There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool

by Dave Belisle

  "Well, besides being an extra day's pay for us ... this game has it all. It's a who's who of the up and coming stars, with some good ol' punch'em up parolees -- out for good behaviour -- tossed into the mix. My mama told me to just sit back and watch games like these, Syl."

  "Smart woman," said Able.

  Able turned his attention to the pre-game activities below them.

  "Both teams are on the ice. They've waived the national anthems because of the vast number of differing nationalities on the ice tonight. I understand this decision only came down a few minutes before game time."

  A wrenching scream came from the northwest corner of the arena. The organist, Art Secord, stomped around the organ, ranting and raving. He pulled out what little hair he had left ... in white, wispy tufts. He had practised non-stop the past week to learn 14 different national anthems.

  Secord planted himself back at the organ, cranked the volume and was a full minute into Led Zeppelin's Dazed and Confused before security pulled the plug.

  The players lined up for the opening face-off. The Serpents were minus a winger and a defenseman on the ice.

  On the Serpents bench, Erskine walked behind Porkowsky and Feinstein. He tapped them on the shoulders.

  "Porkowsky. Feinstein. Let's go, boys. It's show time."

  "Uh, maybe you should have someone else take the face-off, coach," said Porkowsky.

  "Yes," said Feinstein. "We don't want to appear to be too important. The other players might look down on us."

  A few players within earshot on either side of Porkowsky and Feinstein turned and stared at them in disbelief.

  "There seems to be a bit of a delay at the Serpents bench," said Able.

  Porkowsky continued to stall.

  "We could go out as the second line ..."

  "Or even the third ..." said Feinstein.

  Erskine shook his head in wonder. He chuckled.

  "You guys are too much. Dupuis ... Treadwell. Get out there."

  The referee dropped the puck and the game began. The Serpents fired the puck into the Leafs zone.

  "Dupuis shoots the puck in for the Serpents," said Able. "Arrette stops it behind the net. Tuckapuk picks up the puck ... say that ten times fast, eh, Harv?"

  "Tuckapik ... er, Puckatuk ... oh, fuck a duck."

  "Thank god we're on cable," said Able. "The Inuit winger brings it out to center ice. He's stripped by the Serpents player, Hicks. Hicks spots Sandersson crossing the red line. Sandersson, the Swedish superstar, flies down the right side. The Leafs defenseman, Bobby Hilliard, lines him up."

  Hilliard slammed Sandersson into the end boards. Kane bounced up and down in his seat.

  "Boom! The guy's got rocks in his pockets!"

  "Ooh," said Able. "That was nasty. Sandersson shakes it off, though. Play continues in the neutral zone. Sandersson heads for the bench ... but he doesn't go off. He's playing possum! Woodley hits him with a pass. Sandersson is in ... stone-cold sober ... all alone. He scores! Well, beat my butt with a big black boot! Serpents lead one nothing."

  Sandersson circled behind the net, his hands raised high in the air. An octopus came hurtling out of the stands, hitting him flush in the face. Sandersson fell to the ice, out cold.

  Erskine looked on from the Serpents bench.

  "Tough crowd."

  The Swede lay flat on his back behind the net. The Serpents trainer ran out onto the ice, slip-sliding down the ice to him.

  "Sandersson's been hit!" hollered Able. "Somebody hit Sandersson with a ... a ..."

  "An octopus, Syl," said Kane. "Looks to be eight pounds ... maybe nine. Let's go to the replay for another look."

  From the section where the octopus was thrown, fans waited for the red light at the top of the nearby TV camera to go on before waving their hands. One big, meaty hand belonged to Louie, the fish market owner. He waved toward the Leafs bench.

  Artie smiled and gave Louie the thumbs up gesture.

  Erskine paced behind the Serpents bench.

  "Let's chang'em up. Porkowsky. Get out there for Sandersson. Feinstein. Take Riddick off."

  Porkowsky and Feinstein looked up at him helplessly.

  "Aw, coach," whined Porkowsky.

  "Dillabough hasn't been on the ice yet," said Feinstein.

  Dillabough jumped to his feet and swung one leg over the boards, ready to jump over.

  "Easy, Dillabough," said Erskine. He turned to Porkowsky and Feinstein.

  "Look. I want you ..." Erskine jabbed Porkowsky in the chest.

  "Owww."

