There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool

by Dave Belisle

  Derek had been an NHL hopeful and wasn't about to settle for option number two. He was not mechanically minded. Ray Marcotte would never believe this. It was the sad truth however, that when Ray's son raised the hood of his car, the repair bill automatically jumped $200. When it was time to change the oil, Derek changed his mind.

  So he'd skipped the footsteps, but the shoes were suddenly on the other feet. Derek was ready to gamble his business away while his father was trying to save it.

  Marcotte had traded in his hockey skates after eight years. Would doing the same to his business be any different? Would the sun come up tomorrow?

  Beads of sweat rolled off Derek's nose and were swallowed up by the sizzling sand of a Moroccan courtyard. A nearby sheik, with a Pedro-Canada logo on his turban, gave the thumbs down signal to the firing squad. The collection of trigger-men raised their hockey sticks in full wind-up position. As the final seconds ... and tenths of seconds ... ticked down on his life's scoreboard clock, Derek peeked through one eye at the snipers.

  Bobby Hull ... his son, Brett ... and Uncle Dennis ... all glowered menacingly at the puck before each of them. Al MacInnis and Al Iafrate completed the fearsome fivesome. Iafrate wiped a tear from his eye. He was thinking about an ex-girlfriend.

  Ray walked around Derek's desk and stopped behind the chair. Derek kept looking ahead. The next thing he felt was his father's hand gripping his shoulder hard ... the kind of grip signalling Family Channel headline news.

  "If you're gonna go through with this, son ... do it right."

  Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver-plated Niagara Falls souvenir money clip he had found on a tour boat there during his and Irene's honeymoon. The clip had been empty then ... but today it claimed a thick fold of fifty dollar bills. Derek checked his reflection in one of the windows to make sure his tongue wasn't hanging out.

  "I don't condone this kind of thing," Ray said. "But somebody has to put that pompous peckerhead in his place."

  Derek picked up the clip of bills and rolled it over in his palm. The Terry Sawchuk card smiled in the background. Ray turned toward the door and started to leave.

  "Hey, dad ... uh, thanks."

  Ray waved with a flick of the wrist over his head, without looking back.

  "What the hell. I've bet on worse long shots."

  Planes, Trains and Dog Sleds

  ... 1 ...

  In a helicopter high above Toronto's western suburbia, Erskine sat in the passenger seat. Armed with binoculars, he focused on a hockey player playing in the rink below. Erskine pointed for the pilot to take the chopper down.

  The pilot shook his head and pointed to the power lines below. They guarded the rink like crime scene tape that was guaranteed to turn you a brighter shade of yellow.

  Erskine realized this wasn't the time to reach for his billfold and try persuade the pilot with an extra hundred bucks. Every man had his price, but more important to the pilot was being alive to spend it.

  Still, Erskine wasn't disappointed. This was the way to scout up and coming talent. The kids had years ago moved inside to their twin rinks, with home and away jerseys and shampoo dispensers in the showers. The young men who truly loved the game, however, wouldn't bother waiting for a figure skating class or a Squirts practice to end. Authentic, outdoor ice beckoned. For $150 an hour for the chopper, Erskine could scout more raw talent in one afternoon than an NHL scout could in a week.

  He was looking for a diamond in the rough. If and when he found one, the price of hockey would surely go up. Erskine cursed the hydro poles. No matter. He could easily mobilize his ground forces to contact a player below, if need be. He patted his cellular phone, took a swig from his flask of bourbon and settled back in his seat. The bourbon swirled in his stomach as the whirlybird whipped off to other neighborhood rinks.

  Meanwhile, somewhere in the Northwest Territories, Marcotte and Hammond were mushing a dogsled along a trail. There were eight dogs in the harness and the lead dog, Tundra, was laboring.

  "Woah! Woah!" shouted Artie. Artie hadn't had a chance to read the brochure that came with the dog team rental. He'd brought a whistle, but that only made them go faster. Threats to their ancestory didn't work. The canine caravan finally came to a halt when two or more of the dogs had to pee.

  Hammond jumped off the back of the sled and made his way to the front, taking a wide berth of the dogs as he did. He'd made the mistake earlier of getting too close to the mutts. They had playfully attacked him and it had taken twenty minutes to get everyone untangled. Artie rolled Tundra over on her side.

