There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool (7 page)

It was their turn. Again. The novelty had
worn off. He may as well be looking for needles in a haystack with
Edward Balloonhands.

Their three minutes were almost up. Derek
looked over Artie's shoulder and they stared at their screen,
waiting for their 85th pick -- 169 overall -- to announce itself.
Artie shrugged and pointed to Owen Sound, Ontario.

Derek shook his head. Never.

Owen Sound was located in a peninsula-like
area drawn out by the borders of the southeastern part of the
province. This area bore a remarkable resemblance to an elephant
making a one-point landing on its trunk. Windsor was the nostril of
a 50-mile section of sinus problems. Niagara Falls was the front
foot.

The forefathers of Owen Sound would surely
have reconsidered where they would place the town ... had they had
known it was smack dab in the elephant's butt. Derek wasn't sure
that Erskine was aware of this, but he wasn't about to take that
chance. The Herculean president would not be making an ass of him.
Derek pointed eastward from Owen Sound, just a fart away across
Georgian Bay to ...

"Parry Sound," he said.

"Ah, hometown to Bobby Orr ... number four.
Er ... he's retired, you know. He had leg problems too. A pity. Now
there was a player who played through pain."

Derek's knee stiffened, demanding
retribution.

Artie would have been content to make their
remaining picks in alphabetical order, or draw them out of a hat.
Or have Erskine pick for them. The doom and gloom that clouded the
surroundings was not unlike that which hung over Ottawa during its
expansion draft into the big leagues.

"I'm surprised you didn't go with Gretzky's
home town, Brantford," Erskine said.

"Well, his parking lot attendant doesn't get
out to play much. Too busy moving the cars around, y'know ..."

"But he is more in your price range."

"You're going to pay your players?" Derek
said with mock surprise. This also caught Artie off guard. He
looked up from his keyboard, wondering if Derek's sarcasm had
suddenly turned serious.

Derek's response gave Erskine little
pause.

"When one wants quality, one digs a little
deeper now, doesn't one?"

A smirk curled on Derek's lip. Erskine would
only have to dip, not dig. The loquacious lug had never had to
handle a shovel. Derek's reply got his own pistons pumping. Why was
Erskine prepared to pay big money to beat May-Ja-Look? To keep him
in his place? Maybe. To financially wipe him out? Definitely.
Winning wasn't enough for Erskine. He'd already dabbled in personal
injury. Now the game was public embarrassment. Bankrupting Derek
and his company -- that was the key. Chapter 11 behind closed doors
wasn't good enough. A hockey game for all the country to see Derek
come tumbling down. Erskine was stopping just sort of parking a car
bomb outside May-Ja-Look.

... 6 ...

"Owen Sound," said Erskine, with a cough.

"Elephant butt," said Marcotte, under his
breath.

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing."

Owen Sound was gone with pick number 212.
This was much later than it should have gone, but any psychologist
worth his sofa would point to common sense being humbled by
humility.

Erskine and Derek exchanged glances. Erskine
lowered his gaze. Marcotte didn't add anything to his barb. He
swore he could almost detect a sigh of relief from Erskine. Silent
victories made being smug a virtue. Derek peered over Artie's
shoulder at their laptop's screen. After conferring with Artie, he
looked at Bittman.

"York Factory, Manitoba."

"What do they do there," Erskine asked. "Make
chocolate bars?"

"Sort of. They want to keep a low profile.
It's a subsidiary plant for a leading laxative."

May-Ja-Look's lack of preparation showed
itself a few picks later when they made another trek across the
tundra of northern Saskatchewan.

"Uranium City, Saskatchewan."

"Ha!" Erskine spun on his heels like a crazed
game show host. "I guess you don't know that place has been a ghost
town since the mid-'80s?"

Derek looked at Artie. They shrugged
simultaneously. Oh well. No sense being coy about it. Brilliance
shuffled into the back seat and bullshit grabbed the wheel.

"Why we selected Uranium City is our
business. But ... if you must know ..." Derek walked slowly around
the desk. He paused at the head, a few feet from Erskine and leaned
onto the desk. "Every team needs a ghost."

Erskine's eyes narrowed.

