There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool

by Dave Belisle

  Standing up, Marcotte patted Arrette on the shoulder.

  "And let's keep Cal off his head this period, " Derek said. We can win this thing. Let's go."

  ... 5 ...

  At rink side, the Serpents bench was empty except for Bobby Birdwell, the team's 13-year-old stick boy. Until last week he'd simply been Erskine's paper boy. He relished this new promotion and guarded the stick rack as if it were the only wood left this side of the Amazon rain forest. Half a pack of Bubble-Trouble wallowed in his mouth. Birdwell occasionally snuck a peek at the audience for foxy 14-year-olds.

  The Maharishi Fishi rounded the corner with a hearty helping of nacho cheese-covered jalapeno peppers. He bit into one, winced with delight and approached the young man.

  "Excuse me, boy with sticks."

  Birdwell pretended not to hear him and leaned over to take a closer look at the bottom of the stick rack. Try as he might, it was impossible for the stick boy to ignore the guru. Jalapeno juice rained down. Birdwell straightened up and stared as dully as a 14-year-old could, at the Maharishi. The psychic grinned foolishly.

  "I have not seen this place before ... and I would like to know more about this game, hooky," he said.

  The boy suddenly longed for his problem-free paper route.

  "They're selling programs out in the concourse, mister."

  The Maharishi reached instead for another jalapeno. He bit the end and pepper juice sprayed on Birdwell's chromium white, push-button stop'n-start, Kareem Abdul Jabber-Wocky-autographed $149 Snipe sneakers.

  "Let me get to the pointy subject," the psychic said, juice dribbling down his chin. "The men on sharp skates use these ... sticks ... to make a score."

  "Score a goal," said Birdwell, gritting his teeth.

  "Right. You are so right, my friend of much wood. Thank you very much. And tell me if you please. Why are they bent at the bottom like my blessed cow's horn?"

  "The puck travels differently in the air after it's shot." Birdwell's patience thinned. He wouldn't have been quite as accommodating if the usher behind the Maharishi wasn't looking their way. Birdwell's mother had taken him off ritalin last year and he sensed a hyper-bout coming on. He mentally pictured an aluminum shaft stick cracking the shin of the strange man who'd just jalapeno pepper-sprayed his spankin' new Snipes.

  The Maharishi raised one finger to his temple and squinted at the curved blade with "WOODLEY" stamped on the shaft of the stick. Birdwell eyed the East Indian suspiciously. The stick boy's once-abrupt attitude softened somewhat. Perhaps it was the peppers. He'd seen his father go through the same mood swings as well, when agonizing over which team to pick on his Quick Pucks ticket.

  "Is there something wrong, mister?"

  The Maharishi Fishi ignored Birdwell and continued his trance-like concentration. If the drone of the Zamboni hadn't settled in over the rink, the stick boy would have heard a low hum coming from the Maharishi. The guru in the gossamer gown rolled his head -- and hips -- in a halting, circular motion. He was doing the macarena. After a few seconds, the psychic lowered his hand from his head, breathed deeply, hitched his drawers and coughed twice. He munched on another pepper.

  "Oh, do not think two times about it," the psychic said to the stick boy. This part of the year is time for my straw fever. My nose is running all over the place. Thank you again for pointing me to the ropes."

  The beginning of the third period drew near. Fans returned to their seats, passing in front of the Maharishi Fishi. A beer vendor squeezed passed the psychic.

  "Cold beer! Get yer cold beer here!"

  The vendor continued on, passing in front of Sylvie. She looked down at Derek from the first row of seats directly behind him. She leaned over the railing.

  "Just thought you'd like to know ..."

  "Sylvie!"

  "LaBonneglace is done for the day -- and they'll be shadowing Coolidge." Her face didn't change. She was a TV anchor woman segueing from a British Columbia brush fire to a flood in Fredericton.

  She turned to leave. Her segment was over. Stay tuned for sports.

  "Sylvie. Wait."

  She didn't stop or turn around, but exited by the corridor. A few rows above, buried elbow-deep in her knitting, sat Helen.

  The teams stepped onto the ice surface and skated around their own halves of the rink, loosening up for the start of the third period.

  "The teams are on the ice and we're just about set for third period action," said Able.

  Artie nudged Derek and nodded toward the Serpents bench. LaBonneglace, wearing his streetclothes, stood near the end of the bench. He squirmed and grimaced, his hands dug deep in his pants pockets. Derek quizzed Artie with look. Hammond shrugged.

