Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  “Oh, Ray,” she whispered. “No.”

  “But I thought...we could make something work.” I struggled for the words. “We could...”

  She shook her head. “No. It wouldn’t work between us. We’re too far apart.”

  “It seemed to be working fine.”

  “It was just a thing,” she said. “Something I needed to break free of him.”

  I didn’t answer. Tears prickled in my eyes.

  Bobbi reached out and touched my hands. The warmth of her fingers flooded through me. “I’ll always be grateful for that, Ray. For what you did.”

  “What about our baby?” I asked, my voice thick and pleading.

  Bobbi pulled her hands slowly away. Her eyes became hard for a moment. “There is no baby,” she said. “Not any more.”

  I let out a small sob, catching it after it was halfway out of my mouth. I blinked and a tear streaked down my cheek.

  Bobbi stared at me, her eyes steady. “I can’t be with either one of you,” she said in a firm, quiet voice. “Not if I want to have my own life. Can you understand that?”

  “No,” I croaked. “I can’t.”

  Bobbi’s eyes searched my face. I didn’t know what she was looking for or if she found it, but after a few moments, she pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Ray.”

  “If?” I swallowed over the top of another sob. I looked up at her. “Bobbi, I love you.”

  She turned and walked away.

  I watched her go. I sat and stared at the door she’d gone through, trying to get it through my head that I’d never see her again. Every time I thought I had my mind wrapped around it, I lost it again. Instead, I focused on all the times I’d lain in bed with her, surrounded by her scent and her soft touch. I dreamed of that child within her. Our child.

  There is no baby. Not anymore.

  When my beer bottle was empty, I moved to the bar.

  “Another Heineken?” The bartender asked.

  “No. Whiskey.”

  He didn’t say a word, pouring the amber liquid and putting it in front of me. I sipped it and let the burn soak through me.

  It could have been an hour or a year later when I heard his voice over the music coming out of the jukebox. Three simple words. Resigned. Dead.

  “It was you.”

  I turned to my left. Hank stood next to me. His eyes were red and hollow. If there’d been surprise in them, it was gone now. Everything in those eyes was gone.

  “It was me,” I answered.

  “All of it?”

  I nodded.

  “Why?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to really want one. After a long while, the bartender appeared in front of us.

  “I’m not going to have any trouble with you guys, am I?”

  We both turned our gaze to him. I shook my head.

  “No trouble,” Hank said quietly. He sank onto the barstool next to me and motioned to my drink. “What he’s having.”

  The bartender hesitated. Then he poured and stepped away.

  Hank stared down at his glass but didn’t touch it. “She left me, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “She told you?”

  I nodded.

  Hank reached out and touched the glass on the bar. “Did you know about the baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know...what she did?”

  I nodded.

  Hank let out a long, wavering sigh. He lifted the glass and took a swallow. “Well, she’s gone,” he said quietly.

  “I know.”

  He lowered the glass to the bar. “Was it worth it?”

  I didn’t answer. He didn’t ask me again.

  We sat at the bar without a word. I sipped the whiskey as the strains of a slow, mean guitar punctuated the moment. We drank in silence to the empty carnage of our lives.

  Vancouver Dreams

  by

  Frank Scalise

  “You play Junior?” he asked me.

  He meant Major Junior, I knew, even though there are several tiers of Junior hockey—Junior A, Junior B and so forth. It didn’t matter, though. I hadn’t played at any level.

  “No,” I told him.

  His eyes rose from his clipboard and he gave me a quizzical look. “College, then?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Where at?”

  “Eastern Washington University,” I answered.

  The truth was, when I played there, it was little more than a club activity. But now they were a second-tier contender and the head coach there was my best friend from grade school. It was his letter that got me here for the tryout.

  The assistant coach pursed his lips and seemed to be considering my answer. His gray eyes took in my small frame. I knew he was probably thinking the same thing everyone thought.

  He’s five-six and a hundred seventy pounds. How much of the net can he take up?

  “How many years?” he finally asked me.

  “Two and a half seasons.”

  “Your stats available?”

  I nodded. “The college website has them archived.”

  He wrote something on his clipboard and then nodded to me. “Okay. How do you want your hometown listed for the coaching staff?”

  “Vancouver.”

  He smiled slightly. “Hometown boy?”

  I shook my head. “Vancouver, Washington.”

  “American, huh?” His smile faded. “Well, you can get dressed in either of the locker rooms. Drills start in forty minutes.”

  He turned and walked away without a word.

  I chose the Visitor’s dressing room. That was probably a good choice, because it seemed like most players took the Home locker room first. Every skater that came into the room mentioned that the Home locker room was full. I didn’t answer any of them. No one seemed to mind. Goalies are supposed to be strange, anyway.

  Even though I didn’t say a word, I listened to the chatter around me as I went through the ritual of putting on my gear.

  “You think they’re really going to use us?” a skinny guy wearing red long underwear asked no one in particular.

  “Probably not,” another voice answered.

  I pulled on my hockey pants and strapped on the dangling kneed and thigh protectors. The smell of Icy-Hot rose from my thighs.

