Power Forward

by Sylvain Hotte

  Larry’s sister Nathalie owned a duplex on Rue du Roi. She lived upstairs with her two children, and agreed to rent the downstairs flat to her brother. That’s where we’d be living for the next three years, providing Tommy and I could get along, that is.

  Larry had seen my father’s pickup driving by; he was waiting on the sidewalk with a beer in his hand dressed in his imperishable blue jogging pants and a white tank top that showed his shoulders, which still bore the scars of his adventure in the woods: sunburn and mosquito bites.

  “Hi guys!” he said.

  Even though he was born on the Côte-Nord, Larry sticks to himself; nobody knows much about his personal life. He was born in Forestville. His father died when he was a teenager and his mother, who has Alzheimer’s, lives in a nearby nursing home. Maybe that’s why I almost didn’t recognize him. For someone who has so much character, who is so rebellious, he appeared smaller than his usual self. As if he had shrunk. You got the feeling that he was embarrassed to have to introduce some members of his family to us. Maybe we would learn some kind of terrible secret. But to be frank, everyone knows there’s something odd about Larry. So nothing was likely to surprise us.

  Walking down the sidewalk littered with sand and cigarette butts, my father began to rail against the city, saying how much he hated it and how he couldn’t believe that anyone could actually live there. While he was ranting, I trailed behind him, lugging my hockey bag and my suitcase. The heat was scorching. The asphalt was burning hot and I was drenched in sweat. Larry, who pretended not to be listening to Louis, grabbed my duffle bag and we entered a small five and a half.

  The front door opened onto the living room. There was a small sofa covered in light brown corduroy, a wooden table and a TV. Past the living room was a large bedroom, which was where Larry would be sleeping. We then moved to the kitchen, which was rather large, with a small table and four folding chairs. Through the kitchen were two other small bedrooms, which were going to be Tommy’s and mine. The bathroom was all the way in the back. Another door opened onto a small porch and a grassy yard, enclosed by a fence whose brown paint was peeling off. In her little garden, we found Nathalie on all fours, weeding. She had red hair like her brother. She was taller than him, something that surprised me. She had the same small bloodshot eyes, icy blue, that put you ill at ease when they sternly came to rest on you. And thanks to which, even if you hadn’t done anything wrong, you’d begin to wonder what you’d done wrong.

  “So, you’re the one everyone’s calling Quebec City’s new saviour.”

  She said it in an unfriendly, maybe even contemptuous way that made me dislike her immediately. I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn’t looking to be anybody’s saviour or child prodigy. But I was going to have to learn to live with it. Over the coming days, I’d quickly learn that things work differently in the big city than in small towns. Back home, I knew absolutely everybody. People there genuinely like each other and everyone takes pride in each other’s achievements. In the city, the proximity and the distance both lead to ways of relating with others that can be surprising and not even very human. Fame can arrive in a flash, and it can be overwhelming, like a crazy tidal wave that picks you up and carries you away and there’s nothing you can do about it. But it can also be a double-edged sword, which can turn against you and suddenly plunge deep into your heart. That would turn out to be the greatest benefit of living in this curious little community, where people have been just what they appear to be for a very long time. It’s no place to be putting on airs. Only by being sincere can you stay out of the quicksand and keep on moving forward.

  My bedroom looked out over the yard. I sat down on the single bed and bounced up and down to test its hardness. The springs creaked.

  And the pillow, with its synthetic stuffing, wasn’t at all comfortable. Still, the room was clean enough, except for the basement smell coming from the hot water radiator under the window. My father leaned into the room, his arms resting on the top of the door frame, and watched me settle in. The entire wall creaked under the weight of his two hundred and fifty pounds.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “you won’t be living here forever. Just while you’re in Quebec City.”

