There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool

by Dave Belisle

  His father told him about Terry Sawchuk ... how the goalie had played for Toronto after breaking in with Detroit in 1949-50. How Sawchuk played on three Stanley Cup winners in a 21-year career that spanned four decades. How he'd accomplished a record that would never be broken ... 103 shut-outs. Then came his untimely death ...

  April 29, 1970 ... Sawchuk and teammate Ron Stewart exit the E & J Pub in Long Beach on Long Island after a few wobbly pops. On their way home, they get into a heated argument. They scuffle in the yard of the home they share in nearby East Atlantic Beach. Terry lands awkwardly and suffers internal injuries. He dies soon after in the hospital. A career that spanned 1077 games and thousands more sprawls to the ice, ended abruptly with one in his own front yard.

  Derek had sworn he would pass the card on to his own son. His father had patted him on the head and told him to, "just have fun with it."

  The dealer let out a low whistle. He marveled at it for a few seconds more and placed it back on the counter. Swanson inspected the card more for show than anything else. He knew he could turn this card into fifteen hundred dollars quicker than a twenty-dollar trifecta trottin' down the home stretch.

  "I'll give you nine hundred for it."

  Derek kept his head down and shuffled his feet. They felt like they were encased in concrete buckets. Two non-descript concrete buckets sat on the edge of a pier with nary a soul around. No one but the pusher and the pushee. Swanson, sporting the zoot suit pinstripes and slick moustache wax of a 1930s mobster, nudged a machine gun into Derek's sweat-drenched back. Marcotte was inches away from walking the short plank of Pier 44's most prolific pirate.

  Marcotte peered down into the deep, murky waters. The short, choppy waves licked at the warm mist. Through the haze he could barely make out an image on the surface of the water. The image came into focus, then out again, as the water rose and fell. It was the pained expression of Terry Sawchuk ... wincing ... disappearing ... and wincing anew.

  "Any last words before I complete the circle of life?" asked Swanson, his Swedish brimming ridiculously with Brooklynese.

  "You couldn't complete a circle at a three-ring circus."

  "Oh, yeah?" Swanson said with a huff. "You sold your pal down the river ... and now you're gonna go an' meet him so's to speak. Heh ... heh ..."

  The watery Sawchuk expression suddenly froze in shock -- as if locked to the face of an opponent on a break-away. Both players waiting, wondering, who was going to make the first move.

  "I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Derek said. "I can't let it go for under fourteen."

  Swanson scratched his chin, massaged it ... and scratched again. It was the classic pawn shop poker face. Behind the veneer of plastic plausibility, Olaf's inner machinations processed this new information. The strapping lad in front of him had shown him his card ... but Olaf wasn't about to play his ... yet.

  The 63-year-old Swede was in the barter business, but he didn't like to dicker. Move a man off his price once, you could move him again. But even the cheesiest used car salesman with a lot full of Latvian lemons ... knew he had to move once.

  "Nine fifty is my final offer, sonny."

  Marcotte leaned forward, planting both palms firmly on the glass top counter. Between his hands, the "Please Don't Lean on the Glass" sign beckoned up to him. Swanson's eyes widened as they moved from the glass to Derek's crazed look.

  "HE HAD A HUNDRED AN' THREE SHUTOUTS FOR CHRISSAKES!!"

  Derek may as well have been telling Swanson his own mother's name. 103 career shut-outs was one of those records in sports ... like baseball's 511 career victories by Cy Young ... or Georgia Tech's 220-0 thumping of Cumberland State in college football ... that would never be broken. These Ruthian records were debated daily in corner bars across the continent. Aaron had caught The Babe and Gretzky had passed Howe. But Sawchuk had his own stratosphere.

  Bill Mosienko's three goals in 21 seconds seemed incredible, but it didn't have the longevity factor attached. Mosienko's record was the sort that if the fan went to the fridge for a cold one at the wrong time, the entire record-setting performance would be missed.

  "You're breaking my heart," said Swanson. "Alright, already. A grand."

  Swanson's profit margin had taken another blow. The hockey fan in him -- the dreaded sentimentality factor -- had just entered the bidding process.

