The Last Season

by Roy MacGregor

  Jaja.

  The sports palace looks like a poor man’s L.A. Forum, and Erkki, hardly the poor man’s Jerry Buss, is waiting for us just inside the glass doors, pacing.

  But no, Erkki is not angry or even nail-biting. When he sees Timo and me, he comes over, nodding kindly to big Timo, and takes my arm, leading me away.

  “I have a telegram for you,” he says, his voice soft and practised.

  He hands it over. URGENT REQUEST FROM FATHER TO CONTRACT FELIX BATTERINSKI ON FAMILY MATTER STOP GRANDMOTHER DEAD STOP FATHER MOST ANXIOUS STOP.

  “I’m sorry,” Erkki says. He puts his hand on my arm as if we are brothers.

  “It’s no surprise,” I say. “I expected this.”

  “She’d been ill?” Erkki asks, still dripping with understanding.

  “Cancer.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  I fold the telegram and put it in my pocket, not thinking of Batcha but of Poppa, now completely alone. Like me.

  Erkki continues to hang on to my arm, squeezing. “I called our office, Felix. Your father is most concerned. I’ve arranged for you to fly back early, if you wish.”

  I stop and stare at him. What for? Pekka couldn’t get out of practice the day an uncle died and now they want to let me go home for an old grandmother I hated. What gives?

  “And miss the game?” I say.

  “It would be all right.”

  “Do you want me to go? Is that it?”

  Erkki blinks, acting surprised. “Your family needs you.”

  “What for? What could I possibly do now?”

  “Your father says it is urgent.”

  “You’d like me to go, wouldn’t you, Erkki? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about your silly ‘deal’ — isn’t that it? Without Kristiina here you’re afraid of what I might do.”

  Erkki squeezes my arm harder, delighted for once to take on the calm role after so many months of hysterics. “Look, Felix,” he says, “I can well understand your being upset. I’ll leave you to think about it, okay? But do you see that man standing over there?”

  I follow his finger to a Soviet in a terrible blue suit, who nods toward me. More KGB?

  “He is a taxi driver, and he’s instructed to take you to the airport if you wish. You’re booked on the eight o’clock flight.”

  I look at Erkki, bewildered. “It’s your decision,” he says. “I assure you, if you go home the board will understand perfectly. The president himself says you should go.”

  He turns and walks away before I can question him further. I pull the telegram back out from my jacket. Why urgent? Poppa knows there is nothing anyone can do at this stage. Wouldn’t he just tell me in the next letter? He knows what I thought about Batcha....

  ....And I want to play. I want to hit every Leningrad KGB or whatever they’re called as hard and as slow and as sweet as I ever hit the kids in Renfrew or that turkey Billings or Orr or Unger or any of the thousand other bodies, ankles, faces or fists that have given way to Batterinski. The team needs me....

  They do not need me. Erkki does not even want me. I stand alone.

  Why is Poppa so anxious? I crush the telegram and look back at the taxi driver. He smiles and nods on cue.

  There is more at work here than coincidence. I have been away only slightly more than a day and someone has been at work on me. I came down off the Aeroflot flight, through customs and the exit door, and the flashes began popping before I got halfway down the escalator. I knew them instantly: Jarvi, Repo, Torkkeli, most of the others, all the old begging faces from the dressing rooms, the hands behind the microphones, the scribblers. And I knew instantly that they were not after a comment on Batcha’s death.

  Torkkeli didn’t even wait for my full descent. “Mr. Batterinski!” he shouted, his television crew scrambling behind him. “We’ve had a report that Tapiola Hauki has played since Christmas under a bonus system that pays for rough play — do you have anything to say on the matter?”

  I smile into the camera and say, “Where do you hear that?” But my mind is not on the words. Who has done this?

  “An unnamed source,” Torkkeli says. “Is there any truth to the accusation?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Suddenly the air is alive with my name. I wish I had showers or a training room to hide in and figure this out. It has to be that loser I turfed off the team when we played in Sweden ... What was his name?

  “Are you familiar with Matti Kummola, Mr. Batterinski?” one of the scribblers shouts.

  Of course — it was Matti. “Yes,” I say. “He played one period of exhibition hockey for Tapiola.”

  “Is it true, sir, that he was taken off the team by you because he would not take penalties?”

  “Not at all. Matti wouldn’t take the game seriously, that’s all. We believed the game should be taken seriously.”

  “He says you deliberately encouraged violence.”

  “Me?” I say, forcing a laugh. “I want my team to be physical. Hockey is a physical game. Body contact. It’s a game of strength and skill. Sure we played hard, but we also won, didn’t we?”

  “Kummola says it is his understanding there was a system of monetary payments for players who fought.”

  “No. We paid bonuses for good hockey, same as any team.”

  “Are you saying Kummola is lying?”

  “I’m saying Kummola was not good enough to play for Tapiola — we are a good, honest, competitive hockey team and we play a tough brand of hockey. What’s the point you’re trying to make?”