  Yep, I said to myself. And sat down on my bed and, through the window, watched Nathalie’s two children, aged seven and ten, down in the yard yelling and throwing handfuls of sand in each other’s faces. The boy, named Michael, had tried to make his little sister Elisa eat cat shit, and Larry’s sister was bawling him out. Larry was no slouch as a yeller himself. You could tell where the two children and their mother had gotten it from. What more proof did I need of the blood ties connecting my sergeant coach to these folks?

  I went shopping with my father at the mall in Sainte-Foy to buy all the stuff we couldn’t find back home. Sylvie had drawn up a long list. Larry spent his time trying on sunglasses, but he ultimately put them all back on the display rack saying he couldn’t make up his mind. I kept telling him that this or that pair suited him perfectly. But, firmly and with conviction, he resisted, relying on his trusty smoky blues to define his look and his attitude. Missed opportunity.

  Our little outing ended with a big surprise that really picked me up. My father bought me a laptop; a brand new PC. It would replace the prehistoric old clunker we had at home. And it would keep me busy during the sure-to-be long nights I’d be spending in my coach’s sister’s tiny apartment.

  Later on in the evening, just like that, my father hit the road. He had to get out of town, in a hurry.

  “At this hour?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re going to drive all night?”

  “I’m going to stop in Les Escoumins and sleep at my cousin’s.”

  “You’re going to show up at one in the morning?”

  He didn’t answer me. In any case, he was just saying the first thing that came into his mind. If he got too tired he’d pull over at a rest stop and sleep in the truck. Or whatever; he just had to get going. A couple of times while shopping I completely lost sight of him, then found him in Sears— or was it The Bay?—hiding between two racks of clothing, like a trapped animal, cornered. And, like he was a child, I told him to come along, we weren’t going to spend all day waiting. It always took everything he had to hold on to the little bit of calm he’d carved out for himself. He merged into the crowd at Place Laurier, walking with his back straight and his arms stiff, like a stone golem, eyes wide like a hunted deer caught in the open. I’d never seen him act that way in a crowd. It was then that I realized that my father was afraid of crowds.

  So he left in a hurry, without so much as a goodbye.

  Larry and I set up a training program. I had to keep in shape. It was Friday and camp would start Monday. I couldn’t afford three days off. I had to show up warmed up and ready to go. I had to be hot, hot, hot, like a race-car engine. So the coaching team would have eyes only for me.

  “It’s just like love. The first impression is always the best.”

  I looked at Larry sceptically. If he was right, my chances of success seemed mighty slim. Because from the time I was old enough to be interested in girls to the present moment, my luck was zilch. No doubt I’d be sent packing with a kick in the butt. I could already see the headlines in the sports section: “Top Côte-Nord Prospect Sent Home.” Or, “Not this Year for Alexandre McKenzie.”

  Next morning I headed out for my first training run through Quebec’s Basse-Ville. I quickly discovered a pleasant-enough route that hugged the St. Charles River. It helped me find my bearings in an urban landscape that I would never really feel at ease in. The river and the ducks in Cartier-Brébeuf Park would help me keep my sanity. But just barely. I’d always miss the wide-open spaces, the forest and the sea.

  Larry decided to join me on what he called his “Shape Up Fitness Program.” The paunch he’d developed wasn’t exactly disappearing. Too much sitting up on his Grizzly I kept on telling him. We ran side by side for a while until we reached Victor
ia Park. It wasn’t long before his tongue was hanging out. His sweat-covered face was flushed. At 6:30 a.m., it was already hot. I had a lot, and I mean a lot, of fun watching him struggle. I could easily have spent the entire day pushing him harder and harder, knowing he was too proud to quit. Unable to take so much as one more step, he’d have collapsed on the asphalt right on his face with a twisted ankle or a dislocated shoulder. He’d have looked up at me in pain, helpless, his face all scratched up and covered in dirt. But I had to stick to my training schedule. I had to be in top shape, ready to succeed. And I had precious little time to waste.

  “Sorry, Larry, but you’re holding me back.”

  “Go on, go on!” he said, barely understandable through his gasping and wheezing.