  "Look at the card again," said Derek. "Grab some nostalgia, man. The last goalie to lead the Leafs to the Cup. Closin' in on thirty years. Go ahead, look."

  Swanson looked at Derek and picked up the card. He spun it in his hands, checking out the statistics on the back of the card. Not much info to report ... yet. That was the beauty of the rookie card. The first card with the player's face ... a snap shot introduction to hockey that would wind up framed in the Hall of Fame.

  "Mint condition. You can count his zits." Derek paused, knowing it was his turn to drop his drawers. "Thirteen hundred."

  Swanson paused to nudge his cap back and scratch his flaking scalp. This pawn shop of numerous non-perishables was in dire need of a very-perishable, itchy-skin-conquering lotion.

  "How do I know this thing ain't counterfeit?"

  Derek snatched the case off the counter and turned in a huff. He started towards the door.

  "Wait!"

  " ... Ten, eleven, twelve hundred."

  One by one, Swanson finished placing the one-hundred-dollar bills into Marcotte's hand.

  Derek stuffed the money in his pocket and walked out of the pawn shop. Its collector's item ambiance suddenly had all the charm of a funeral parlour. Halfway up the block, the pit in Derek's stomach settled into his shoes, melding once more into an unforgiving cement bucket.

  Swanson's right arm extended out over the water. It was stock still. A taut string stretched down from his bony index finger. At the end of the string was the yo-yo -- Marcotte -- in the midst of a spinning free fall. A simple flick of Swanson's wrist would have ended this dizzy display, but Swanson had already "walked the dog" ... right off Pier 44.

  Between revolutions, Derek glimpsed the fast-approaching water. He searched for Sawchuk's face. It was gone.

  Marcotte stopped to gather his thoughts. He leaned against a light pole plastered with bulletins promoting a gig for a local band called Courtesy Flush.

  Thinking about his dad, the card ... and how this was no fun ... Derek didn't notice the figure sitting in a car parked up the street. Slager took a slug from his can of Laratts Lite and watched Marcotte disappear down the street.

  ... 2 ...

  Sylvie opened her apartment door a crack. Derek stood there, looking disconsolate.

  "Derek? What's wrong?"

  She opened the door and he trudged in.

  "I did it," he said. "I can't believe it. I really did it."

  "You told Helen?"

  She lunged at him, wrapping her arms around him. At last it would be just the two of them. Her mind raced through wedding catalogues and honeymoon hot spots before her senses told her the body she was hugging remained stiff and unyielding. She relaxed her embrace and looked into his eyes. They met for a second, then Derek's trailed away.

  "I sold my Terry Sawchuk rookie card. I feel like a pimp." He wanted to take a long hot shower to wash off all the caked-on guilt.

  There was a pause as Sylvie's mind back-pedaled through Rio de Janeiro and Spain, through place settings and flower arrangements to focus on ... a ... Terry Sawchuk hockey card.

  "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

  She looked at him again to get a read on how she should be handling this. With no immediate answer forthcoming, her biological clock -- number two with a bullet -- shot down the hocked Sawchuk on today's Top Hysterics at Six.

  "So. You ... didn't tell Helen you were leaving her?

  "I just died a thousand deaths at Swanson's pawn shop. Have you no compassion?

  "You hopeless romantic, you. Compassion? For a card? It's not even a holiday. Compassion? I'll tell you what compassion is. Compassion
is what Montreal used to show the rest of the league every four or five years, when they'd let someone else win the Cup. Compassion is the swarm of moths that ate the Maple Leafs jersey in Roch Carriere's The Hockey Sweater. Compassion is Montreal allowing Chicago to take Denis Savard right from under their noses with the third pick in the 1980 entry draft ... after Montreal had used the first pick to take Doug Wickenheiser -- a Regina Pat."

  She fairly spat "Pat".

  Derek stood there dumbfounded. His father had warned him about sleeping with women who knew their sports. He didn't know whether to argue, agree or just walk away.

  "When you're right, you're right," he finally said. "I guess my compassion is in fourth place today."