  “The point would be that someone was rewarding violence,” says a surly-looking young man with a hand-held microcassette.

  “Hard-hitting hockey is its own reward,” I say, proud of my comeback.

  “Did anyone pay?” one of them shouts.

  “Please,” I say. “Only Erkki Sundstrom can answer questions relating to finance.”

  I push through them, ignoring further questions and shouts, pushing a path, elbowing off microphones, out through the automatic doors to the taxi area, the sharp night air welcome on my face. I realize I am covered in sweat as the night pours up my sleeves and down my open throat, circling, teasing, alerting, telling me the problem has not been left scrambling around the luggage carousel.

  On this side of the room I am stark naked, wilting; on the far side of the room I am again pushing through the airport crowd, my last comment fingering the Jerk. Torkkeli is on air now, backdropped by the Inshallen and the orange and purple Tapiola Hauki team banner. He has the look of television sports announcers everywhere, always speaking directly to their Grade six teachers who never thought they’d amount to anything.

  “Quick! What’s he saying?” I call out.

  The saloon doors to the kitchen swing open and Kristiina’s shadow moves into the room, the glow of the television rippling like moonlight over her nakedness. She carries two vodkas, my sixth, her third. Unfortunately, since I arrived only the drinks have been stiff. My fault completely. I am not myself.

  Kristiina listens intently, handing me the drink without looking. Matti’s picture, then Erkki’s, slip onto the screen.

  “Well?” I say, sweat bubbling again.

  “Shhh — wait.”

  Torkkeli signs off and fades from the screen, back to the anchorwoman. Kristiina turns off the set and sits down, her leg rubbing along mine with no visible effect.

  “The Finnish Ice Hockey Federation has announced a full inquiry into the charges,” she says.

  “Jesus Christ! What else?”

  “They have tried to contact Erkki in Leningrad for comment, but did not get through — as usual. Matti Kummola says he will say in any court that the allegations are true.”

  “What did he say about me?”

  “That you were evasive. That given your reputation as a kovanaama it seems quite possible to him.”

  “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “He says you would be a perfect candidate for such a scheme.”


  “And that’s it?”

  “Pretty much. Tapiola spokesman have denied it and said the company would not be associated with any such tactics.”

  “That’ll be Erkki’s line too.”

  Kristiina takes a drink, then turns, worried. “Is it true?”

  “In a way.”

  Kristiina seems disappointed. I try to explain: “Well, it’s not the big thing that they’re trying to make out of it, that’s for sure.”

  “But did the players get paid for taking penalties?”

  “They got paid for aggressive play. If a penalty came out of it, that had nothing to do with the system. I just wanted the players to show a little balls, that’s all.”

  Kristiina laughs. “A little what?”

  “Balls, you know.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  I illustrate. “These!”

  She laughs, louder. “A bonus just for having them?”

  “For showing them!”

  “It is no wonder they are holding an inquiry,” she says, teasing.

  I go to her and we meet, fitting together like clamps, swaying back and forth in the silence. Both my arms are about her neck, the soft silk of her hair light as gossamer on my forearms. I pull her tight; she smells and feels again like the Kristiina I love.

  “Feel all right?” I say.

  “Just fine,” she says, weary of the convincing. The doctors have given her a clean bill of health, she says. Just some low-grade virus that won’t leave her system. She’s fine now; there never was anything to worry about.

  But now she is worried for me. “How about you, okay?”

  “I’m not sweating it.”

  “No. I mean about the news from home.”

  “You know my feelings on her,” I say. “I just want to talk to my father, that’s all.”

  “My big darling,” she says. “Felix is not having a very good time of it.”

  “I’ll be just fine as long as I have you,” I say, kissing her shoulder, teasing with my tongue. I feel warm inside, the vodka burning and Kristiina feels warmer still, her breasts flat against my chest, her long lovely hand rubbing up and down the inside of my legs, her nails turned to barely touch what the team was supposed to show, the nails walking lightly out along what was impossible only minutes before.

  I fall into her mouth, pushing, being swallowed, our tongues arguing for space. My hands fall along both sides of her, in and then out, the curves leading on. I turn inside, rubbing, circling, rubbing, opening. I move into Kristiina and away from the world. I am the squirrel reaching the stone fence, the partridge turning into the spruce. I am Batterinski, running from his own creation.

  At 3:00 a.m. the radio buzzes and skips into all-night programming. I awake and realize I am still hiding in Kristiina, her arms and legs around me, my own legs tucked up like a baby’s. I resent moving, but I know now I will be able to reach Poppa. Finally. He will have to be at home now.

  The line crackles, spits and hums with distance, but I am walking down Batterinski Road once the first ring sounds — one long, two short; one long, two short; one long, two short — and I can sense Poppa moving in from the kitchen, his long thin finger twisting and reaming an ear so he will hear better. For Poppa the telephone remains an invention, not a necessity, and he still treats it as if he is being marked on performance.

  “Ahh — Yallo.”

  “Poppa! It’s me!”

  “That you, Felix?” he shouts. Dat. Yes, dis is me.

