own penalties-per-minute record. He brags about it all the time. And if some guy steps on the ice that poses even a hint of a threat towards the record, you can be guaranteed, before the game is up, Keith’ll be after droppin’ his gloves and havin’ a go at him, just to get himself sent off the ice.

  Earlier this year the coach from the other team came charging into our dressing room after the game. Said he’d give his left nut to get Keith alone on the ice for five little minutes. Said Keith shouldn’t be allowed in the arena to even watch a hockey game, let alone set foot on the ice with fellas who are tryin’ to learn, fellas who takes the game seriously, fellas who knows how to play. He was some poisoned with Keith. He ranted and raved, kicked shit around. I forgets what Keith did to cause that racket. I’m sure it wasn’t nothing good.

  Ten minutes left now. There goes Kieran Maher, flat out with the puck. No one is on him so I cuts across the ice. Where’s the goddamn defence? I’m almost caught up to him as he crosses our blue line. Then some jerk, probably Kieran’s mother, shouts at him:

  —Have your shot, Kieran. Have your shot. Don’t let that little fucker catch you!

  I guess I’m the little fucker. Kieran tries to have a shot on net but he makes the foolish mistake of stoppin’ before he does. Lots of fellas are like that: can’t take a hard shot while they’re still on the move. But I’m not stoppin’, Kieran buddy. Oh no. And I hope your mother’s got a bird’s eye view. Boom. I hammers him into the boards and down he goes. A nice, clean check. The puck slides right into the crook of my blade and I whips it back up the ice with a flick of the wrist. Dandy.

  Time I took a little break now. Shane Maher, Kieran’s twin brother, takes my place on the ice. They’ve never once been on the same team and I think it’s ‘cause the coaches have such a hard time tellin’ ‘em apart. No trouble tellin’ ‘em apart on the ice though. Shane’s one of the best players in the league. Kieran’s average. I’m not sayin’ I’m anything extra myself, but I can hold my own. I made the all-star team last year and I would’ve this year only for my ankle was shagged up during try-outs.

  Rolly leans over and pats me on the shoulder.

  —Nice one, Andy. Good clean hit.

  Rolly’s the best coach I’ve had yet. He’s younger than the other coaches by years, so he’s able to keep up during practice. Coachin’ is more than talk. It’s more than speeches in the dressing room and shoutin’ at us from the bench. Rolly gets out there on the ice with you, shows you what you’re doin’ wrong and then how to do it better. He’s a good laugh too. He knows all the tricks, how to play dirty without the ref catchin’ on. Plus he’s not at it ‘cause he’s got someone belong to him in the league so he don’t play favourites. If you’re havin’ a bad game, he’ll let you know it, no matter who you are.

  A few years ago a scout from the Quebec Nordiques came to watch Rolly play in the regional championships in St. John’s. Rolly’s team lost, but he made a good impression with two goals and two assists. Mr. Scout cornered him after the game and offered him the moon. Said Rolly had to strike while the iron was hot, while he was still young enough, in his prime. But Rolly wouldn’t hear tell of it. Some says it’s ‘cause he was still workin’ on his engineering degree. But no one really knows for sure why he turned it down. Quebec weren’t doin’ so bad that year and he could always have finished his schoolin’ some other time. Some says he was afraid of gettin’ swallowed up, that he’s more content being the hot shot on the home ice here rather than being a face in the crowd up there. But I don’t think that. That’s only jealous talk. Rolly’s a pretty humble fella. God knows what was goin’ through his head at the time.

  Big Frank Lowe is our assistant coach. He don’t say much. He’s a gruff, crooked presence for the most part. But he knows hockey and he keeps a close eye on the game. His son, Little Frank, is on our team. Little Frank’s a decent defenceman, but he’s a bit on the heavy side. He loses his wind pretty early in the game and don’t ever seem to get it back.

  Shit,
only six minutes left now and we’re still down by one. Little Frank comes huffin’ and puffin’ up to the bench lookin’ for a break. I looks up towards Rolly and he nods for me to go on. As soon as I hits the ice the whistle goes. Offside. Face-off behind enemy lines. That’s what we likes to see. I takes the face-off myself. Before the puck drops I hears shoutin’ from our bench. It’s Big Frank. He’s up in Rolly’s face growlin’ and cursin’, and then he walks back to the other side of the bench. That’s odd. The puck drops and I misses it. Shane Maher swoops in and saves it. He passes it over to the left-winger. I finds an opening and positions myself in front of the net. I picks up the pass from the left, fakes a shot, passes it back to Shane, he shoots and he fuckin’ scores! What a goddamn play. She’s all tied up with over four minutes left. We can win this game. One side of the arena is howlin’ for blood and the other side is hootin’ and whistlin’ and clompin’ for joy. Nothing like it.