  I looked at him up and down, then asked him if he was going to be okay. Too proud, as usual, he nodded for me to go on without him; I picked up the pace. Two blocks further and he was out of sight. On freshly cut grass, I flew past the giant trees growing in the park one after the next.

  It was a pretty good run. But not as good as it should have been. Larry said it was normal; on account of pollution. In the afternoon, I went out to the yard to play with Michael. He played goalie while I shot tennis balls at him with a street hockey stick. I could hear Nathalie’s phone ringing on the top floor. She came out on the balcony yelling my name at the top of her voice. I took the stairs four at a time and she handed me her portable. I moved as far away from her as I could and covered my ear with my hand; she was ranting and swearing at Larry for not having a line installed, she wasn’t going to be everybody’s secretary. As soon as I got back to my own apartment, I sat on the sofa in the little living room to talk with Monique, my agent Pierre Anctil’s secretary.

  “Le Soleil wants to interview you Monday, after practice.”

  “Umm, I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Pierre thinks it’s a great idea.”

  The doorbell rang. With the phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder, I opened the door and found myself face to face on the landing with a large and muscular man. He was a head taller than me, with close-cropped hair and a tanned face. I told Monique I’d meet the journalist at the Colisée after practice, then hung up the phone, my eyes fixed on Mr. Muscles. His jaw was angular and massive. He had blond hair, streaked with grey and tied in a ridiculous little pony-tail combined with a sharply receding hairline. The guy must have been at least fifty. He spoke quickly, sniffing constantly. His clenched jaws made him mumble so badly I had to pay close attention.

  “Huh?”

  “Is Tommy Courchesne around?”

  He had a high-pitched voice, in a stark contrast to his heavy-set and muscular build.

  “Uh … no,” I said. “He’ll be arriving tomorrow.”

  “Good … Tell him Vincent, his cousin’s friend, came by. Tell him to call me. Vincent’s my name. Vincent.”

  “Okay.”

  He handed me his card. On it was printed the name Vincent Fradette with the title of Professional Trainer and the name of a gym in the Basse-Ville. I watched as he turned and left without so much as a goodbye. He crossed the street and got into a slightly rusted white Nissan Maxima with tinted windows. I could see the driver through the open window, an unfriendly looking guy with a red, white and blue scarf on his head and a big black beard. He threw me a glance in passing as I closed the front door behind me.

  When I went back out in the yard, Larry was still arguing with his sister. I don’t know what about. But they stopped when they saw me.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “I have an interview on Monday.”

  “They rang at the door for that?”

  “No, they called.”

  “Wasn’t there somebody at the door?”

  “Yeah. Some guy selling pencils and wallets.”

  Larry smiled.

  “Oh, I see. An interview in the paper. You haven’t even laced up your skates and you’re already a star. Watch out it doesn’t go to your head.”

  I didn’t let it go to my head. In fact, I wasn’t even thinking about it. The tough guy who was looking for Tommy, claiming to be a friend of his cousin’s in Baie-Comeau was on my mind. And the guy who was with him…

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m thinking I should find a gym to work out in.”

  “Isn’t there a gym at the Colisée?”

  “Yeah … But I want something accessible, close by. I want to be able to go there whenever I feel like it.”

  “There’s a gym not too far away,” said Larry’s sister.

  On my next run, I followed the same route as I had the day before. It went better this time. I wasn’t as tired and I cut a minute thirty off the total. For five k’s, it wasn’t half bad. And come Sunday, at nine o’clock sharp, I walked into the gym on Rue Saint-Joseph. I was the first one there. The gym guy, who had just unlocked the door and turned on the lights, checked me out as he nodded hello, then sat down behind the counter.

