You can be sure that he spun the pickup’s wheels coming out of the driveway, peppering the garage with gravel. Then we hightailed it into town like a couple of yahoos, right up to the arena. In the locker room, I was pulling on my still-damp gear, forty-five minutes late, when Larry came in. I started to apologize, but he simply raised his hand to silence me.
“I just got off the phone with your father.”
“Larry…”
“Listen up. When I signed on to coach you, I met the both of you at the beginning of June. I said that you were going to have to do what I said and follow my recommendations. Otherwise, why go to all the trouble? Your father was in agreement, and you agreed too. We signed a contract, Alex. You have to respect it. Zero tolerance for lateness. Everyone’s busted their ass to be on time. The guys are here to train, but also for the pleasure of playing with someone who’s on his way to the juniors. You made the front pages of the papers in Quebec City when they held the draft. Do you get what I’m saying? It’s not just me you’ll be letting down. It’s everybody. But the most important thing I want you to understand is that the biggest loser will be you. Are you with me? If you don’t make the team, you’ll be just another wet firecracker, like so many others.”
I nodded that I’d had enough; that I understood. I knew perfectly well he’d gotten a kick out of giving my father an earful after what he’d suffered planting trees a few weeks back. As I walked out, he told me that if I was late one more time, he’d wind up the program. I could go find somewhere else to train. I didn’t think it was true. He wouldn’t let me down. He had even made arrangements to stay at his sister’s in Quebec City so that he could be with me during camp and at the start of the season.
“Is Tommy here?” I asked, before Larry could close the locker room door.
“I’d say so. By the time everyone else showed up this morning, he had already been skating for over half an hour.”
Half an hour, plus forty-five minutes… That added up to more than an hour he’d been training. And he never got tired.
Everyone greeted me with a nod, but no more than that. Not that they were angry at me for being late, like Larry claimed. The guys have known me for a long time. They knew it wasn’t the first time I’d been late, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. None of them would’ve said a word about it. They were just too tired from the workout to say anything at all. On that Monday morning at the arena, Sergeant Larry had decided it was time for a gut check. He had piled it on, and they had given it all they had. They were drenched with sweat, gasping for breath. Everyone except Tommy, who seemed fresh as a daisy. On the other hand, even if his tongue wasn’t hanging out like the others, he looked all pasty and puffed-up. Under the arena lights, you could see that there were pimples all over his face. Which I hadn’t noticed before.
I skated circles alone in one corner of the rink, doing my warm-ups and then some power exercises. After he was sure that I was dead tired and had paid for my lack of discipline, Larry allowed me to join the others at the end of the rink for some technical exercises: passing and positioning. After that, we got to play for a while just to relax.
Bastien was in goal. Samuel and Félix were there. We played two on two. You had to come out of the defensive zone with the puck on your stick. Then you had to come in at top speed while the two opponents took up defensive positions. It was just a game, but as always, we competed full out.
Samuel and I paired up. Félix, small and fast, was with Tom. I noticed from the outset that Samuel seemed to be out of synch. Maybe he had something on his mind; maybe he wasn’t quite in shape yet or maybe he just didn’t have his heart in it. Most likely a combination of all three, but I was leaning more towards the idea that he had his mind on something else. He seemed like a guy who wasn’t really enjoying himself, not because he didn’t care, but more because he was feeling down, and because of his negative attitude. After every bad play, he’d criticize the other players or find fault with them instead of concentrating on improving his game. No doubt he wished he was still on vacation, having fun with his new girlfriend, sitting around the pool without a care in the world.
But Félix, he was totally involved. Always speedy and energetic, he covered me tightly, giving me no room to skate. I managed, with my long reach, to get enough space to make a pass. But, unfortunately, Samuel was no match for Tommy, who was making his life miserable. A linesman would’ve surely handed Tommy a couple of obstruction penalties for planting himself in front of Sam like a cement pillar. The poor guy was totally checked, incapable of budging Tommy so much as an inch. And since he was always quickly covered, I had no one to pass to. Despite making some good plays, we quickly fell behind, four to one.