  He put on his best "can't-win-for-trying" face and turned to the door. As he opened it, Sylvie reached out, clenching her fists ... hoping their no-strings-attached relationship had suddenly developed a few. Imaginary strings that she could pull, bringing him back into the room. She slowly pulled her hands in, pressing them against her beating chest. But Derek didn't stop dead in his tracks. The door opened and he slid through.

  "Derek. Wait."

  The door closed. Her hands relaxed. He was gone.

  Marcotte ambled down Florence street. A light breeze fluttered the leaves of the newly-planted trees lining the sidewalk in their knee-high, drunk-resistant concrete planters. The Drunkard's Red from Mac's Bar flooded his brain circuits. He recalled a docu-cartoon he'd seen on TV when he was a kid. The animated film showed how the brain worked.

  The part that imbedded itself deep in Derek's 10-year-old subconscious like a mole's ass in molasses, was how the brain reacted when a person was unconscious. The cartoon brain's mission control center looked like NASA. A dozen identical little men in lab coats walked around with clipboards, watching monitors showing the flow of blood, oxygen, etc.

  When the sample "accident" took place, the red alert sounded and the little men began frantically running around, pushing buttons, pulling levers, etc. Order was restored for minor injuries, i.e., the white blood cells were sent out in full force. For a serious injury, however, it was too great for all the little men in lab coats. They tripped over one another, falling unconscious themselves, with little "x"s for eyes.

  Animation always cut through the confusion. With one line -- a simple stroke of the pen -- one knew whether a cartoon character's eyes signified sleep or serious difficulty. For Derek, those "x"s for eyes meant danger.

  Over the years he had pondered on the speed with which the little guys had succumbed. Had they done their homework? Had they tried hard enough? Was it a loose wire? A screw?

  It was the replication within the docu-cartoon however, that stuck with him. Like the TV screen within the TV screen within the TV screen, what was going on inside the heads of the wee scientists themselves? Was another generation of little men in lab coats collapsing in the brain's mission control center of the little men in lab coats with "x"s for eyes? What happened in all the heads of the little men's heads of the little men's heads ...?

  The little men in Derek's mission control center were looking for something to hold onto. His head ached from the lab coat-labyrinth within. He looked up and realized he was standing in front of his apartment building. Kudos to the tom thumb in his head who was manning the navigation controls.

  Marcotte entered the apartment block, mumbling to himself and wobbling unsteadily. The elevator was constipated again, so he staggered toward the stairs. He trudged up the three flights, planting one emphatic foot in front of the other.

  He fumbled with the lock on the door for a few seconds before gaining access. He eased the door open and was doing fine until Helen appeared in the entryway.

  "Derek?"

  She flicked on the light. The sixty-watt light bulb beamed down on Derek. He threw his hands up in front of his face.

  "Aggh! Head for cover, men! Somebody take out that spotlight!"

  "Derek! It's me, Helen. Hush. You'll wake up the neighbours."

  Helen dimmed the light. Derek lowered his hands. Helen surveyed the damage standing before her. She knew something was wrong. When he was holding up walls instead of walking past them, something was bothering him. She was a nurse however, and would tend to his second degree intoxication first.

  "You're drunk. I'll make some coffee."

  Derek turned to his imaginary troops.

  "Relax, fellas. It's a Red Cross worker."

  Helen shook her head, turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Helen and Derek sat across from one another at the round, bronze-topped kitchen table. Marcotte grimaced as he drank his coffee. With each sip, Don Juan Valdez's mule landed a well-placed hoof to Derek's temple. The kitchen -- as usual -- was spotless. Helen's touch was evident with the many knick knacks that gave the room its home sweet home decor. Large labeled jars of dry goods bellied up to the wall on the kitchen counter. The cedar spice rack's occupants lined up in alphabetical order. An centerpiece vase of daisies and forget-me-nots was all that separated Helen and Derek. He focused on one of the forget-me-nots.

  The petals of the plant were like potato chips. You couldn't have just one. Not if your relationship was failing. So you kept plowing through potato chips and pulling off petals. When the bowl was empty and the petals were all plucked, the second stage of second guessing began. Did it leave a bad taste in your mouth? Would you hate yourself in the morning? Was it worth it? Did you want more? Maybe next time you'd try a new flavor ... brunette, perhaps.