  “My agent said this is just a ploy to get the Player’s Union to come back to the table,” a mop-haired kid with pimples said.

  “You got an agent?” the skinny guy asked him.

  “Yeah.” Mop-hair pulled his skates tight.

  “Who?”

  “My dad,” Mop-hair told him.

  Laughter erupted in the dressing room and Mop-hair turned red.

  I slipped on my goalie skates.

  “Eric Lindros has his dad as his agent,” Mop-hair muttered.

  “Look where it got him,” some smart alec piped up.

  “Three million a year in the NHL,” a dark-haired guy with goatee answered him. He was sitting right across from me and was already dressed. He sat comfortably, wearing a faded Philadelphia Flyers jersey.

  “And locked out,” the smart alec replied.

  It grew quiet. The sound of equipment being donned and some soft whistling was all I could hear as I dropped my leg pads in front of me. I knelt on top of the left pad first, just like I always have and began to cinch it up. Once it was snug, I switched to the right and did the same.

  As I stood up and slipped on my chest protector, a voice, thick with a Russian accent, broke into the quiet of the room.

  “I just want play hockey.”

  There were a few nods, a couple of excited curses and a general murmur of agreement. I snapped a buckle on my left torso that kept my chest protector snug and agreed with him wordlessly.

  The NHL lockout had gone on through January and finally the NHL declared an impasse. Its relationship with the player’s union was dissolved, allowing the NHL to implement its own plan for sala
ries. Some cynics suggested that had been the league’s plan all along. I didn’t know for sure. I just knew it was hard to feel sorry for a group of athletes with an average salary of over a million bucks a year.

  Now the fifty of us in this locker room and the one down the hall had a chance to make the team and play in the NHL for the Vancouver Canucks. It was enough to make my head spin. Even under the new salary structure, players would make several hundred thousand dollars a year. It was a second chance.

  I stretch my old legs slowly, listening as the chatter became excited again.

  “Two-on-one,” the assistant coach of the Canucks bellowed.

  I’d been hot so far, stopping almost everything they threw at me. The guy I was sharing the net with hadn’t been so lucky. We both knew I was winning the battle at this end of the ice.

  The whistle blew and the forwards started coming from center ice. A single defenseman skated between them, playing the pass. I came out of my crease and cut down the angle, playing the shot. The forward faked a slapshot and zipped a cross-ice pass to his partner. The defenseman missed the puck as it slipped between his skates and right onto the other forward’s stick. He caught the puck, held it for a milli-second and wristed it on net.

  I made a desperate move, stacking my pads and sliding to my right. I felt a satisfying thunk as the puck hit my top pad and rebounded into the slot. The defenseman grabbed it and quickly flipped it out of the zone.

  “Nice save,” one of the coaching staff said and made a note on his clipboard.

  I hurried back into position and continued with the drill. Sweat ran down my face. My breathing was labored as I made save after save. I felt like a machine, able to anticipate every move the skater with the puck made before he made it. I stoned them along the ice, five-hole, glove side, blocker side, it didn’t matter. In twenty attempts, I only let in three.

  “Switch goalies,” called out the assistant coach.

  I skated over to the corner and dropped onto the ice to stretch. As I stared up into the rafters, I saw the banners for the divisional and conference titles that the Vancouver Canucks had won in years past. I allowed myself a small smile. How the hell did I end up here? It was surreal.

  I closed my eyes and took in the smell of the ice.

  Fifteen minutes later, the assistant coach blew his whistle and waved everyone over to the benches. I lifted my goalie mask and pressed into the boards, waiting. The sounds of labored breath and occasional spitting filled the silence. After a few moments, the head coach came down the runway to the bench. His hair was thick with gel. He wore a sharply creased dark blue suit.

  “First, I want to thank you for your hard work today,” he began without preamble. “Hockey is a blue collar sport, and you boys showed that with your effort here today. Thanks for that.”

  None of the players made any sound in reply. We waited expectantly.

  “Second,” the coach continued, “I want to congratulate for having the courage to come into this arena in the middle of a labor dispute. That can’t be easy for any of you to do. So thanks for that, too.”

  He glanced down at his clip board and cleared his throat. “Anyway, on with the bad news. First round of cuts, boys. If you hear your name, stay on the ice.”

  He began reading names from his list. It only took a few names to realize that they were alphabetical. Guys figured out pretty quickly when their name was passed over. I was one of four goalies and I figured they’d keep two. The starter’s spot was already nailed down by a guy who came out of retirement when the impasse was declared. But the backup position was still open.

  “Laredo,” the head coach said my name and I almost jumped. I looked down at my skates and controlled my breathing while he read the rest of the names.

  When he’d finished, he said the words every hockey player dreads hearing, “The rest of you, thanks for coming out.”

  There were a few muttered curses and almost as many congratulations amongst the unnamed players as they shuffled off the ice. The twenty of us that remained stood stock-still, waiting.

  Once the cut players were down the hallway and out of earshot, the head coach continued, “Get some water, boys. It’s time to work.”