  “I got your telegram, Poppa.”

  “I tried to phone.”

  “I was in Leningrad.”

  “Russia?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing in Russia?”

  “We had a game. They telegrammed from the team office here.”

  “That was good of them.” Dat. Dem.

  “You sound worried.”

  “Didn’t they tell you your Batcha was dead, Felix?”

  “Yes. When?”

  “Early yesterday. Funeral’s tomorrow. She’s in Renfrew.”

  “In Renfrew? Why there?”

  “Can’t have her here. Place’s burned pretty bad.”

  “Burned! What do you mean burned?”

  “The house. They told you that, didn’t they?”

  “No! Nothing. What happened?”

  “Your Batcha died in the fire, son.”

  Batcha? In a fire? What is going on here? I sit down, legs buckling.

  “Not cancer?”

  “No. The shed caught fire and I wasn’t here. I saw the smoke and came running, but I couldn’t do much. We almost lost the house. Shed’s all gutted. I dragged Batcha free, but it was too late. Couldn’t save her.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “She tried to put it out herself. But she was too old, eh? I’m too old too. I got burnt pretty bad myself.”

  “You?”

  “My right arm. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

  “How badly burned are you? Tell me, Poppa.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “How bad?”

  “I can’t use the arm. My eye got it a bit too.”

  “I’m coming home, Poppa.”

  “You don’t have to, son. Jan’s helping. We can handle it all.”

  “The hell you can. I’m coming home.”

  “The funeral’s tomorrow.”

  I can tell how desperately he wants me to come. He wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t even hint if he didn’t need me. “I’m not sure I can make it. I’ll try. I pick up six hours remember.”

  “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “If you’re sure, then, your Poppa would be grateful.”

  “I want to do it, Poppa.’

  “Can I ask you a favour?”

  A favour? What has he already asked?

  “Anything.”

  “Will you bring back the letters I sent you?”

  “The letters?”

  “Not the letters from me. Jaja’s memoirs, okay? Forget the other stuff, but would you bring back the stuff Marie typed for you?”

  I can’t! I don’t have them! They’re in Leningrad.

  “Yah, sure.”

  “God bless you, my son.”

  “I’ll call you when I get in,” I say.

  “I will pray for a safe flight,” he says.

  “Goodbye, Poppa.”

  “Thank you, Felix.”

  “Goodbye.”

  I leave Kristiina sleeping and with a small note tucked between her legs, where I am certain good memories of Batterinski will remain forever. She will find it in the morning and read it over coffee.

  My dearest, sweetest Kristiina,

  My father needs me, as I suspected. My grandmother died not of the cancer but in a fire that also burned my father, though not badly. I must go and help and I know you will understand better than anyone. I have a predawn flight and decided not to wake you. But I kissed you on the lips, and also here, while you slept. I love you dearly, my darling. And since I cannot find the courage to ask in person, do you think you could ever imagine yourself married to a big galoot like me? Nothing would please me more, you know it.

  I love you forever,

  Felix

  The phone rings while I pack back at the Inter-Continental and I grab the first two calls thinking it is Kristiina, who might have discovered the note. But it is the press both times. I put the receiver back without even admitting it is me. The ringing continues off and on, but I refuse to answer. What the hell does it matter? To them, a dead line is as good as an interview anyway: “Batterinski was not available for comment, but returned home to Canada on a morning flight, claiming pressing family business.”

  The flight is calm, the skies open well out into the North Sea. For the longest time I simply stare down, watching the shoreline recede beneath me. I feel Finland drawing itself back into my past, the first statistics I have accumulated that have nothing to do with the rep
, but everything to do with the future. A single number, one, Kristiina. And with dawn creasing and her rising to find my offer tucked so gently between her thighs, it may well be that Batterinski no longer has to stand alone. Hockey may well be over. Life may finally be beginning.

  “How can one who has not passed through the experience hope then to pass on what it was like? When have we ever had a player who could articulate the pain of the end? What was it Felix Batterinski felt as he flew from disaster in Helsinki toward further horrors at home? He had to know it was over. There would be no more cheering.

  Driving up through the Ottawa Valley toward Pomerania for the funeral, Batterinski would have driven through the lumber towns where he had often played hockey as a youngster. Long before he was born, however, the Ottawa Valley was home for the great hockey legend known as the ‘The Shawville Express,’ Frank Finnigan, whom it’s almost certain a man with Batterinski’s education would never have heard of. But Finnigan, like Batterinski, was a hero in these same small towns, 50 years earlier. And when it was over, as for Batterinski, there was nothing. Finnigan’s daughter, Joan, would one day try to put it in a poem she called ‘Grey Is the Forelock Now of the Irishman.’

  ‘... I remember my father, too,

  In the headlines.

  on the gum cards, in the

  rotogravure,

  and how, in the pasture, there

  was nothing

  to change but shadows and,

  in the dark beyond night,

  bright enormous butterflies

  crossing the moon

  of his disenchanted vision; I