I managed to score a second goal, but I had to do it by myself. I beat Félix with a nifty shoulder fake coming in on the left. I didn’t even think about Samuel, figuring Tommy had him pinned to the boards. I came in alone against Bastien who did the splits. I lifted the puck and scored on my backhand. When Larry whistled the end of the game, we had lost, four to two.
Right at the end, I found myself along the boards battling Tommy for the puck. I was determined to beat him on my own, since Sam was so unconnected. I took a powerful shoulder check, as if I had run into a brick wall. I went down hard, unable to stay on my feet. Looking up, I saw Tommy give me a wink before leaving the zone with a strong thrust of his heavy blade.
“Okay, guys,” said Larry, “that’s it for today. Thanks for showing up on time. We took it easy today to set our pace. But I assure you, by the end of the week, you’ll be wanting to call your moms to say you’re finished with hockey. Tom, it’s supposed to be no contact.”
“But Alex hit me first.”
Larry didn’t respond, and I didn’t protest, unable to take my eyes off Tommy’s face. I couldn’t believe he had been so quick to squeal on me to the coach. A real friend would have kept it zipped. True, I’d given him a little action in the corner. But he’d been doing exactly the same from the get-go.
Tom, who might have had a secret lobotomy, looked at me with that stupid smile that never left his face. He was probably feeling pretty good about his first day on the ice and the amazing success of special training program his cousin from Baie-Comeau had put him through. It wasn’t the hard fall that had me thinking— you have to expect things like that when you play hockey —it was mostly the fact that Tommy hadn’t moved an inch that annoyed me.
That’s how it was all week long! Tommy took to the ice, not fast, nothing fancy, but with thunderous form and extraordinary power. He was moving all the time, like a freight train, and no one was able to shove him off the rails. Every time he came to check me, I’d give ground, which put me on the defensive and made me vulnerable to his crushing hits. For the first few days, Larry insisted on no contact. But soon enough we started to play rough. You had to learn to be tough enough to take a hit from twenty-year-olds weighing over two hundred twenty pounds. At the beginning of our mini-camp, I went to the net like a bolt of lightning, scoring goals one after the other. My game was much better in every way than anyone else’s, and no one seemed able to stop me. But soon, Larry made us tighten the game and play his man-to-man system, yielding as little space as possible, constantly back-checking. And slowly but surely, Tommy overshadowed everyone. Claiming more and more space every day and becoming increasingly dominant. After six days, it was as if he owned the ice. And everyone trembled when they saw him coming. The boards trembled too, the glass whipping back and forth alarmingly and the thuds reverberating all over the rink whenever Tommy sent someone flying into them.
There were some new guys in camp. Gagnon and a talented young player, Nicolas Landry. Gagnon and I were the only ones who could stand up, if ever so slightly, to Tommy’s intimidation. But Landry, who was only fourteen, went off to the locker room at the end of his second day, gasping for breath, his rib cage flattened, following an unfortunate encounter with our team bully, who had shown him no mercy. I didn’t feel good a
bout it when I saw Nic creamed into the boards.
Disgusted, I went to see Larry.
“Hey, tell him to calm down.”
“Tell him yourself, he’s your friend. So far, he’s playing within the rules. It’s up to the rest of you to handle it.”
“He just about ripped Nicolas’s head off!”
“Nic knew what he was in for when he decided to play with the older guys. He wanted it. He’ll remember what he learned here when he’s playing midget this year, and be a better player for it.”
Really, now I’d heard everything. Larry could be a nice guy, but as soon as he set foot in a rink, it was as if he thought he was in a military barracks or a trench in Bosnia and Herzegovina. He became, like a soldier under enemy fire, a perfectly inhuman machine.