  In the brief break we had, the head coach put it to us very simply.

  “Most of my team is set,” he said. “I’ve got room for about three skaters. That’s two forwards and one defenseman. Plus a backup goalie. That’s it.”

  No one answered him, so he continued, “I’ll be honest with you, boys. If the player’s union breaks and the regular players come back, all of you and most of the guys I already have on the roster will be cut. But until that happens, those of you that make this team will be in the NHL. You’ll be a Vancouver Canuck.”

  The head coach looked around the assembled group, considering each of us. Then he said, “All right. Let’s get busy before you guys cool off.”

  The assistant coach divided us into two squads and the scrimmage began right away. I stared down the ice at my competition. He was a mammoth of a goalie. The crossbar of the net stood four feet off the ground and caught him at the lower back. The same cross-bar came across my shoulder blades.

  Maybe he can’t move very well, I thought hopefully.

  That thought went away on the first shift. My squad peppered him with three quick shots and he stopped all three, moving from side to side with an agility that was surprising for his bulk.

  I clenched jaw and focused on what I could control. Stopping the puck.

  Five minutes passed and I made two routine saves. The assistant coach acted as referee and lineman, whistling offsides and icing or blowing the play dead when the puck went out of play or was frozen by one of the goaltenders. I noticed after one whistle that the scoreboard was on and the clock stopped with the whistles. They were putting us through a mock game, I realized.

  The hulking goalie at the other end of the ice made save after save, but I matched him. The defensemen on both sides were working harder than the forwards. They were all battling over one slot. I knew how they felt.

  The first period blew by in no time. Neither of us let in a goal. The assistant coach blew his whistle and gave us a ten minute break. I sucked down water and watched the other goalie for signs of fatigue. Maybe that would be the difference.

  The second period was a whole different game, as it became a shooting gallery in my end. I was pelted with shot after shot and the leaky defense in front of me wasn’t clearing any rebounds. I let in three goals before the time ticked off for the period. The behemoth at the other end only let in one. I tried to take solace in the fact that two goals were on the third shot after I made the first two saves. The coaching staff would have to see that as a problem with the defense, not the goaltender. The third goal was a deflection where I had no chance.

  Still, the scoreboard told the tale. Three to one.

  During the second intermission, the assistant coach gave us a pep talk.

  “You wanna play in the NHL, boys?” he bellowed. “Then let’s see it!”

  None of the players answered. Everyone was breathing hard. I stared at my skates and hoped the coaching staff saw the goals I let past me in the same light I did.

  The third period of the scrimmage was desperate. Every player knew that there was no second chance and this would be the end of the road for this tryout. I kicked out everything they threw at me. When a skinny forward in an old Hartford Whaler’s jersey backhanded one past the big goalie at the other end, I let out a small whoop.

  Two minutes later, I smiled behind my mask when a defenseman with a cannon for a slapshot teed one up from the top of the circle. He blasted the puck past the goalie’s glove.

  Tie game.

  Seven minutes left.

  I kept my breathing constant and deep while I tracked the puck. I’d outplayed this guy. I knew it. If I could get the tie, or if my squad could get another past him, the job was mine. It had to be.

  I felt a flutter of panic in my stomach.
I was seven minutes away from being an NHL goaltender. Lockout or not, backup or not, I’d be in the NHL.

  I forced out a wavering breath.

  Focus, I told myself.

  My squad of skaters kept the puck pinned in the other end for the next three minutes, blasting away at my nemesis. He made every save, flashing his glove, kick-saving or stick-saving every attempt. His huge frame took up much of the net. I wished silently, then aloud, for them to score. The other squad iced the puck several time, sending it the length of the rink, only to garner a whistle and a face-off in their own end.

  Four minutes left.

  A fresh set of forwards broke out of their own end and rushed up the ice toward me. One of my defensemen caught an edge and stumbled to the ice. The other team barreled ahead, three-on-one.

  The right winger had the puck. He skated hard into the zone and glanced up at the two skaters with him. I keyed on the shooter. He hadn’t passed the entire game. He wasn’t about to start now.

  The winger teed it up and fired a slap shot. I snagged it with my glove and held onto it.

  Face-off in our zone. I got into my ready stance as the assistant coach dropped the puck. Our center won the draw and the defenseman worked it out of the zone.

  I glanced up at the clock. The four minutes ticked to three and then to two. I made another routine save, sending the puck into the corner, where a defenseman scooped it up and passed it out of the zone.

  Two minutes, I realized. A thrill began in my toes and zinged throughout my body.

  Down in the other end, the other goalie was being assaulted with shots again. He stopped them all. I pleaded silently with my squad to get one past him.

  A pass from defenseman to defenseman was intercepted by a speedy forward, who came charging up the ice. Suddenly, I realized he was on a breakaway. I slid out to the slot to cut down the angle. As he approached, I telescoped backward. I watch for him to shoot or deke.

  His shoulder dropped to shoot and I committed. At the last second, I realized he was faking and tried to recover. The skater pulled the puck to his backhand and easily slipped it past me as I tried to stack my pads.