  Face-off. Little Frank comes back on the ice to replace a defenceman. When the puck drops I pulls it back to my skate and kicks it up the ice between the other guy’s legs. Rolly showed me that. I darts forward and picks it up again before anyone knows what happened. And then I takes a vicious shot to the ribs from the butt of someone’s stick. Fuckin’ Kieran Maher! Still pissed at me for knockin’ him down I s’pose. He leans towards me with a big stupid grin on his face and grunts something at me. Sounds like he called me a little queer. I drops my gloves and gives him a good hard shot to the throat. No sense goin’ for his face when he got the mask on, I’d only tear the shit out of my knuckles. I slugs him again and down he goes. That’s another way to tell the twins apart, on or off the ice: Shane’s the best kind, but Kieran, he’s a sly little shit.

  The whistle blows and I makes my way over to the box without being told. A cheer goes up on the enemy side of the bleachers. Applause for the referee. Kieran’s mom has a few more words to say to me too. I don’t know what she’s so loopy about. She’s got a son on each team. One of ‘em’s going home a winner for Christ sakes.

  Two minutes for roughin’. Four and a half minutes to go and I’ve left the team shorthanded. Keith skates past the box and gives my helmet a crack with his stick. He’s fuckin’ askin’ for it.

  I hangs my head and tries to catch my breath. I glances over at the bench. Rolly shakes his head at me. He got no time for fightin’ on the ice. He says if you can’t settle your scores with a good clean hit, wait for the bastard outside the rink after the game. But it’s hard not to lose your head out here when your blood is pumpin’ and some asshole starts playin’ dirty, callin’ you names.

  I tries to focus on the game. The puck ricochets into our end. Little Frank is just standin’ there, lets it go right past him. He dawdles down into the corner to pick it up but the other guy is comin’ up strong behind him. Our goalie gets to the puck in the nick of time and shoots it back up the ice. Rolly calls Little Frank over to the bench and sends someone else on in his place. The play is in our end. Keith has a shot on net but don’t even come close.

  —Pass the puck, b’ys. Pass the puck!

  I said that for badness. Not like Keith gets ahold of the puck often enough to hog it. I’m after watchin’ him play a lot of hockey over the years and one strange thing about his game is that no matter how much practice he puts in, he’s guaranteed to panic soon as the puck touches his stick. He gets rid of it quick as he can. He got no concept of settin’ up the play. If he sees the net, he’ll shoot at it. If one of his teammates is closer, he’ll pass the puck. Or he’ll just bang it off the boards, not givin’ a shit where it goes. I have to laugh at him sometimes.

  Three minutes left. Tied up at four. Goddamned if I’m stuck in this box! Shane makes his way up the ice with the puck, passes it over to the wing. The whistle blows. What the fuck is that for?

  A crowd is gathered around our bench. Must be a time-out.

  —Let ’im up!

  —Get off ’im, ya big lummox!

  The game grinds to a standstill. I climbs out of the box, makes my way over to the bench. Both teams are gathered around. I elbows my way through the gaggle. Big Frank has Rolly pinned down in the corner of the bench, punchin’ him over and over. His fist is covered with blood. Steam is risin’ from Rolly’s bloody mouth and nose. Little Frank’s got his arms wrapped around his father’s knees. Big Frank spits down at Rolly. He speaks through his teeth.

  —You’re always ridin’ him, always on his case. It’s minor fuckin’ hockey, not the, the, the fuckin’ NHL! Equal time on the ice. My b’y’s not no goddamn benchwarmer. You’re always ridin’ him, always on his case…

  Little Frank lets go of his father’s legs and nimbly catapults himself back onto the ice. I’ve never seen him so agile. Head down, he skates off towards the gates. Halfway there he stops, raises his stick over his head with both hands and brings it down across his knee. It don’t break. He tries again. He can’t break it. One final time he raises the stick up over his head. He holds it there a moment before lettin’ it drop to the ice with a clatter. Someone opens the gates for him and he steps off without lookin’ back.