  "Is she sick?" asked Derek. "I know I'd be ... eating that crunchy crap they call dog food."

  Artie felt Tundra's swollen stomach.

  "You're not gonna believe this. She's pregnant."

  Derek kicked at the snow.

  "Jesus H. Christ! Great. That's just great. We get a bitch with a bun in the oven. You mean you couldn't tell she was pregnant when we picked up the sled?"

  "I thought she was just fat. They did give us a good price."

  "Sure they did," said Derek. "C'mon Artie. You know how these rental guys operate. They've got hidden charges up the wah-zoo. Just watch. The money we saved will have to go for vet bills now. God forbid we lose a dog. It's not like we have a nearby phone booth that we can call Canadian Canine Club for help. But, no ... we're gonna get dinged instead for bringing back an extra dog. You know what shots for a dog cost these days?! Then there's more of that damn dog food to buy ... and don't forget the shelter tax. You know the drill."

  "Uh ... you were there with me. Remember?" Artie said meekly.

  "Oh sure, I rent dog sleds everyday. Christ, what am I gonna do? There are no tires to kick. What are we supposed to do? Check their teeth? Look between their claws? The extent of my dogsled expertise is a Farley Mowat book review from grade six ... and ESPN's yearly 30-second review about that race in Alaska. You know, the one named for when the guy who finally did it boasted to his buddy, Rod.

  "You mean, Iditarod," said Artie.

  "Whatever."

  "That book review you wrote. Did it mention anything about what to do when a dog goes into labour?"

  They took Tundra out of the harness and put her on the sled. They made a bed of blankets for her. Artie tucked her in with a pat on the head.

  "What now?" he asked.

  "Well, as I see it," Derek said, " ... it's a wash. We got the blankets -- but no hot water."

  "Does that mean her odds are fifty-fifty?"

  Derek punched Artie on the shoulder. "Relax, will ya? She's gonna be alright. Hell, they have eight or nine at a time. We can start our own dogsled dealership."

  "No thanks," Artie said. "Uh ... who should we make the lead dog?"

  "Definitely the one that was second. Trapper."

  "Why's that?"

  "'Cause we're asking for trouble if we start messin' with the order we got these mutts in. They've got some kinda pooch protocol. I'm not about to freeze my ass trying to convince a pack of wild dogs to let bygones be bygones."

  "Good point."

  Derek and Artie brought the dogsled to a stop outside the rink. Half a dozen skidoos were parked outside. Derek engaged the brake on the sled. He paused to pet Tundra, pulling the blanket up to look at her five newborn pups underneath.

  "We'll only be inside a couple of minutes. Don't honk the horn and no playing in the ashtrays."

  Inside the Raven Lake rink, Napoleon Tuckapuk and a few other players played shinny. The first thing Derek and Artie noticed about Tuckapuk was his long flowing black hair. A puck could get lost in it. The next show-stopping detail was that in this game of puck carrier vs. the world, Tuckapuk was conquering all comers. He emerged from the pack unchecked ... time after time.

  Derek and Artie watched in awe. Artie pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open.

  "Napoleon Tuckapuk. Five eleven. Hundred and eighty-five pounds. Playing in a league that the Nanaimo-to-Nova Scotia Sc
outing Bureau classified as being Tier II calibre. 83 goals in 48 games last year ... the majority from in close."

  Tuckapuk burst in on the goalie. He made three quick dekes, leaving the goalie in a tangled heap by the left post. Tuckapuk gently nestled the puck into the right half of a yawning net. Derek and Artie looked at one another.

  "Let's do it," said Derek.

  An hour later in Tuckapuk's small cabin, Napoleon, his mother, Derek and Artie all sat drinking coffee around a table in the small cabin. The walls were adorned with woven blankets, a deerskin, and a likeness of Grey Owl carved into the broad, bending base of a 12-point elk horn. Derek considered making small talk with Tuckapuk's mother, but the best he could come up with was asking her for some survival tips in the wilderness. Would she get upset and accuse him of patronizing her? He quietly returned his mug to the table.