  Helen followed his gaze and picked out a daisy. She purposely ignored the forget-me-nots. It was just another typically blue flower from the temperate low-growing plants of the mainly European boraginaceous genus Myosotis. Also called scorpion grass.

  Derek sighed, cocked one eye above the foliage, and zeroed in on her.

  "I can't wait for this day to end," he said. "I don't know where to begin. But it's something I'll have to deal with. I only wish I knew how."

  Marcotte pulled his chair closer to the table and clamped both elbows to the tabletop.

  "Bear with me here. This isn't easy. Let's just say ... there's a certain someone ... someone who I've spent a lot of time with. A lot of time ..."

  "Yes?" Helen's breath shortened and her knees gained weight. He had her rapt attention, yet he leaned forward on his chair and looked deeper into her eyes. He felt being a foot closer and the extra eye strain would help get his message across.

  "I mean ... this person has done it all ... and has been doing it for a long time. They've been my prized possession. Literally. A real all-star ..."

  "Yes, yes?" Helen looked on anxiously. The daisies had threaded themselves together. She suddenly felt tied to her chair by a long, heart-stopping daisy chain.

  "... Been there with me when things looked bad. Look, I don't expect you to understand. I really don't."

  Helen was so mortified she could only mouth the word, "Me?"

  Her reaction went unseen by Derek. Head down, he pondered his next words. He wasn't used to displaying this kind of grief.

  "Well, today I decided it was time for us to part ways."

  One tear, then another ... rolled down Helen's cheeks. The trickle soon turned into a torrent. She lowered her head into her palms and sobbed freely. Derek looked up at her.

  His face was a myriad of expressions, changing from consternation ... to happiness ... to sorrow.

  At first, he wasn't sure what she was crying about. Then he realized she had mistaken him talking about her, not the hockey card.

  This was too easy. All he had to do was shut up, get up and tiptoe out the door. It would be over. He could go back to Sylvie and tell her the news she'd been dying to hear.

  A second wave of tears splashed down her cheeks. With floodwaters rising, the sandbag alarm went off. A hitching sob quickly followed. There was nothing worse than the sight of a woman crying. Except perhaps the Leafs blowing a four-goal lead.

  Marcotte considered the irony of the situation. Wom
en worried more than men, but man's worst worry was being caught downwind of a bawling broad -- especially their significant other. Sobbing women would tell a male stranger why they were crying. Spouses however, preferred that their man guess.

  When women fell off the pier of Undying Concern into the salty brine of tears, it was a difficult rescue. Half of the married men would swim away, deciding the relationship was on the rocks and not worth saving.

  Derek shuddered. Her weeping waters could douse the fires of hell. He had seen enough. Sentimentality's spotlight wasn't big enough for the both of them. He was minus his Terry Sawchuk ... but this was not the way to cast adrift Helen. Her eight years with him suddenly seemed more important than the twenty Sawchuk had toiled in the league. He wouldn't put it in writing, though. Make her tap her female intuition to read between the lines. He rose from his chair.

  "Dammit! I'm talking about Terry Sawchuk. I sold his rookie card today. Lighten up, eh?"

  Marcotte marched out of the room.

  ... 3 ...

  On the #401 somewhere west of the Quebec border, Sylvie's car raced in the fast lane. Other east bound traffic steadily receded in her rear view mirror. Her face was grim. Def Leppard's Bringin' on the Heartbreak blaring from the CD player did little to ease the death-grip she had on the steering wheel. She was going back to Montreal for a breather. Just long enough to flush out Toronto -- and flesh out the situation with Derek. If only it was as easy as separating laundry.

  Sylvie knocked on the front door of the large, upscale, four-bedroom, Quebecois colonial home. Sylvie's mother, a handsome woman in her fifties, answered the door. Madame Desjardin's face lit up and she threw her hands to her face.

  "Sylvie!"

  "Mama!"

  They hugged. The warm, pillowy arms of her mother swooped Sylvie into the house.

  Soon they were drinking coffee, sitting in the living room on a plush, flower-print sofa. The room was ornately decorated, with dark mahoganies accenting a roll-top desk, coffee and end tables. A framed seascape, with the surf crashing upon a rocky Gaspe shore, hung behind them.