  Big Frank Lowe climbs over the glass behind the bench and jumps into the bleachers. He boots an empty can out of his way. It rattles and clanks, echoin’ angrily around the rink. He disappears into the dressing room behind his son. All is quiet for the first time since we’ve hit the ice tonight. No one moves. My heart is poundin’. Then the clack, clack, clack of twenty-odd sticks against the ice, off the boards, the trompin’ of a hundred winter boots on wooden bleachers. Hands clap-pin’ and mouths whistlin’. Rolly back on his feet, arm raised high, timidly wavin’ away the applause. Someone hands him a towel and he holds it to his gushin’ nose. A first aid kit arrives but he pushes it aside. He calls the referee over to the bench. The coach from the other team joins them in a clumsy, awkward huddle.

  Two short blasts of the whistle gets the game back underway. I sits up on the boards and waits out the ten seconds left to my penalty, then I’m back on the ice. My legs are shakin’, my mind racin’. The puck bounces off my kneepad and drops right in front of me, but I’m all froze up. It slides through my legs. I feels my body spinnin’ around as the so-called enemy shoulders his way past. He’s takin’ the puck on up the ice. For the life of me I can’t think of one good reason to try and stop him. I glances over at Rolly. He’s still nursin’ his face with the towel. He bawls out at me.

  —C’mon, Andy. Snap out of it! It’s not over yet.

  It’s not over yet. It’s not over yet. It’s not over yet. I forces the game back into focus and scrambles after the puck. Number 12 is closin’ in over the blue line. He’s all alone. He crosses the line. Our goalie hunkers down, ready for anything. Number 12 picks his target, pulls back his stick and takes his…from out of nowhere Keith comes in with a good clean hit. Number 12 goes down like a ton of bricks. Good thing Keith got no size to him. He passes the puck back up to me but I’m too far away from it. It glides along the boards into the other end and is picked up by the defenceman. He passes it out to the centre but I intercepts it. Keith moves into position on my left. Fuck this though. I’m gonna have my shot. Probably my last shot for the year. Maybe ever. I don’t know. I glances at the clock. Fifty-one seconds to go. I crosses the blue line. Kieran Maher makes a swipe at the puck and cracks me across the ankle. Pain shoots up my leg but I tries my best to ignore it. I pulls around him and loses the goddamn puck in the process. He doubles back, scoops it up and tries to pass it out to his wing. His brother intercepts and passes back to me.

  —Have your shot. Have your shot…

  Twenty-eight seconds. I’m on my own, closin’ in fast. I blasts a shot on net but before the puck even leaves my stick I knows I should have waited, should have gotten a bit closer. The goalie blocks it with ease. It trickles into the corner behind the net. The goalie slams it off the boards and, to what I can only assume to be his utter horror, it’s comin’ right back to me.

  Five seconds left with an ope
n fuckin’ net. The puck only ten feet away and slowin’ down to a slither. I tries to skate towards it but can’t put any pressure on my ankle. The puck stops. I sort of limps, sort of hops towards it, usin’ my stick for balance. Five feet away. I can almost reach it. Three seconds left. Almost…there. Two seconds. I hears someone skatin’ up behind me and I braces myself for the hit. That’d be perfect. Just fuckin’ perfect. At the last second, literally, Keith comes roarin’ past me, and taps the puck into the open net.

  The buzzer sounds.

  Game over.

  We’ve won the championship.

  I falls to the ice, more from the pain in my ankle than from any sense of relief or pride or happiness. The stadium whoops and claps and hoots and boos. Mostly boos.

  I struggles to my feet to go congratulate Keith. If he’ll let me. Amidst all the commotion I spots him doin’ a little dance for the crowd on the other team’s side of the arena. He raises his stick in the air. They hisses and boos at him. He skates over to the other side of the bleachers and does the same. The crowd cheers. Holdin’ his stick at both ends, just like Little Frank, he brings it down across his knee. It don’t break. The crowd laughs. He glides over to the open net and slams the shaft of the stick down on the crossbar. It still won’t break, so he hammers it off the ice over and over until the shaft splinters up the middle. He takes it in both hands and twists it back and forth around his knee and finally fires it into the corner, still in one piece. It’s not fuckin’ easy to break off a hockey stick.

  Rolly comes out onto the ice, dabbin’ at his face with the bloodied towel. His nose is a bit crooked but the bleedin’ is stopped. I skates over alongside of him. He looks me up and down with his one good eye.