There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool

by Dave Belisle

  "He wouldn't let his own son have a stake in the team," said Donnie.

  "If you were my son, I wouldn't even take you to the game," said Dennis. "Ballard was so cheap, he made Conn Smythe pay for his seat."

  "How 'bout Ballard's wife sleeping with a gun under her pillow?" asked Dino.

  "If Ballard poked me in the middle of the night, I'd be packing too," said Donnie.

  The brothers laughed into their mugs, sucking back another mouthful. Dennis was the first to see Derek enter the bar.

  "Well, suck me dry and call me dusty," said Dennis. "Look what the wind blew in."

  Derek spotted them and nodded to Mac for "the usual" on his way over to the Tortellinis.

  "Good to see ya, ya ol' scuzbuckets." Derek shook hands with the Tortellinis.

  "We were thinkin' of givin' you a call," said Dennis, "but Donnie here figures a grade ten education is good enough to crank out some marketing slogans of his own."

  Donnie spotted his cue and jumped on it.

  "How's this? Be honest now."

  With his right hand, Donnie traced imaginary marquee lettering in the air above his head.

  "Tortellini's Towing ... at your service. Please don't be so goddamn nervous."

  "Grating ... but gracious," said Derek. "I wouldn't start the bumper sticker campaign just yet."

  Mac arrived with a frothing mug and set it down on a fresh coaster in front of them.

  "Jesus H. Christ," Dennis said with a wink, "What's a guy gotta do to get a beer around here?"

  "Just keep your bloody mitts off my car," Mac said, already on his way back to the bar.

  Another round of Drunkard's Red set their tongues to wagging about childhood memories and fabled days of yore.

  "Remember that game against St. Paddy's?" asked Dennis.

  "We played them every two weeks, numb nuts," Derek said with a chuckle. "There were only four teams in the league."

  But Derek knew what game the eldest Tortellini brother was talking about. Marcotte would never forget. For that game alone, Derek would always call the Tortellinis if he was having car trouble ... or any trouble. As 13-year-olds, he and Dennis had played hockey together on Grimley's Grocers in the West Scarborough bantam division.

  Dennis was smaller than Derek, but had plenty of spunk. If Derek enjoyed the mystique of shadowing the other team's top scorer, then Dennis carried the same pride wearing the invisible badge as the team's policeman. Late in one particular game, Derek was blind-sided in the corner of the rink by St. Paddy's defenseman, Wayne "Bruiser" Reynolds.

  Derek smiled at the recollection of Bruiser. Kids didn't toy with alliteration or witty sayings when arriving at nicknames. They simply called them as they saw them ... or felt them.

  Dennis leapt over the boards and came to the rescue. He skated pell-mell into Bruiser ... and bounced back, falling down. Dennis jumped to his feet and whacked "Bruiser" across the shin pads with his hockey stick. The shaft snapped in two. Dennis looked at what was left in his hands and meekly threw it aside. The earth suddenly stood still. If you listened hard enough, you'd swear you could hear Foster Hewitt mumbling an out-of-town score from some heavenly arena. Combatants, non-combatants and the nine spectators in the stands held their collective breath.

  Finally, Dennis took a deep breath of his own and flung his arms down, sending his gloves to the ice. He took two quick steps forward, bringing his balled fists up into what he hoped would pass for the defensive position he'd seen in one of Donnie's boxing magazines. He promptly tripped over one of his gloves on the ice. He fell forward, his Pugilist Pictorial fists grasping for air. Instead, they latched onto Reynolds' jersey on the way down.

  The large rearguard was caught by surprise. He'd been laughing with his teammates beside him after Dennis had broken his stick. Bruiser had only begun contemplating which of Dennis' limbs he'd detach first. The next thing Bruiser knew he was waking up in the west wing at Childrens Hospital for the Sufferin' on Dufferin Street ... with a bad head ache and a broken nose. The doctor told him it could have been worse ... if his face-first landing hadn't been broken by Dennis' other glove.

  "Poor Bruiser was never the same after that," said Derek.

  "You got it, Pontiaque," said Donnie. "Every time he went anywhere near the corner, he was walking on egg shells."

  "No, no, no," said Dino. "Carryin' eggs in his pocket is the way you say it. He went into the corner like he was carryin' eggs in his pocket. For cryin' out loud. Get yer metamorphosis straight, eh?"

