Searching for Terry Punchout

by Tyler Hellard

  “Yeah. That’s rough.”

  Minutes pass. Bobby watches the naked dancers, and I try to figure out why we’re here.

  “So, did you want to go somewhere else to do this?” I finally ask.

  “Here’s fine. Though, if you mention this place, I’ll fucking kill you. Just ask your questions.” I laugh at the casual death threat, but he doesn’t. He shifts his eyes from a topless waitress walking by the table to me. “No, really. I don’t want to fucking find out you wrote I was here. If I do, I can make sure your job—your life—is a lot harder from here on out.” His nostrils flare and his eye twitches again. Whether he means harder because he’ll sabotage my ability to speak to pro athletes or harder because writing is tough with two broken arms is left open to interpretation.

  “No, that’s fine. It’s not really relevant to the piece,” I say. Then, pulling out my tape recorder. “It’s just a bit loud is all.”

  He grabs the tape recorder from my hand with speed and force. I’m startled, but for the first time he softens and smiles at me. Pushing the record button, he brings the recorder to his mouth.

  “So. I’ll. Talk. Loud.” he says, overenunciating every syllable, then he spins the tape recorder down on the table in the same way he spins his helmet before he fights and waves at the waitress.

  “Another Bud and four shots of tequila,” he says to her, and then to me, “What’s your chaser?”

  I look at the waitress’s eyes, trying not to stare at her nipples, which are large, round, and at my eye level. She has an eighties-style perm and isn’t what I’d describe as conventionally pretty—or even unconventionally pretty, for that matter.

  “Rum and Coke.” I say. “Please,” I add, trying to be polite and respectful, but she doesn’t give a shit and wanders off to get our drinks.

  “So, you’re gonna put me in Sports Illustrated. You know I stopped doing this shit a couple years ago, but I figure I’ve got one more contract in me before I retire. My agent says I need to do things like this to maximize my value.”

  “No, I get it. It’s just…I’m not sure what they told you. This is actually a story about Terry Macallister. My editor just thought I should talk to you and give the story some contrast.” I use Dan’s word.

  “Well, fuck. No one told me that. Fucking agent is a piece of shit.”

  “Right. So, anyway…” I pause as a new song comes on and a booming voice announces a dancer named Vicki to the stage. “You sure we can’t just go somewhere else to do this? I promise we can make it quick.”

  “Just ask your stupid fucking questions, guy.”

  “Okay.” The thing is, I don’t have any specific questions. Dan told me roughly what he was looking for, but I haven’t given it any more thought. Maybe I assumed I’d just know what to say, but now that I’m here, adding things about Bobby Monaghan feels like it’s just taking away from my father’s story. Also, I’m exhausted and not at my sharpest. “So, how do you feel about being on the cusp of setting a new record?” I ask.

  It’s a bullshit question. He knows it and responds with, “Just fucking ducky, tiger. That all you got?”

  “Okay. But I mean, what does it mean to you?”

  “What do you mean ‘what does it mean?’”

  “Well,” I say, not even sure what I mean, “I guess records are for people who are the best at something. Like, only one person gets to have the most of something. So what does it mean to you to have the most penalties?”

  “Records feel great. I feel great.”

  “Okay, but it’s not like it’s the points record or something… glamorous?”

  “What fucking difference does it make? It’s history, baby!” he shouts, thrusting his beer bottle into the air with one hand and slapping the table with the other. The tape recorder jumps, so I grab it and slide it closer to him, imploring him with my eyes to be more careful.

  The waitress arrives and puts our shots and drinks on the table. Bobby picks up a tequila shot and nudges one toward me. “Pound it, homeboy.” He fires his shot back and bares his teeth while shaking his head emphatically.

  I tip my shot back, and it burns its way to the back of my throat. It’s bad tequila and my immediate impulse is to gag, but I manage to get it down. I grip the table tightly, trying to make sure it stays there.