"Look at the famous "Galloping Ghost", Red
Grange," Marcotte continued. "He played football in the 30's. Heck,
a player like that only comes around every fifty years."

"What with ghost busters, y'know," added
Artie.

... 7 ...

The draft had been going on too long. Drafts
were fun ... for a couple of hours. The past two days were too much
of a good thing. With regular pools, once you completed the draft,
you sat back and watched ... and waited. Then waited some more.
Poolers by the coolers. Water by day, whine by night. But his and
Artie's work was just beginning. And they were still in the draft
that wouldn't end.

Derek had read about scenes like this in the
Hockey Bible. The team's brass at the table ... nose-to-nose for 18
hours. Coffees and colas started to taste the same. Jockey shorts
plastered to fold-up chairs for hours on end starting taking on the
comfort of greased vinyl. They were a sequestered group who
couldn't agree on the particulars of a player trade, the
revenue-sharing of a collective bargaining agreement, or which logo
had been Vancouver's ugliest. The jersey they had gleefully draped
over their first round pick, they'd just as soon strangle their
eighth round pick with ... 200 players later.

Maybe this was why teams took flyers on
unknown, untested players late in the proceedings. They were
already armed with all the information their scouts had culled from
long hours spent in countless arenas. The bird dog's itinerary
could give any travel agent foot and mouth disease. It was insanity
brought on by insomnia. All this, to pick a player who had as much
chance of moving on to the NHL as Owen Sound had of moving
elsewhere -- anywhere -- on Georgian Bay.

A Saskatchewan zone turned red at 6 o'clock.
Soon after, one in Nova Scotia went white. Manitoba red, B.C.
white. Derek was lost in some quarterback's creative signal-calling
or a national wine tasting exhibition.

Marcotte rolled up his sleeves. He was
looking for a zone with a phone. The pickings were slim. The coffee
cups, sandwich wrappings and crumpled napkins gave the surroundings
a locker room aura following the post game meal. The feverish but
controlled pace had slowed to one of let-your-hair-down
nonchalance.

"What the hell ... Charity Pond, New
Brunswick," said Erskine. "I vacationed there in '85."

"Fort Nelson, B.C.," said Marcotte quickly.
The sooner Erskine was forced to think about his next pick, the
less time he would have to crow about his forty-foot yacht.

"When this is over, you'll be paying off fax
bills til you're old and gray," Erskine said. "Churchill,
Manitoba."

An hour later, old and gray looked attractive
to Derek. He was hallucinating.

Derek stared down at the old, gray suitcase
on the floor. It belonged to the airline passenger standing in
front of him ... a penguin. Short for his size, the squat but
dapper figure nudged the suitcase ahead with his webbed right
foot.

A nearby poster, stocked with Flamingos in
evergreen everglades, asked "Flying south for the winter?"

Derek caught the penguin eyeing the
long-legged birds.

"Miami Beach, here I come," Derek said in his
best Jackie Gleason impersonation.

"I'm off to Mecca, myself," the penguin said.
"I won the trip from one of those seed companies ... the ones in
the comic books. I sold the most begonia seeds in Greenland and was
entered in a draw. The odds were five million to one."

The penguin turned away, humming the chorus
from Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World". Seconds later, he turned
back to Derek.

"Say, do you know if the in-flight meal is
fish?"

"Bread. We need bread," said Derek.

"I'll say," said Artie. He was looking at his
paperwork, not realizing his reply had snapped Derek out of his
stupor. Marcotte snuck a peek at Erskine and Bittman. They too were
absorbed in their work. Derek leaned over Artie's shoulder.

"Are we done yet?"

"Almost. Just two left. Baffin Island and
Aklavik in the Yukon."

"You're kidding. Hockey players live up
there?"

"Sure. It's the zamboni drivers that are hard
to find."

Marcotte turned to Erskine.

"Baffin Island."

"And that leaves me with Aklavik. That's it.
It's open season on hockey players."

Artie stood and gathered up his paperwork
into a satchel. He closed his laptop computer and tucked it under
his arm. Stepping in behind Derek, they were about to exit when
Erskine stopped them.

"Oh, yes ... one of our cable TV clients has
agreed to help promote and broadcast the game. Call it a token
bargaining chip I've tossed your way. I'm sorry. This means you'll
have to shell out extra money for your players names on sweaters.
Your mother sews, doesn't she?"