  "Easy there, Dino," said Dennis. "The word you're looking for is metaphor ... and what you're talking about is actually an example of a simile."

  Donnie slammed his mug down on the table.

  "You see what we have to put up with all day long? We can't say boo on the CB without Mr. Goddamn Ferret Student Encyclopedia here, giving us the what for and here-to-for crapola. All day long. Blah, blah, blah."

  "If ignorance was bliss you'd be pissed to the gills," said Dennis, poking Donnie good naturedly.

  Donnie, the middle Tortellini brother, chewed on this and looked to the youngest Tortellini for support. Dino had departed the conversation however, opting instead to make faces at a nearby statuesque blonde.

  "You should've been a teacher," Derek said to Dennis.

  "Shit, there's five million teachers in this province already," said Dennis. "I'm just glad half of 'em don't know how to drive."

  "Well, while you're busy hauling them away ... perhaps you could lend me a hand."

  Derek reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of flyers.

  "I'm planning a little hockey game. Well, not so little ..."

  ... 2 ...

  Derek filled in the co-owners of Tortellini Towing Inc. on his venture-turned-vendetta with Herculean. He warned them Erskine might poke his nose around the neighborhood. As Derek told them about some of the western regions he'd snagged, they moved to the shuffleboard table. Derek and Dennis formed one team, against Donnie and Dino. Donnie and Dennis matched up against one another at one end of the table, Derek and Dino at the other.

  Donnie stepped up and released his disk down the board. It slid lazily down the wooden runway, finally easing to a stop, inches from the end.

  "I win ... I'm on easy street," said Derek.

  Dennis stretched out over the table, his body language coaxing the disk down the table. It stopped beside the other one. He eyed Derek.

  "You don't and you'll be on the street."

  Donnie took his position at the firing line.

  "The way I see it ... whatcha gotta do is to tell the other team you gotta guy who's an epileptic or a psycho ... an' if they lay a hand on'im he'll go apeshit. That's good for a goal. Two -- if you get a team that's really spooked."

  "Or a bunch of P.C.U. polly-annas," said Dino.

  They looked at Dino, then one another for a clue as to what he was talking about.

  "Politically Correct Undergraduates," answered Dino. "Sheesh, you guys don't get out much. Haven't you seen the movie?"

  Den mother Dennis rolled up his sleeves. He enjoyed these frank family discussions. More often than not he wound up as the mediator ... when a moratorium was suddenly declared on moral values. Having someone pretend they had epilepsy presented yet another chance to test the Tortellini ethics.

  "Hmm. Political correctness and passion. Friends or foes?"

  "Wait a second," Dino said. He stopped scrounging around in a bowl of pretzels. "Are we talking about chasing pucks or women?"

  "Either one," said Dennis. "Passion is as passion does. So where does political correctness end and passion begin?"

  "It depends," said Derek.

  "On what?," asked Dennis.

  "On how bad you want to win. Look at the movie Slapshot, Paul Newman called the goalie's wife a dyke. The guy went ballistic and the Chiefs won."

  "Don't encourage these hoodlums," Dennis said to Derek.

  "Donnie?" Dennis looked to his brother.

  "It's kind
of like the smoking hassle," Donnie said, lighting up a cigarette. "Where does the concern for your health begin and my right to smoke end?"

  "About two seconds ago, buster," Dennis said. He playfully reached out to snuff out Donnie's smoke. Donnie pulled away, nicotine intact.

  "Sorry," Dennis said. "Passion wins that one. When you kick the bucket from cancer, the human compassion factor kicks in. When you die -- believe it or not -- even I will feel sorry for you."

  "Okay, Teach," said Derek. "Try this one on for size. Passion is a sixty-minute hockey game, no holds barred. Political correctness is playing the national anthem before the game, playing by the rules, no yelling at the ref ... and the guy on the bench closest to the gate makes sure it's closed so no one gets killed. A game-winning goal? Now that's passion. If however, the game ends in a tie, political correctness has won because it's just a sister-kisser."

  "Nice try, Ken Dryden," said Dennis. "Alright, then. We know that passion can take a back seat to political correctness. How soon?"

  "Well," Donnie began. "We know that if Dino goes to put the moves on that blonde he's been oglin', he won't make it to first base before she puts up the P.C. road block."