  Bobby doesn’t notice as he drains his second shot and focuses his attention on Vicki, who is awkwardly draped around the pole in the centre of the stage. When I’m sure I won’t throw up, I take a sip from my rum and Coke to wash the tequila flavour out of my mouth. Once I’ve composed myself, I ask, “Where were we?”

  “History, baby!” Bobby says, laughing and repeating the same motions. I adjust the tape recorder again.

  “Okay, history. But you don’t think it’s kind of a shitty history?”

  “Who’s shitty?” he asks, suddenly serious.

  “It’s just, history will remember you as a goon.”

  “So?”

  “Well, not even just a goon. I mean this with all due respect, but you’ll be the gooniest goon who ever gooned.”

  “Sure, sounds great.”

  “The thing is, it didn’t work out so well for the last guy.”

  “Oh, he was probably some kind of pussy. I’m rich, you know. Made millions. Records only make you richer.”

  He’s not wrong about being rich. Yes, my father sunk all his money into a failed business proposition, but he didn’t really have that much money to begin with. After he left hockey, salaries exploded. Bobby Monaghan’s lifetime earnings are nearly $15 million, and while he’s certainly near the end of his career, he was right when he said he has one more contract left. In the free-agent market, there’s a few million dollars still out there for him and this record makes him more marketable.

  “He’s not a pussy. He’s just, I don’t know. He’s just had a rough go of it.”

  Bobby laughs. “Whatever. I don’t give a fuck.”

  He grabs the tequila shot still on the table—which, while I don’t actually want it, I thought was mine—and slowly pours it down his throat.

  “Don’t you think you owe him a debt of gratitude? Without my dad, you might not be here doing whatever it is you do.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t realize he didn’t already know that. Whoever set this meeting up really didn’t do their job very well.

  “Terry Punchout is your dad?”

  “He is.”

  “That’s funny. Look, I’m sorry I called him a pussy, but I honestly don’t really give a shit about the guy. Maybe you think this record is a big deal, but to me it’s just a few more bucks in my pocket. My agent says it’s a great fucking sales tool.”

  This isn’t so different from my father coming back to Pennington as the conquering hero, assuming his reputation would be enough to carry him through. That record was a sales tool for him, too, but he wasn’t a good enough salesman to do much with it. Bobby’s made himself a sideshow, and whatever his next contract is, it’ll likely be for more money than my father ever saw in his career. Bobby is playing a completely different game than my dad, and he’s good at it. He’s self-aware in a way my father has never been, never could be. I don’t say anything. What is there to say? Dan thought Bobby would offer contrast to my father. And he does, only because he’s such a transparent asshole, and somehow that makes my dad’s story just a little bit sadder. If he’d been a bigger asshole, maybe things would have worked out better for him. And then it all clicks for me and I see where the story I sent to Dan went wrong. Bobby Monaghan is a prizefighter—he does it for ego and money. Terry Punchout fought because someone told him to go fight in the spirit of the game, and it worked out alright, so he kept doing it.

  I click off the recorder.

  “So we’re done?”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure I needed you for this. Sorry to waste your time.”

&
nbsp; “Jesus fuck, did you ever just waste my time. I swear, I’m going to fire my agent. Just say I said something smart in the thing. I don’t give a fuck. Whatever you want, as long as I look good.”

  “Maybe I’ll write just that—that you don’t give a fuck. Who cares, right?”

  “Oh, fuck off. Look, I’m sorry your pops is old or sad or dead or whatever. But it has nothing to do with me. If he’s shitty at life, fuck him. My life is awesome.”

  “Maybe he just knows enough to feel a little bad about punching people for a living,” I yell, standing so I’m looking down at him.

  “Fuck it, whatever. I’m calling my agent. We can have this shit shut down. Nobody gives a fuck, sally. Congrats, now I’m gonna get you fired. Fuck you and your dad. I hope the old fucker drops dead.”