  "And you ..." Erskine poked Feinstein in the chest. Feinstein winced.

  "On the ice. Now!"

  The referee skated over to the Serpent bench.

  "Do your players need a written invitation for every face-off?"

  "Just discussing a little strategy," said Erskine. He turned to Dahlgleish.

  "Junkyard. Tell our friends here ..."

  The goon stood up, growling. He slammed his stick down, snapping the blade. Junkyard waved the jagged, busted heel of the stick in front of Porkowsky's and Feinstein's noses. The two players scrambled over the boards, falling onto the ice.

  "Binky Feinstein and Biff Porkowsky ..." said Able. "Two late additions to the Serpents, take their spots for the face-off."

  "Coach Erskine must be a keen judge of talent," said Kane. "I look at these two guys and I see a couple of zeros."

  "Er ... you must be talking about their point totals."

  "No, I'm --"

  "The puck is dropped," said Able. "Coolidge takes it for the Leafs. He blows by Feinstein."

  Feinstein fell down, untouched. Able leaned into his mike.

  "Coolidge goes by Porkowsky like he's standing still. He is standing still!"

  The puck passed between Porkowsky's legs. He bent over, lost his balance and tumbled into a heap.

  "Coolidge shoots! Oh! Pad save by Pa DeChance! Another shot by Coolidge! And another! He jams it in! They score! Well, grab my go-o-o-o-o-o-se with gardening gloves!"

  Erskine was livid. At the Leafs bench, Derek and Artie shared a chuckle.

  A calico cat walked along the top of a closed dumpster in the alley behind the rink. The cat scurried off the top as the dumpster lid slowly opened, revealing two pairs of eyes. They belonged to Feinstein and Porkowsky.

  "The coast is clear," said Feinstein.

  Feinstein propped the lid all the way back. Throwing one leg over the side, he mounted the side of the dumpster. He dusted the garbage off himself.

  "We're lucky we didn't get killed," said Feinstein.

  "Yeah," said Porkowsky from below. "Good thing Erskine reminded Junkyard about the rules of his probation."

  "Three times. You comin'?" asked Feinstein.

  Porkowsky stood up. He held two large plastic bags. One was full of donuts, the other chicken wings.

  "Here. Hold these." He handed the two bags to Feinstein and disappeared back into the dumpster. Porkowsky rustled about for a few seconds and stopped. A hollow question came from below.

  "Barbecue sauce or honey and garlic?"

  On the Serpents bench, Erskine tapped LaBonneglace on the shoulder.

  "Okay, LaBonneglace. Let's see if you're all smoke and no sizzle."

  "Quit playing wit' my mind, coach."

  LaBonneglace hopped over the boards.

  The referee dropped the puck and LaBonneglace quickly gained control. He passed the puck back to Dillabough, who hit him with a return pass at the Leafs blue line. The French Canadian, a left-handed shooter, skated at a slant for the right boards. At the top of the right face-off circle he turned on his skates, gliding backwards. Hitting the brakes and using the defenseman as a screen, he one-timed a blistering drive over Arrette's right shoulder.

  "He scores! LaBonneglace with the turn-around, one-timer beats Arrette with a 67-footer. Serpents lead 2-1," said Able.

  Erskine nodded smugly. The scoreboard changed to read: SERPENTS 2, LEAFS 1. 17:39 remain in the first period.
r />   "From the face-off," said Able, "the Leafs fire the puck into the Serpents zone. Starsikov is the first one there. He passes the puck back to Hilliard. But LaBonneglace is there to intercept. He tips the puck off the boards past Hilliard ... and he's off to the races! He crosses the blue line ... he shoots. Oh my! He missed the net by ten feet. No, wait! He scores! Judy, Judy, it ain't Jack Ruby!"

  "He shot the puck off the corner boards and put his own rebound in the net," said Kane. "Arrette was still looking the other way."

  Only 34 seconds had elapsed since the last Herculean goal. Derek paced behind the Leafs bench. He wondered if the old basement room at his folks' place was still available. Erskine and him were laying their cards on the table and thus far ... Erskine was the better hustler. The Leafs trailed 3-1 with 17:05 remaining in the first period.