  "Sez who," challenged Dino.

  "Easy, Dino," said Dennis, reaching out to calm him down. "It's just an analogy."

  "No, I wuz --" Donnie began, but a stern look from Dennis quieted him.

  "Given that the world's population is pretty damn close to a 50-50 male-female split," said Derek, "we agree that it's politically correct for them to have a relationship."

  "I'd say that her P.C. rule book says she has to give him one line of repartee," said Derek. "That's why she's here, right?" The others nod matter-of-factly.

  "Now first impressions are tough," Derek continued. "This is human compassion cut to the quick. We're assuming here of course, that she will feel sorry for him. Dino's walking the tight rope, standing precariously with that oh-so important politically correct first line. One false slip of the tongue and human compassion -- and Dino -- fall off the wire. Be careful, Dino. We're going without the net today."

  Donnie slammed a five-dollar bill onto the bar in front of Dino. "Blondes aren't your lucky color, bro. My money's on Dino taking a dive."

  "We'll show you who can walk the P.C. walk and talk the P.C talk," said Dino. He jumped to his feet.

  "Phone number, Dino," said Donnie, clarifying the rules. "And remember ... we'll be watching you -- in case you try and grab one off the wall in the john."

  Dino steadied himself. He paused for effect ... then walked nonchalantly, fairly sauntering over to the unsuspecting blonde at the table across the bar.

  From across the room, Derek, Dennis and Donnie watched Dino wage war between political correctness and passion on the curvy plains -- and intellect -- of the innocent-looking, flaxen-haired, 32-year-old woman.

  Dino settled into a chair beside the woman and to Dennis and Derek's surprise, and Donnie's chagrin, was allowed to remain in it. Seconds became minutes, before Dino finally bid adieu and returned to their table, with almost a skip in his step. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He whipped it onto the table and scooped up the five-dollar bill in the process.

  "Lucky bastard," said Donnie.

  "What happened?" asked Dennis.

  "I figured I'd fight fire with fire," said Dino.

  "How so?"

  "We talked politics."

  ... 3 ...

  Two hours later at Chez Sam's Sports Bar, Marcotte continued celebrating his good fortune the past two days at the draft table. But now the surroundings reflecting off the Mulesin Dry in front of him were slightly more appealing than the finger food fare found at Mac's. Here were more exotic entrees ... like the football player-sized, appetite-of-the-'90s answer to the Surf & Turf: the Grid & Squid. The sports memorabilia that adorned the walls of Chez Sam's was also from a higher playing field. The cast from Bobby Baun's broken ankle was in a glass display case. A framed Frank Mahovlich sweater took up an entire wall. In a strange Darwinian display, there were the helmets of Dave Dunn, Paul Henderson and Borje Salming. Numerous TV monitors and a pair of large video projection screens kept tugging at Derek's attention. For the moment, his eyes fixated on the person across from him, Sylvie.

  "How's this for ambience?"

  She smiled and looked over his head at the far wall where a Blue Jays cap rested atop a stuffed nine-foot marlin. Somehow she knew this restaurant's inventory didn't include candle-holders. The closest thing to a trio of violin serenaders was a linesman on the screen breaking up a fight.

  "Ah," she nodded. "A locker room without the smell."

  Derek glanced at the menu promising all-you-can-eat bullpen buffalo wings. The fine print read, "Tastes like chicken!" He stole a glance at the monitor as the Leafs defenseman crossed center ice and pounded the puck into the Vancouver zone. He was only into the second day of his assault on Mount Everest, but he felt on top of the world, nevertheless.

  Marcotte raised his arms, holding court in their small secluded booth.

  "I feel like celebrating. You should have been there. It was great. I grabbed my old stomping grounds with the first pick and never looked back."

  Sylvie took a slow sip from her gin and seven. His phone call back to the office hadn't included details beyond an invitation to the bar tonight. She'd been waiting for him to hit on her. A lot of women might fret and wade knee deep into the nearest container of Hog-in-a-Daze ice cream. She knew better than to check with her perfume girl at Suzie Chic. It wasn't her. Some men just needed a hand ... others a hand grenade. But Derek had been busy with the marketing pitch.

  "It sounds like you and Artie must have done okay."

  He leaned closer to her.

  "You mean, Artie, me ... and you."

