Power Play (2 page)

I
threw all my equipment into my hockey bag and grabbed my stick. I could tell by the sound it made when I tapped it against the concrete floor that it had a little crack. Must have happened when I hit it against the boards after that last goal against us. It was now useless, but I couldn’t throw it away; I didn’t know if I could get another one before the next game. Sticks are expensive. But as long as I showed up with a stick for the next game and then “broke” it during the warm-ups, I could count on somebody to “loan” me one. Funny how there always seemed to be enough money for beer in my house but not for other things.

I shouted out my goodbyes and left the dressing room. My mother was standing in the corridor, by
herself. I guess my father had left both of us behind this time. At least I’d have company on the walk home. Other parents, standing in clusters, were waiting for their kids to appear. Some were just happy that their kid hadn’t got hurt, and they didn’t really care if we’d won or lost. Others took the game as seriously as my father did—as seriously as I did. They’d probably dreamt about getting to the NHL themselves, or dreamt now that their kid would get there. I guess it was good to have a dream, but for most of them it was about time they woke up to reality.

My mother gave me a quick hug. “Your father is waiting.”

“Oh.” I was pleased and displeased all at once. I wouldn’t have to walk, but I would have to listen.

“He’s next door at the legion having a drink,” she said.

Great. Now he was going to talk
and
drive with another drink in him.

“He’s with a scout.”

“The scout!” I exclaimed.

“He came over and talked to us at the end of the game. Let’s hurry,” she said. “It’s not good to keep him waiting.”

I saw that anxious look in her eyes. Living with my father was like living on the side of a volcano. Even when it hadn’t erupted for a long time, you still lived in fear that it might blow any day.

My mother took my stick and we moved quickly through the arena, going out through one of the side exits
and into the parking lot. The legion hall was just across the way.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Does what hurt?”

She pointed at my nose.

“Not really.”

“It looks sore.”

“It isn’t. I’d forgotten all about it until you mentioned it.”

That was only partially a lie. My nose was throbbing, but it didn’t actually hurt. I had really high pain tolerance, especially during a game. When I was playing, it was like I could turn pain off. A blocked shot, a slash, even a hit into the boards never seemed to hurt until long after the game was over. It was almost as if I could detach my mind from my body.

We walked into the legion. My father loved legions, and there seemed to be one close to every arena. They all seemed the same: worn wooden tables and chairs, dim lighting, flags and pictures of veterans in uniform lining the walls, and still, unmoving air that smelled like stale beer.

I could hear my father before I could see him. His voice filled the room, which was almost empty except for a table of old-timers sitting in the corner, nursing their beers and playing cards. He waved us over. The man in the suit—the scout—got to his feet. He was big—more fat than muscular—but seemed friendly as he greeted us with a big smile and an extended hand.

“Hello, Cody, good to meet you,” he said. “I’m Mr. Connors.”

“Good to meet you, sir.” I shook his hand.

“Sir?” he said and smiled. “Nice to see a young man with manners.”

“I raised him right,” my father said. “I always told him to show manners or get a swat.” He mimicked a hit to the back of my head but stopped just short of actually making contact. I made sure not to flinch.

“Hopefully you didn’t have to swat him very often,” Mr. Connors said.

“The kid is not a quick learner. Thank goodness there’s not much up there to hurt,” my father said. He laughed that harsh, raspy, too-much-to-drink-and-smoke laugh of his.

“He certainly seemed pretty smart out there on the ice,” Mr. Connors said. “He has great hockey IQ.”

I was glad he could see that. I did know hockey.

“Smart on the ice, yes. At school, not so much,” my father said.

Mr. Connors looked concerned. “Is school a problem, Cody?”

“Not a problem,” I said. “I just don’t like it very much.”

“School is important,” he said. “
Very
important.” He paused. “But I’m here to talk about hockey. You did well out there today.”

“We didn’t win.”

“And that bothers you,” he said.

“That bothers me a lot. I don’t play to lose.”