  I just swing. With every ounce of my being, I swing. Standing tall over him, I have the advantage. I am the son of Terry Punchout, one of Canada’s best-known on-ice pugilists, and for the second time in my life, I throw and land a clean punch. And it is briefly satisfying. I can feel skin and bone and everything in between and see Bobby’s face contort in slow motion, and if this is how my father felt with every punch he ever hit a guy with, I get why he kept doing it. It’s a hell of a shot. And then all I feel is a sharp pain in the meat of my hand between the thumb and index finger. I look down, opening and closing my fingers quickly a couple times, which hurts even more and has a strange clicking feeling to it.

  The thing about pro athletes is that they are pro athletes for a reason. Bobby Monaghan’s career is not an accident. He is faster and stronger than I can even comprehend. Nothing makes this more clear than the speed with which he clears the table between us, grabbing my throat and firing his fist at me while I’m still pondering my broken hand. I don’t defend myself because I barely see it coming. I feel the sticky carpet pressing against my temple, and then only black.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Everything I am hurts. My ego, my self-worth, my body. Getting beat up—like, really beat up—doesn’t feel like you think it would. For one thing, it hurts a lot more. I ache at the cellular level. For another, it’s confusing. The last several hours of my life are like a dream. My memory is a series of disconnected flashes, starting with Bobby flying over the table. I remember him hitting me. I remember wishing he’d stop hitting me in a way that probably qualifies as my second-ever serious conversation with God. Someone had questions. My name? My family? My allergies? I heard voices and screaming. I don’t know where I am.

  My left eye won’t open and the vision in my right is blurry. I’m in a bed. The room around me is bright but quiet. Maybe this is heaven. Who knows. I am definitely high on something. That’s nice. I let myself drift away because being awake is giving me a headache.

  The next time I come around, the high is gone. If they were giving me something for the pain, they have reduced the dosage, because my right hand and my head are both screaming. My left eye is still dark, but my vision is better in the right and, assessing the room around me, I see Paulie slumped over in the chair next to my bed. He’s snoring. I bring my left hand up to my face and feel the spongy, swollen skin above my cheekbone. I push on it lightly and groan as pain skewers my brain, eye, and teeth.

  “Hey, man,” Paulie says, yawning and stretching his arms above his head.

  “Where am I?” Paulie doesn’t answer, and I know it’s because my voice is inaudible. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want sound bouncing around the sore spots of my skull. I ask again in a whisper.

  “It’s okay. You’re in the hospital, but you’re going to be okay. Probably. You’ve got a pretty bad concussion and you kind of broke your head a bit. How do you feel?”

  “How do I look?”

  “You look like warmed-up shit,” someone offers from the blind spot on my left. I turn my head as far as I can, searching for the disembodied voice.

  “Hi, Dave. Surprised you came.”

  “My mother made me.”

  “That makes sense,” I say, and then I pass out again.

  •

  It goes on like this for the next twenty-four hours, partially because of the brain injury, but mostly because of the painkillers. Paulie and Dave stay in Toronto and spend their time sitting in the hospital with me. Paulie’s parents are paying for their shared hotel room. The doctors tell me I have a severe concussion but should recover fine. I also have a zygomatic orbital rim fracture, which Paulie keeps calling my rim job.

  What happened with Bobby Monaghan in the strip club never fully comes into focus, and I have to rely on Paulie’s version of events to fill in the gaps.

  “Coked to the fucking gills, he was,” says Paulie. “It was on the news. He hit you and then he hit a cop. They got him on assault and resisting arrest. Could get him on intent, too. Guy had enough drugs on him to kill a moose.”

  “He could have killed you,” adds Dave. “He was so high, he’d have put his fist through a cinder block without

  feeling it.”

  I remember my dad hitting Lars Nilsen over and over and how he couldn’t feel his hand.

  “On the plus side, it’s looking unlikely he’ll be breaking any records anytime soon. I imagine the league might kick him right the fuck out.”

  On my third day in the hospital, a police officer comes by to get my statement and confirms what Paulie told me. Bobby was charged with assaulting both me and an officer, and with possession for the five vials of cocaine in his jacket. He had picked them up from his dealer and then called me to meet him at the club. Shortly after that, the doctor comes in and tells me I can go, though I’ll need someone to keep an eye on me for a few days, just to make sure there are no lingering effects from the concussion.