  Sylvie blushed slightly. Hold the Leafs, nine-foot marlins and candle-holders. Reality check. She paused to look at Bobby Baun's ankle cast.

  "With our proposal complete, I thought you wouldn't be needing me any longer."

  "On the contrary, my dear. I can keep you busy."

  Their eyes measured one another for a few spacious seconds ... a subtle but tantalizing confrontation in the ball game of love. Sylvie, the pitcher -- or person being hit upon -- wasn't sure what to go with. Derek, the designated hitter, had already decided what she was going to throw at him. A curve? No. You always had to keep your eyes open for one ... but it might mess things up here. A fastball? Not likely. This could easily leave him flailing and embarrassed. No, if his mental notebook gave him any indication, she'd go with the ol' female pay-off pitch -- the change-up. Keep him off guard. He'd take a big, fat swing at it, alright. If he connected, he'd be running home ... with her.

  "Oh?" she said.

  Derek's forearms twitched. She was coming in right over the plate.

  "Well, Artie and I'll be on the road," he said. "It'll be quiet at the office. I'd like to have you there to keep an eye on things. Let's face it. You're a good luck charm."

  "And I'll be getting paid for this?" She smirked. She had a ballpark idea of what the firm's operating budget was. May-Ja-Look was a maple lost in a forest of Douglas firs. But it was a maple with heart.

  "You make it sound so ... professional," said Derek.

  The word "professional" and the alluring look she gave him in return triggered a chain reaction between them. It made the toes of Derek's woolen socks curl. He had been working too hard lately. He'd forgotten the finer things in life. A Leaf goal overhead went unnoticed.

  "Did I just fall prey to some invisible pick-up line?" she asked.

  "I don't know. It's been so long since I've used one."

  Sylvie opened the door to her Lakeshore Boulevard high-rise apartment and poked her nose in. She crossed her fingers that her roommate had gone out for the evening.

  "Angela?"

  No answer.

  "Maybe she's asleep," said Derek.

  "Not likely. Sleep and Friday nights do
n't mix with her."

  "Hangovers and Saturday mornings are the winning combination?"

  She elbowed him in the ribs and stepped through the doorway.

  "Come on in."

  She turned for the kitchen. Derek paused to take in the spotless surroundings. Stucco walls, dark drapes, Ming vases and throw pillows. Lots of throw pillows. Teddy bears without their limbs. Definitely a woman thing. Derek pictured her lounging in one of them, lost in a Marbelline ad in the latest issue of Elle-Bound Women. She was wearing white. White frills. No socks. Dainty feet. He wasn't a foot man per se. He just knew good ones from bad. If the shoe fit, she didn't have to be Cinderella. Sylvie's voice from the kitchen brought him back before his mind could divulge and divest any more.

  "Can I get you something to drink?" she called from the kitchen.

  "Whiskey. Pack o' Spaniels ... if ya got it."

  Marcotte sat down on a dark blue sofa with a floral print that hadn't run too rampant. The end tables were light brown with a parquet pattern. Did people who like parquet fantasize about basketball courts? Derek remembered as a kid how he was awed by the checkerboard pattern of the outfield grass at Oakland's Alameda County Coliseum. Try as he might to recreate it with the lawn mower in his backyard, he only wound up wasting gas.

  Sylvie entered the room with their drinks and sat down beside him. He took a long quaff. She watched him carefully as his Adam's apple bobbed once, then twice.

  "So ..." she began.

  The buzz from the whiskey lifted and took off for Tennessee. Heads up. A pitch was coming in, high and tight. When a woman started off a conversation like that, it meant one thing -- chin music.

  "So ... what?" Derek said sheepishly.

  "Tell me about Helen."

  He was about to set his drink down, when he spotted a stack of coasters out of the corner of his eye. Women appreciated it when a man picked up on nuances like this. He reached for one and set himself up, looking as sophisticated as a .120 breathalizer reading made possible. Some people's coasters were camouflaged. These were intentional "embarrass the guest" devices. Other coasters were testaments to wooden mazes. Success was only guaranteed to those who possessed a double major ... in architecture and archeology. If they weren't cardboard, they should simply have "COASTER" stamped right on them. It was one of those questions Marcotte was saving for the "Stump the Lord" booth on the St. Peter midway. How many times had he missed using a coaster when one was staring him in the face?