  He was small, no more than five foot five, dressed in black jogging pants with a white stripe and a black tank-top with the gym logo that showed off his muscular shoulders and bulging biceps. He wasn’t tall, but he was very strong and he wanted everyone to know it. You could tell by his face that he was tough. And probably, even though he’d never seen me before, he had issues with guys like me. Because I was just sixteen and I already stood over six feet tall. Whoever I was, I needed to understand that he was the boss, that he was stronger than me, and that I was nothing but a little twerp. So it took him plenty of time to get things organized, to put his chair where he wanted it, shuffle the stack of papers in front of him, check the messages left by the weekend staff, etc. I knew that with an uptight person like him you had to stay calm and never show any impatience. Because if I did, this imbecile would make me wait even longer.

  “You have a membership here?” he finally asked me, looking up as though he had just noticed me.

  “No.”

  “Well luckily we’re running a special. Thirty dollars for a one-month trial. And after that, if you want to continue, it’s $130 for a quarter. A quarter means three months.”

  He seemed proud to inform me that a quarter was the same as three months. Then he asked if I was familiar with the machines and if I needed a demonstration. I told him that it was all right, I’d figure it out on my own.

  The locker room was a bit cramped and smelled strongly of cheap deodorant. There were two rows of lockers and three showers. When I came out, there were videos— with too much pounding bass for my liking —playing on giant screens on all the walls of the gym, the sound all the way up. Two girls, quite a bit older than me, came in and headed over to the tanning salon, which occupied an adjacent room. I hadn’t been on the stationary bike for more than five minutes when I saw the same guy enter that had come knocking the day before: Vincent. He handed a bag to the little muscleman behind the counter, helped himself to an energy drink from the refrigerator and downed it. Then he sat down on the black leather couch next to the counter and began reading a newspaper.

  I kept pedalling, my head turned slightly away to avoid meeting his gaze. It wasn’t clear to me what I was doing there; I wasn’t sure I wanted him to recognize me. But I had forgotten about the big mirrors along the back wall. When I got off the bike, I realized he’d been watching me for a while. When our eyes met, he went back to reading the paper.

  I went over to the weight machines and worked my arms, shoulders and chest. After a pretty intense series of sit-ups, lying on a mat with my legs up on a big purple ball, I headed back to the locker room. It had begun to fill up; there were some out-of-shape guys who probably hadn’t worked out for a while, but there were also some others with impressive physiques. They spent a lot of time looking at the mirror, fixing their hair, fussing with their t-shirts and shorts. Then, when they were completely satisfied with their look, they ambled out into the gym to begin their daily workout.

 
I was too shy to take a shower so I made up my mind to grab one at home. On the way out, I gave a nod to the little sourpuss behind the counter. Before I reached the door, big Vincent called out to me:

  “Hey, are you Tommy Courchesne’s buddy?”

  He was still sitting on the black leather sofa, newspaper in his hands, looking me over from head to toe.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You look like a hockey player.”

  “I’m starting junior camp tomorrow.”

  That seemed to get his attention. Because he got up from his seat, tossing his paper on the chair behind him, I noticed that he had a bum knee. Because as soon as he stood up, he started limping and wincing. I guess carrying a ton of muscles put a lot of weight on his long, stringy legs. He shook my hand warmly. His face was as red as my father’s and his friends the day after they’d tied one on.

  “It’s quite an honour to have a future pro among us. I’m Vincent, and I’m a coach and a manager. Do you like it here so far?”

  “Yes …”

  “If you ever need anything, you can contact me directly. I’ve coached several pros.”

  When I asked who, he tossed out a couple of names I didn’t recognize. Guys who made it in the American Hockey League, he said.

  “We’re like one big happy family around here. Everyone takes pride when one of our own makes it big.”

  “Okay, cool.”

  I was already part of the family. He indicated as much by offering to set me up with the same program Tommy had followed at his cousin’s gym in Baie-Comeau. I told him I already had a personal trainer and that I’d only be using the gym occasionally, just to stay loose. He raised his eyebrows and then said that was cool.

  “It’s not easy, what you guys are trying to accomplish. The bar’s set high. If things don’t work out the way you hope, come and see me.”