  It turns out who will keep an eye on me has already been decided. While I was unconscious, plans were made and all the people in my life conspired to make sure I’d get by okay—not unlike they did after my mom’s death. What they came up with was that I’d stay at Mac’s and so would my father, who also needed looking after. The idea was we’d take care of each other, so no one else need be bothered with us.

  “Jesus, whose idea was that?” I ask.

  “Actually, I thought of it,” says Dave, adding, “and you should shut up and be fucking grateful about it,” with his eyes, if not his mouth.

  “Dave, I am genuinely touched.” And I am. I don’t know if we’re friends anymore, or if we ever really were. But sometimes you’re stuck with people in your life and you can love them just for that. Maybe that’s how being friends works. Right now, I can’t see much difference.

  “Eat a dick,” he replies with a grin.

  I sleep the entire flight back to Halifax, doped up on a double dose of pills to offset the extra pressure flying puts on my fractured face. Jennifer and Stephanie are waiting for us at the Halifax airport. Jennifer comes over and touches my face with her hand, slowly turning my head left, then right, taking in the damage.

  “Wow. You’re a mess,” she says.

  Dave and Stephanie don’t hug. They say a few words I can’t hear, she smiles at him, waves to the rest of us, and they go off together.

  “What’s that about?” I ask.

  “Who knows with those two. Give me your keys, I’ll drive home.”

  I dig the ticket out of my wallet to pay for parking at the machine, which spits my card back and is exceedingly polite when asking for an alternate form of payment. In addition to being broken, I am now also broke. Jennifer is gracious in covering the cost without really mentioning she’s covering the cost. This is another embarrassing memory I’ll carry with me forever.

  The two-hour drive back to Pennington is a quiet one. Paulie is folded into the small bench in the back. Jennifer tries to make small talk, but I’m not in the mood and eventually pretend to fall asleep. When we get to Mac’s, she wants to help me into the house, but I insist she leave me at the door, while Paulie carries my suitcase
in.

  “What should I do with your truck?” she asks.

  “Take it for now, I guess.” That’s obvious, though it’s not like I’d make her walk across town or call a cab right now. “Bring it back whenever. I don’t have much immediate use for it.” Even if I could afford to put gas in the goddamn thing, I’ve got nowhere to go and a pocket full of pills that explicitly forbid operating heavy machinery. ”And I’ll pay you back for the parking thing,” I say before she turns to go. “I guess I owe a few people right now.”

  Jennifer pops up on her toes and kisses me on the cheek, which should delight me, but I can tell she means it in a sad, sorry-you’re-such-a-complete-and-total-disaster sort of way. Also, the kiss hurts my face.

  “I think you’re good for it. And it’s not like you can skip town again,” she says, jingling my keys as she backs away. “I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

  •

  Leaving my shoes and bag at the door, I wander into Mac’s house. Mac and Paulie are sitting at the kitchen table nursing beers.

  “Sweet Jesus, look at you,” Mac says.

  “I’d rather not,” I say. “Thanks for letting me crash.”

  “No sweat. Your old man’s downstairs.”

  I nod and slowly head down. My father is sitting comfortably in the corner of the sectional, his feet propped up, legs covered with an old wool blanket. He’s watching SportsCentre. He looks tired, but there’s colour in his face and he doesn’t seem quite so close to death. I’ll need at least one more conversation with God, I guess. To say thanks.

  “You look better,” I say, startling him.

  He looks up at me. “You sure as hell don’t. You look as though you was rode hard and put back wet.”

  “That’s about how I feel,” I say, easing myself into the cushions.

  “I’m watching the highlights,” he says.

  I can hear the TV, but my vision is still blurry and I’m afraid trying to focus on the screen will only nauseate me.

  “So, how hard does the bastard hit?” he asks after a few minutes.