“I appreciate the attitude. Individual stats don’t matter if the team loses, but regardless, you played well. You got yourself a Gordie Howe hat trick.”

“What?” I questioned.

“You know who Gordie Howe is, right?” he asked.

“Of course he does!” my father exclaimed.

“I just don’t get the hat trick part … I only scored one goal.”

“One goal, one assist, and one fight. That’s a Gordie Howe hat trick,” he explained.

“Now there was a
player
,” my father thundered. “He could beat you with a goal, beat you with a blocked shot, or just plain beat you … one punch!” He smacked his hand against the table, rattling the glasses of beer. The one in front of Mr. Connors sloshed onto the table. “He retired with eight hundred and one regular-season goals. Best player the game has ever seen.”

“Wouldn’t that be Gretzky—eight hundred and ninety four regular-season goals?” I asked.

“Gretzky!” my father said with disdain. “He wouldn’t have lasted a season back in the Original Six! No helmets, no face guards, no goalie masks. And a player was supposed to take care of himself, nobody there to baby-sit him and be his bodyguard. Howe didn’t need a bodyguard.”

“Gordie was as tough as nails,” Mr. Connor agreed. “Your father was telling me about his own days in Senior A.”

No surprise there. He told everybody about his glory days, especially when he’d been drinking, which was most of the time.

“I guess you’ve heard some of the stories,” Mr. Connors said to me.

I almost laughed out loud, but just nodded my head in agreement. I’d heard all of them dozens of times—and they often had different endings. At least when he changed the story it made it more interesting.

“That wasn’t hockey back then as much as it was war!” my father exclaimed.

“Those were the days. I wish I could have been around to see some of those games,” Mr. Connors said.

“I
was
there,” my father said. “I had the speed, I had the hands, and I had the game. The way I played would make this one look like a figure skater,” he said, gesturing to me.

I could always count on him for the compliments.

“The only break I ever got was the wrong kind—snapped my leg in two.” He shook his head slowly. “Never the same after that.”

“I’ve seen it before,” Mr. Connors said. “Not just an injury ending a career but somebody who could have had a shot at the bigs never getting that shot. And that doesn’t even count the politics around the game.”

“Don’t get me started on that one,” my father agreed.

“Sometimes it isn’t what you can do, but who you know,” Mr. Connors said.

“You listening to this?” said my father, leaning across the table to give me a tap on the arm.

“I’m listening.”

“And is that your dream?” Mr. Connors asked me. “To make it to the Show?”

“Isn’t that everybody’s dream?”

“For most, that’s all it is. They aren’t prepared to do what it takes, to wake up and do the work.”

“I would have done anything,” my father said.

“Sometimes it’s a son’s destiny to live his father’s dreams,” Mr. Connors said.

“Him?” my father asked. “You think
he
could make it to the NHL?”

“No one can guarantee anything, but Cody has potential. There’s only one question.” He turned directly to me. “How much do you want it?”

“Bad.”

“How bad?” he asked.

“Really bad.”

“And what would you be prepared to do to get there?” Mr. Connors asked.

“He’d do whatever it takes,” my father said, answering for me. “We’d all be prepared to do whatever needs to be done.”

“I’ve seen lots of people with talent who weren’t prepared to make the sacrifices,” the scout said. “I’ll give you an example. Cody, do you have a girlfriend?”

“Um … not really.”

“Good! One of the biggest distractions, one of the things that drains focus, is having a girlfriend.”

“Women,” my father said, shaking his head. “You know what they say: ‘A man isn’t complete until he’s married … and then he’s
finished
!’”

My mother smiled weakly as my father laughed loudly. He was always the best audience for his own jokes.

“You married?” my father asked Mr. Connors.

“Only to the game. But she will demand a lot from you if you want to be the best. Cody, do you want to be the best?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No hesitation. I believe you. You have the heart and you have the toughness, but you have to work on improving your skills. You’ve never been to any development camps, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?” he asked.

I was embarrassed to tell him. I guess my father wasn’t.