I wanted to respond, but he pointed his finger at me while looking me right in the eye, with his steely gaze, behind his smoky blue-tinted glasses.
“And you’re going to have to toughen up, yourself. You can finesse everybody around here. You can talk a big game and fake everybody out. But it won’t work like that in Quebec City. In a couple of years, you’re going to be just like your father Louis: six four and over two hundred thirty pounds. You’ll never be one of the fast guys in the NHL and you’re going to have to learn to play more physically. I structured your training program with that in mind. You’re a power forward, Alex, and don’t you forget it.”
I stood leaning on both elbows against the boards, watching my sergeant coach head towards his office. I felt a breath of cold air ripple along my back. It was Tommy, who always put in an extra half-hour skating after practice. He whizzed by me like a speeding locomotive, practically melting the ice with every stroke of his skates.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. What am I supposed to do with it in Quebec City?”
“But you’ll be back over the holidays.”
“Well in that case, I’ll borrow it back.”
Mike had just about stood on his head to turn down my offer to lend him the Skiroule. The snowmobile needed a good mechanic to keep it in top shape. My father had had his Polaris 500 fixed so he wasn’t likely to be puttering along at 30 clicks an hour in my semi-antique. I didn’t want it spending the winter hibernating in the back of the garage either. It was like a living thing. I’d seen the proof plenty of times last winter; she needed to move, to slide along the snow, to be treated with care. But the main thing was that Mike still had bad memories of what happened up at Lake Matamek, when I forced him to throw his Leafs hat at my feet. He didn’t like thinking about his long ordeal and the humiliation that went with it. He knew I absolutely couldn’t tolerate him wearing a Bruins cap. He must have smelled the trap.
“Why don’t you leave it with your girlfriend? She’d have fun with it for sure.”
I pretended not to know what he was talking about and he started cracking up.
“Sorry, sonny boy. But you must be the only one in town who thinks you don’t have a girlfriend.”
So that was that. The cat was out of the bag. I was seeing Chloé. Everyone knew it. We might as well call the priest and set the date. A wedding between two villagers. That would make everybody happy. Great for the local gene pool too. And I looked down to see if someone hadn’t strapped ten pounds of lead to my feet. This time, if I jumped into the water, there’d be no one to save me. Not even Mike. I’d sink straight to the bottom.
Mike tossed his wrench onto the workbench. He tapped me on the shoulder and then we went for a walk on the dock.
It was mid-afternoon and there were quite a few fishermen there. The Boivin brothers, two retired gentlemen, would spend almost every day fishing for smelt, mackerel and flounder. The whole town would gather there on a summer’s evening. That’s why every rumour had the same source: the dock. Old folks and young: people of all ages mixed together. Some were listening to music and drinking beer. Others indulged in their favourite pastime. The fishing was good when the east wind was blowing and the tide high, and the village fishermen thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Smelt and mackerel lay scattered on the dock, flopping back and forth on the asphalt.
Mike and I worked our way through the crowd of people, greeting everyone we knew. Some of the guys offered us their rods, inviting us to take advantage of the great fishing, but we turned them down, continuing on our way out to the lighthouse. The government had built a security fence just in front of it, since the old dock was showing signs of wear. We climbed over it and clambered down to the pier.
Seated comfortably in between the large rocks piled up to reinforce the original concrete structure, we stayed there for a long time, silently looking out to sea. A long swell rolled in, a sure sign that a storm was on the way. When the waves come in from the east, you can usually predict a low-pressure system will follow, bringing with it a couple of days of bad weather. The waves usually come before the wind and the clouds. Judging by the size of them, we knew that we were in for a whale of a storm.
Long waves that had started in the faraway gulf were gently ending their journey against the rocks.
“I’ve started going out with Sylvie,” said Mike, stretching his legs.
“I know,” I said.
…Even if it wasn’t exactly true. But at least I found out why she came in late the other night, and that made me happy. It more than made up for sleeping in and being late for hockey practice.