  Arrette stopped shot after shot from entering the net. It was a turkey shoot and the Serpent shooters were starting in on the chickens. In one dazzling display of Katie-bar-the-door goaltending, Arrette made a sparkling glove save on a point blank shot from the slot. He then stacked his pads for the bang-bang rebound when the puck popped out of his mitt ... and made a toe save with the shooter staring at the gaping four-by-six foot net.

  The Serpents rattled off eight shots on goal in the space of a minute. A stoppage in play finally came when the beleaguered ex-"B" Leaguer, Arrette -- trapped on his stomach under two players -- raised his head to absorb a low snap shot in the mask from Herculean marksman, Mike McCann. Unlike most of the other beach ball rebounds, the puck dropped beneath Arrette's nose. He froze the puck between his forehead and the ice to get the whistle.

  A tired Serpent defenseman, Gordie Hicks, skated slowly to his bench.

  "Hey, coach. Can Junkyard come out and play?"

  "Junkyard?"

  Junkyard sneered and hopped over the boards.

  "Wait!" said Erskine. "Hold on there. You'll need a stick, son."

  Erskine turned to the stick boy.

  "Make sure it has a steel shaft, eh?"

  The stick boy handed Dahlgleish a stick and Junkyard skated off in search of an opposite-colored jersey. The stick felt good in his hands, even without the aluminum foil knuckle tape job. A whistle sounded. It had a higher pitch than the one used by the on-ice officials. An RCMP officer stepped into the bench area, motioning to the referee and linesmen to bring Junkyard to him. The three zebras corralled the goon. The foursome orbited past Dahlgleish's anticipated target. Junkyard snarled. Like the Apollo 13 crew and their lost moon, he was so close he could taste it.

  The on-ice officials handed Dahlgleish over to the cop, then wiped their hands in the "that-takes-care-of-that" gesture. They shook hands with the cop and gave each other a high five. The elderly off-ice official at the time-keeper's bench was confused. He wondered if Junkyard was being penalized for excessive celebration.

  "Are you staying around to watch the rest of the period?" the referee asked the cop.

  "Uh, no. Not really," said the cop. "Why?"

  "I was just wondering if I could borrow your gun for a little while. You know, to help keep the players in line. They're forever trying to freeze the puck in the corner or behind the net. If I could ... you know, fire a warning shot in the air ... it might make them move the puck a little faster."

  The police officer politely declined and shepherded Junkyard behind the Serpents bench to the exit. They passed Erskine.

  "Was he breaking parole, officer?" asked Erskine.

  "Junkyard breaks parole about as often as a warthog breaks wind. We only wish it was as innocent. But this time he's got the entire proceeds from tonight's game in the back of his hockey pants.

  The cop motioned Junkyard to turn around. He hoisted up the player's jersey.

  "Excuse me," the officer said. "Police business."

  The cop reached into Dahlgleish's hockey pants and fumbled around for a few seconds before retrieving a wad of bills attached to the back of a plastic thigh pad.

  "That was his salary for the game," said Erskine, lying. "Of course ... I probably am paying him too much."

  "Is that a bribe?" the mountie asked. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up like a mane in their musical ride.

  "I throw my hands up. He needs to be taught a lesson." Erskine quickly turned around.

  The officer ushered Dahlgleish down the corridor.

  On the Leafs bench, Derek poked Artie and nodded toward Bronco.

  "Under no circumstances does he leave the bench."

  Bronco overheard them. He cursed and kicked a hole in the back of the bench with the heel of his skate.

  The first period ended without any further goals, arrests or off-ice renovations.

  The security guard in front of the Serpents dressing room jumped out of the way. Two dozen hockey sticks flew by like scaffolding scorned by a tornado. Erskine was the twister however, and showed no signs of weakening over the next sixty feet.

  Erskine grabbed the doorknob and slammed it shut behind him. The door hadn't seen such punishment since the spring of 1978 when an arena official had erroneously scheduled a Siamese cat show and an Alaskan Sled Dog exhibition the same afternoon.

  "What in GAWWWWD'S name is goin' on out there!?!"

  Spittle splashed off his bottom lip on every other syllable. Purple veins in Erskine's neck that hadn't existed before, climbed aboard other purple veins for a double-decker trip to Heart Attack Hotel. The veins suddenly vanished.

  "Bill Mosienko," he said in a hushed, determined tone. "That's all they need. Bill Mosienko."

  He slunk forward as he spoke, slowly walking through his words. He panned the room from left to right, scanning the faces of his players.