“Too much money!” he said.

“Some of them offer scholarships to deserving people,” Mr. Connors said. “Like the one I run. I’m allowed to fill two spaces each session without charge. Would you be interested in attending camp?”

“You’d do that for me?” I asked.

“I would, because I believe you just might have what it takes.”

“That’s incredible … thank you so much … I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say yes. And there’s no telling what might happen after that. After watching you play, talking to you and your parents, I think I’m going to recommend you be given serious consideration in the Junior A draft.”

Now I was speechless. Junior A was only one step away, and the NHL was just one step up from there.

“I’ll send you all the details,” Mr. Connors said. “But first things first.” He reached into his pocket. “These are for you,” he said, handing something to my father.

My father looked at them and his eyes widened in shock. “These are platinum seats! For this Saturday’s game between the Leafs and the Bruins!”

“I get tickets all the time, and I thought you’d be the sort of person who would really enjoy and appreciate a battle between two of the Original Six,” Mr. Connors explained.

“Incredible! My buddy Sid’s not going to believe it until me and him have our butts in those seats.”

For a split second I’d actually thought he would take my mother, or even me. I should have known better, but Mr. Connors didn’t. He looked at me, and we saw the hurt and surprise in each other’s expressions.

“Don’t worry, there will be other tickets,” he said directly to me. “Count on it.”

He said it with such confidence. There was something about him that made me feel like I
could
count on it. Of course, giving me more tickets might just mean my father going to more games.

“Can I see your stick?” he asked.

I picked it up off the floor, where my mother had put it down, and handed it to him.

He pressed the blade against the floor. “Nice stick … a bit worn. Walk me out to my car. I have a couple in the trunk. You can have them.”

“Really?”

“A craftsman is only as good as his tools,” he said. “But you have to make me a promise.”

“Just tell me what.”

“You have to promise me you’ll get at least five goals out of each blade before you smash it against the boards.”

I felt embarrassed.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said.

It was like he was reading my mind!

“A great coach can teach lots of things, but he can’t teach passion. I’m a sucker for passion, and I can’t stomach players being passive about losing. Show me a good loser—”

“And I’ll show you a loser,” I said, finishing his sentence.

“Exactly!” He flashed a big smile. “I like this kid,” he said to my parents. He stood up. “Nice to meet you both.” He shook hands with my mother and then my father.

“Great to meet you too,” my father said as he held onto his hand. “You’re not kidding, are you? You think the kid has a shot?”

“I’ve been coaching and scouting for a long time. I know my hockey. Once you get to know me, you’ll see I never lie to anybody. You’re not doubting me, are you?”

“Of course not!” my father exclaimed. “I can tell a man I can trust a mile away!”

“And how about you? Any doubts?” he asked me.

“No, sir.”

“Excellent. Come on out and we’ll get you those sticks.”

I trailed after him like it was my birthday and Christmas and the last day of school all rolled into one. As we walked through the parking lot, I spotted the car that I figured was probably his—a black Escalade, parked by itself. We walked toward it.

“I was surprised that your father didn’t offer to take
you
to the game,” he said.

“I wasn’t … not really.”

“Too bad. You and him aren’t that close.”

I shook my head.

He opened up the trunk of the Escalade and pulled out two sticks—sticks that were worth a couple of hundred dollars—and handed them to me.

“Thanks … thanks so much,” I said.

“No problem. You know, success is about a whole lot more than just the skills somebody brings to the rink.”

“I know that.”

“It has to do with passion, drive, who a guy is, and even where he came from—his family.”

Oh great, he was going to judge me by my old man.

“It was important for me to talk to your parents,” he said. “I have to know who they are, and if they’re going to be part of the plan or get in the way.”

“My parents really want me to make it,” I said.

“I can tell.”

For the first time in my life, my father had managed to make the right impression. This was even more miraculous than the sticks I was holding in my hands.

“This could be just the start. What you said in there about doing what’s necessary to make it to the Show, you meant it, right?”