Artie clutched Derek's arm as Marcotte
stepped towards their long-running nemesis. Erskine leered from
across the table. Marcotte stopped. Not here. This wasn't the time
or place. The battle had only begun.

Derek turned away and walked with Artie to
the door. He leaned close to Artie so Erskine couldn't hear
them.

"How much money do we have to swing this
thing?"

"Twenty-six hundred dollars."

The Plunge Checklist

... 1 ...

It was like any other neighborhood bar in
Scarborough. Above the corner bar's door, neon gas poured through
the green glass tubing that spelt "MAC'S". Inside, a couple
pennants of local teams and other sports memorabilia adorned the
walls. A pool table, dartboard and shuffleboard kept the drinking
elbows loose. Happy hours and Sunday football promotions helped the
locals overlook the broken tiles in the washroom floor.

Behind the bar, Mac cracked open a case of
Laratts Blue and loaded bottles into the cooler. Though Mac was
pushing 60, thoughts of retirement rarely entered his well-shorn
head. He knew if he wasn't behind the bar he'd merely be on the
other side, getting the Blue Jay coasters soggy. He'd sneak a drink
on the weekend shift now and again. If Toronto was winning. Argos
or Leafs, spare the grief. The sport didn't matter. As long as the
home team was winning.

Dennis, Donnie and Dino Tortellini stood at
the end of the bar, each with a draw of draught in front of them.
They were brothers, all wearing powder blue mechanic shirts with
the odd splash of three-in-one oil. Patches atop right-side pockets
had their names in flowing script letters. They were arguing about
the late owner of the Leafs, Harold Ballard. Three rounds of drinks
already beneath their belts, facts were bordering on fiction.

"He wouldn't let his own son have a stake in
the team," said Donnie.

"If you were my son, I wouldn't even take you
to the game," said Dennis. "Ballard was so cheap, he made Conn
Smythe pay for his seat."

"How 'bout Ballard's wife sleeping with a gun
under her pillow?" asked Dino.

"If Ballard poked me in the middle of the
night, I'd be packing too," said Donnie.

The brothers laughed into their mugs, sucking
back another mouthful. Dennis was the first to see Derek enter the
bar.

"Well, suck me dry and call me dusty," said
Dennis. "Look what the wind blew in."

Derek spotted them and nodded to Mac for "the
usual" on his way over to the Tortellinis.

"Good to see ya, ya ol' scuzbuckets." Derek
shook hands with the Tortellinis.

"We were thinkin' of givin' you a call," said
Dennis, "but Donnie here figures a grade ten education is good
enough to crank out some marketing slogans of his own."

Donnie spotted his cue and jumped on it.

"How's this? Be honest now."

With his right hand, Donnie traced imaginary
marquee lettering in the air above his head.

"Tortellini's Towing ... at your service.
Please don't be so goddamn nervous."

"Grating ... but gracious," said Derek. "I
wouldn't start the bumper sticker campaign just yet."

Mac arrived with a frothing mug and set it
down on a fresh coaster in front of them.

"Jesus H. Christ," Dennis said with a wink,
"What's a guy gotta do to get a beer around here?"

"Just keep your bloody mitts off my car," Mac
said, already on his way back to the bar.

Another round of Drunkard's Red set their
tongues to wagging about childhood memories and fabled days of
yore.

"Remember that game against St. Paddy's?"
asked Dennis.

"We played them every two weeks, numb nuts,"
Derek said with a chuckle. "There were only four teams in the
league."

But Derek knew what game the eldest
Tortellini brother was talking about. Marcotte would never forget.
For that game alone, Derek would always call the Tortellinis if he
was having car trouble ... or any trouble. As 13-year-olds, he and
Dennis had played hockey together on Grimley's Grocers in the West
Scarborough bantam division.

Dennis was smaller than Derek, but had plenty
of spunk. If Derek enjoyed the mystique of shadowing the other
team's top scorer, then Dennis carried the same pride wearing the
invisible badge as the team's policeman. Late in one particular
game, Derek was blind-sided in the corner of the rink by St.
Paddy's defenseman, Wayne "Bruiser" Reynolds.