  "Three goals in 21 seconds." Erskine's deep-toned demeanour had a maniacal edge to it, causing some of the players to cringe in their stalls.

  "We go back out there now ... and they could be leading ... AFTER THE FIRST MINUTE!!"

  When I make it to the NHL, thought Sandersson, I'm going to make sure my agent includes an out clause in my contract ... in case my coach is cuckoo.

  "Where is my Bill Mosienko?" asked Erskine.

  He slowly looked around the room.

  The equipment manager, Paul Ankelgaard, inserted Bill Mosienko into the Simon and Garfunkel hit, Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio? and hummed it in his head.

  "I want my Bill Mosienko," said Erskine. "I want my three goals in 21 seconds. And I want them ... NOW!"

  He reached for a hockey stick and slammed it over the wash basin a la Pete Townsend destroying a stratocaster.

  Erskine didn't have to tell the players to get out on the ice. They were already all out the door before the last splinters from the busted hockey stick were soaked up by the damp, rubber-matted floor.

  Tuckapuk sat in the corner of the Leafs locker room. He thought back to when he was a young boy, living with his mother. His father had run off with a social worker from Saskatoon. She fell in love with his muck lucks and Chief Dan George good looks. The last time Tuckapuk had seen them was on the late night news three years ago. They were picketing city hall in Yellowknife. The couple demanded government funding be set up to provide training for the natives of the reservation's Casino Bingo-Rama.

  This was Tuckapuk's first visit to a town of more than 300 people. The big fish from the little pond was now in the Atlantic. His mother once told him that the little fish and the big fish must respect each other, because when the big fish eats the little fish ... it sometime leaves a bad taste in its mouth.

  Tuckapuk had floundered in the first period. He couldn't get untracked. His skating was plodding. At Raven Lake, the puck and his stick were like velcro. Here it was like marrying two ends of a magnet. Tuckapuk peeked up from his funk.

  Derek and Artie entered the room.

  Tuckapuk hoped they weren't going to ask for their dog back.

  "Alright, alright," said Derek. "We're down a couple of goals."

  Derek searched their faces. Some were glum, most w
ere mum. He needed every one of them on his side. He slowly walked around the room.

  "This is it, guys. We don't have a pre-season, regular season or even a best-of-three play-off. You're all picks from a hockey draft. You're my water cooler gang."

  Derek stopped in the middle of the room.

  "Not that you're tanking it," he said.

  Heads stirred. The lights overhead didn't get brighter, but the electricity in the room jumped a notch. Shackles were raised. Marcotte had their attention.

  "Yeah," he said, nodding to the other dressing room. "They've got the best of everything. They've got blow dryers with their names on'em. Team meals with extra lean meat. Per diems that include theater tickets. But is that what you want? Do you want the glitz ... or the glory? If you beat these guys you can write your own ticket. Scouts have been trying to get players into this game. Imagine what happens after. That personalized blow dryer turns into Vidal Sassoon himself. That extra lean meat will be an inch thicker and marinated for a week. And those theater tickets? Trade them in for a pool party with Madonna. This is only act one, fellas. We've got two more to go. Let's do it."

  Able hunched over his mike.

  "Eight minutes and thirty-four seconds to go in the second period. The Serpents lead 3-1. Both teams battle for the puck along the boards. Hutchny ... with some musketeer-like stickwork on Stapleman. He's going to get the gate for that."

  Derek tapped Short Hand on the shoulder.

  "Time to go fishin', Danny boy."

  Short Hand jumped over the boards.

  "The Serpents regroup in their own end," said Able. "Dillabough waits behind his net. Short Hand flushes him out and Dillabough heads up the right side of the ice. Dillabough passes up to Corcoran. He's pressured by Girardelli at the blue line. Corcoran sends the puck back to Dillabough. He doesn't see Short Hand. Short Hand strips him. Short Hand is in alone on Pa DeChance ... HE SCORES! Andy, Andy Angioplasty!"

  "Corcoran gets bit by Short Hand on the ol' snake in the grass play," said Kane.

  The Leafs pulled back within one goal, trailing 3-2 with 8:18 remaining in the second period. The Serpents skated hard with all three forwards and both defenseman circling in a play swiped from the Harlem Globetrotters playbook. They skated in wide, side-by-side circles, continually dropping the puck to the next player cycling through the high slot area of the Leafs zone.