  "So, Nap, how soon can you leave?"

  "It's, uh ... not as easy as that."

  "What's to do? We hop on our dogsled and enjoy a luxurious twelve-hour return mush to Hay River. Then you fly to Prince Albert and bus it to Toronto ... while we continue looking for hockey sticks in haystacks. Uh, ... make that muskeg."

  Tuckapuk and his mother shared a few hushed words in their native dialect. Tuckapuk turned back to Derek.

  "You see, we have a custom that when a son leaves his mother ... he must leave something with her."

  "Heck," said Artie. "When I left home, my folks were always sending me stuff."

  "I guess dirty laundry is out of the question," said Derek.

  Hammond motioned to Marcotte, who leaned toward him.

  "We can't give them money," said Artie. "It would be an insult."

  "Sure," said Derek. "Besides, they break legs for the amount of money we're gonna owe before Operation Frostbite here is over."

  The door to the cabin opened. There in the doorway stood Tundra, holding one of her pups between her teeth, by the scruff of the neck. Mrs. Tuckapuk's eyes lit up and she beckoned Tundra to come closer. The dog brought the pup to the woman and she cradled it in her lap. There was no contract with the dotted line, no dollar amount to be discussed ... and Tuckapuk had yet to say whether he would or wouldn't play for Derek's team. Artie leaned closer to Derek.

  "Do you think the dog team rental guy is gonna keep our deposit on the sled?"

  "No, we can always say she only had four pups," Derek said. "We're home free ... unless the guy's Doctor Doolittle."

  ... 2 ...

  In his gold-plate-fixtured jacuuzi, Erskine reclined in the surging bubbles. He had a drink and a Castro Capitalist cigar in one hand, a cellular phone in the other. Pool side to his left was a thick paperback book, titled Nitwits' Guide to Hockey Pools. The author's name was I.B. Hunting. The phone line clicked at the other end.

  "I.B. Hunting, please," Erskine said.

  "Speaking." It was a warm, throaty, female voice on a gravel road somewhere between Bonnie Raitt and Brenda Vaccaro.

  "You're a woman. I mean, sure you are. I'm calling about your hockey pool book."

  "Women win hockey pools too, y'know."

  Hunting was speaking from her kitchen. She'd been preparing a snack for her two young sons when the phone rang. The boys, aged two and four, roughhoused with one another at her feet. On top of the counter were four slices of bread. Hunting balanced the phone on her shoulder, as she spread cheese whiz in slow, deliberate swipes. She was in her late twenties, had a degree in clinical psychology and did crossword puzzles in pen.

  Erskine took a drag on his cigar and exhaled.

  "Nonsense," he said. "Those are only men using their wives or girlfriends' names ... so they have an extra chance of winning."

  "Sometimes. But who is the first person they tell when they win?" asked Hunting.

  "The guys at work."

  "And who is the money spent on?"

  "The guy who wins it, of course," Erskine said.

  "Ah, another macho meat-and-potato-head. Do you have a significant other? ... uh ..."

  "Victor." Erskine's politically incorrect blood was on a low boil. He was not about to share the details of his pending palimony suit with a stranger. His one-night stand with a sexy-voiced telemarketer five years ago continued to haunt him every time the phone rang.

  "The point I'm trying to make, Victor, is that the woman's name may as well be on the dotted line because she stands to benefit from it ... at least indirectly."

  She was right, thought Erskine. You couldn't hide gambling for long from a woman. Sooner or later their intuition kicked in like spider sense at a web-spinning symposium. Your next winnings might be your own -- but they could be covering the costs of a divorce lawyer. Erskine didn't have to win money to have a good time. Flashing wads of dough in front of strangers was enough of a charge. All rubles, no scruples ... Erskine would instantly show the "wanna-be"s their weigh station in the wage scale of life.

  "Okay, you've made your point. Er, what does the I stand for?"

  "Irene."

  Erskine reached for the paperback and thumbed through it.

  "Irene. In your book ... uh, you mention a certain goalie ... Pa DeChance?

  Erskine found the spot in the book he was looking for.

  "That would be in chapter six. Goal Post Ghosts," Hunting said.

  "Are these guys alive?" Erskine asked.