A longer, taller wave than the others curled over the ebbing surf and crashed heavily onto the jetty, sending spray high into the air. In no time at all we were completely soaked. In the warm sun still shining through the clouds, it was a great feeling.
It was probably Chloé’s and my last chance to be together, at least for a stretch of time. Sure Sylvie had invited her for dinner the night before I left, but we decided we’d rather be alone since I’d be in Quebec City and on the road throughout the fall and winter. We weren’t going to have much of a chance to see each other. I took Michel’s advice and offered her the Skiroule.
Sitting side-by-side on the stairs, only the sound of passing trucks interrupted our heart-to-heart talk.
When I asked her if she wanted the snowmobile, she started to giggle.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t know how to drive those things.”
“It’s not that complicated.”
Side by side we walked to the garage. When I pulled the dusty cover from the 1970 Skiroule 440 I noticed the change come over her. She stopped laughing and went over to the machine, eyes wide. Chloé was an artist and I just knew she was going to love my old vintage skidoo. I showed her how to start it, giving the pull start a yank.
Chloé shook her head from side to side, laughing. She must have been imagining her mother and grandmother’s faces when they saw her sliding along, come winter.
Already the two biddies, who took tea every afternoon at four o’clock sharp, had enough trouble with the fact that she was out in the yard running a chain saw; when they saw their little Chloé flying around at top speed on a skidoo they would be sure to faint dead away. No way they were going to accept the idea. For sure that was what Chloé had in mind when she enthusiastically accepted my offer as she sat on the shiny leather seat, gunning the motor and making faces. Choking on the fumes we rushed out to the garage, buzzed and sick to our stomachs, but having a lot of fun.
My father finally arrived around five o’clock in the evening. I recognized my quad’s distinctive sound. Like a show-off, he swerved into the driveway sending dust flying every which way. It was to be his first meeting with my first— official —girlfriend and he was trying to be funny. I thought for a moment he was going to go straight through the yard, jump the fence on top of the rise and finally land in the sandpit. But he got control of the Suzuki just in time. Then, feeling proud of himself, he pulled up in front of us, one knee poised on the seat.
He took off his bright orange hat and shook the long grey hair that he wore Indian style, like in a shampoo commercial. He was quite a sigh
t, his shirt unbuttoned to the navel, and even worse, that big forced smile of his.
“Hi Chloé,” he went.
“Hello, Mr. McKenzie.”
“Mister’s for my father. I’m Louis.”
I hate that reply. Can’t stand it: “Mister’s for my father.” Blah blah blah. I was seriously ticked off.
Chloé laughed and so did my father, turning on the charm and running his fingers through his hair. Then he began to tell us about his day’s work: the desiccated trees provided by the government; the inspector who was supposed to come the week before and still hadn’t shown up; Jean St-Pierre who had come to give him a hand. It wasn’t so much the empty chatter that was getting on my nerves, no, it was the way he pulled his hair over his shoulder and began nonchalantly to braid it matter-of-factly. Of course, it attracted Chloé’s attention, and she began asking him questions. Then they started comparing each other’s hair and braiding techniques. I wasn’t feeling great.
As she leaned closer to him the better to observe his hair, he gave me the thumbs up sign to let me know I’d snagged myself a fine filly. Me, I let him know I wasn’t amused.
“What’s the matter, son?”
“We’ve been waiting for you for two hours.”
“Sorry. I had to make a stop up at Robert Pinchault’s. He wanted to show me the inside of the barn now that it’s finished. You ought to go see it. He asked after you.”
Sylvie, always perceptive, had been watching her brother’s performance through the window. She hurried out to tell him she needed his help right away. The tap was leaking in the upstairs bathroom and she was afraid there would be water damage. I knew she was lying, and I made a mental note to remember to thank her. By the time my father realized that Sylvie was playing a trick on him, we were deep into the forest.
Power Forward Page 4