  "Oh, sure. Most of them just play like they're dead. But DeChance? He's a breed apart. Some call it a myth."

  "Go on," Erskine smirked. "You're talking with Mister Leg Puller now."

  Hunting stopped spreading cheese whiz long enough to cast an eye on her tots. The hungry kids were clutching and yanking on her pant legs, ready to scale her south side for their snack.

  "Well, Victor Leg Puller ... legend has it he lives in northern Quebec. He's five feet tall ... and just about that much wide."

  "Or roughly the dimensions of the net," Erskine said.

  "That's right."

  ... 3 ...

  Derek and Artie paddled their canoe on a crystal clear lake somewhere in northern Manitoba. The map had it down as Tabascona Lake. "Tabascona" was Cree for, "I like my meat spicy." The most surprising item on their itinerary thus far was that the Mounties hadn't been called in yet to rescue them. Derek and Artie had bumped into a little less than half of the 2.5 people per square mile that the atlas had guaranteed existed in this part of the country. The natives they met had quickly given the two hockey-player hunters a crash course in Wilderness Survival 101. This included making bannock, an instant Indian bread. The name was originally derived from the Cornish "banna", meaning "drop" ... and that's how easy it was to make. An old native woman in The Pas showed Derek and Artie how to tell apart the top five tea leaves in the province ... and which ones not to mix when driving. Finally, there were certain sphagnum mosses which shouldn't be squeezed.

  Artie had even taken a liking to lichen. The marketing whiz in him wondered if this fungus-alga might take off like tofu back in T.O. The flat, brittle, light-green, vein-like growth could be served in restaurants underneath a cup or bowl of hot water ... acting as a mini-place mat. The diner could then either chew it -- a northern beef jerky for vegetarians -- or dump it in the cup or bowl, to make a hot drink or soup. Shipping would be tricky. Artie had pocketed a few samples. They were nothing but crumbs now. Tea bag packaging was another option.

  Derek concentrated on taking long, sweeping, rhythmic strokes with his paddle. As he paddled, he thought about Gabardine Lamente ... a Canadian bronze medalist in rowing ... who was up to her squeeze-tight lid in the country's most recent pharmaceutical fiasco. She had been bounced from a race in Guam a few months before when she'd failed a post-race drug test. She'd tested positive for a banned substance, dichlorodifluoromethane, a colourless nonflammable gas used as a propellant in aerosols. The chemical was found in liquified trace amounts in the mouthwash that her local drug store -- Instant Relief Associated -- had sold her over the counter.

  Two weeks before the testing, she'd t
aped a television commercial for the same company. In the ad, the pharmacist handed Lamente the prescription and assured her that, "Your safety is ensured with your local I.R.A." After the dope story broke and the medal was ripped off Lamente's chest, I.R.A. officials decided to bite the bullet. They went ahead and ran the commercial. The Hippity Hop Poll immediately conducted a "truth in advertising" survey, asking 2314 people, "Do you feel that your drug store assumes your addiction to their products will force you to believe whatever they say is gospel?" Final results of the poll were never released as Liberal and Conservative politicians forever disagreed on the wording of the question.

  Derek caught himself staring at the water swooshing into the hollow whirlpool following each stroke. The bubbly foam chased the oar as it traced its path through the water. It was too peaceful, too quiet.

  "I feel like Radisson and Grosellier."

  Derek took another stroke and rested the paddle across the canoe's gunwale.

  "A pair of mapmakers trekking across the nation for a cause they believed in. Battling the odds ... the elements ... to pull out of the wilderness something calculating ... functioning ..."

  "-- And able to do the Savardian Spinarama," said Artie.

  Marcotte and Hammond portaged with their canoe along a narrow trail. Being the taller of the two, Derek led the way, the boat bobbing up and down as they carefully made their way down the trail. The spruce and birch trees were speechless as the two city boys snapped, crackled and popped their way through the bush. Several times Derek noted smaller paths shooting off from the main trail. These were mother nature's on-ramps, wildlife highways with no speed limits posted. The autobahn of Audubon.

  The path soon met another trail that appeared to be more traveled than the one they were on. They set the canoe down. The trees were too dense to get a bearing on where the lake was.