  An elderly woman and her grandson sat in the first row immediately behind LaBonneglace. The woman watched the sidelined player bounce from one foot to the other, his hands stuffed in his front pockets ... doing more than staying warm. She shook her head in disgust. Her grandson's attention had also been diverted from the players on the ice to LaBonneglace.

  "Does he have to go to the bathroom, Grandma?"

  "No, Billy. He's handicapped. It's not nice to stare, dear."

  The boy sat to her left. LaBonneglace was doing the Twist Sans Shout to her right. With her left hand the woman gripped her grandson's jaw and turned it away from LaBonneglace, to the left to face the ice. With her right hand she raised her purse by the strap and clobbered LaBonneglace.

  As LaBonneglace fell to the floor, the referee dropped the puck at center ice and third period action began. Derek leaned between Coolidge and Hoover.

  "I want you two to swap sweaters."

  "Aw, coach," said Hoover. "I had number nine first."

  "I'm not trading," said Coolidge. "Ever take a whiff of his equipment bag?"

  "Let's go," said Derek. "The uniform doesn't make the soldier."

  Coolidge grudgingly doffed his jersey. Artie bent over, pretending to examine the player's shoulder for an injury. Hoover slipped out of his jersey and adjusted his elbow pads. The jersey switch was made and both players put on their new numbers.

  "There's a stoppage in play with fifty-three seconds gone here in the third period," said Able. "The Leafs send out the President-Select line ... Coolidge, Hoover and Tuckapuk."

  At the Serpents bench, Erskine leaned over the backs of Corcoran and Hicks.

  "Remember, if Coolidge has to take a leak ..."

  "... keep the urinal bar dry. We know, we know," Corcoran and Hicks replied as one.

  The referee dropped the puck. Able waited for his stomach to stop growling before speaking.

  "The Leafs win the face-off and Hoover -- I mean, Coolidge ... controls the puck. Darn it, Harv. I keep mixing those two up."

  "That's American history for you. There's more to remember every year. I gave up on it a long time ago."

  "The Serpents are double-teaming Coolidge," said Able. "Hoover has plenty of room. He hits the red line with a burst of speed. Gosh, Harv. How'd he get so fast all of sudden?"

  "I'll bet Marcotte peeled the plaster off the walls in his speech to the troops."

  "Hoover goes wide on Dillabough," said Able. "He rips a shot ... HE SCORES! Well, hold the fries and praise the skies! Hoover cruises down the right side and rockets one by a surprised DeChance. The Leafs pull within two."

  The scoreboard read SERPENTS 5, LEAFS 3. 18:45 remained in the third period. Coolidge and Hoover slid down the bench as the next line stepped onto the ice. Hoover clapped Coolidge on the helmet.

  "Nice goal. Now give me back my damn sweater."

  "With pleasure."

  "We're just past the five-minute mark in the third ..." said Able. "Riddick slaps the puck into the Leafs zone."

  From the stands, Helen looked up from her knitting to watch the Serpent defenseman. Riddick was looking at her already. He glided towards the boards, with eyes only for her. He forgot he was holding his stick in front of him in a waist-high, parallel position to the ice. Riddick stopped like a man d
oing a 100-yard dash in a 90-yard gym. His stick hit the boards and rammed into his stomach. He collapsed in a heap.

  The crowd erupted in cruel laughter.

  "Oooh!" said Kane, his knees suddenly nailed together.

  "Riddick appeared to be admiring his shot," said Able. " ... And skated right into the boards, impaling himself on his stick! But the Leafs have the puck so play continues. Dixon slaps the puck back out ..."

  "Oww!" said Kane.

  "The puck hit Riddick in the back!" said Able. "He'd just gotten to his feet after that slap shot faux pas ... only to take a blistering drive from Dixon square in the back. Stay down, son. Stay down!"

  Hilliard and George Gobelthorpe, the two Leaf defensemen, suddenly swooped in from either direction, plowing into Riddick with a sandwich bodycheck.

  "Boom!" shouted Kane.

  "Riddick is sandwiched by Hilliard and Gobelthorpe!" said Able. "Hilliard low bridged him. Gobelthorpe's up in the air. Uh-oh."

  As Gobelthorpe twirled in the air, his left skate caught one of the stanchions holding a section of plexiglass in place.

  "Look out!" hollered Kane.

  The large pane of plexiglass fell, shattering on Riddick. The crowd groaned. Helen pushed and shoved her way through the stands to get to the aisle.

  Stapleman skated up to Riddick to help him, but caught a rut and landed full force on him. The crowd exhaled for the downed defenseman. This spurred Helen on faster as she raced across the ice. She caught up to the trainer, who was having difficulty slide-stepping and putting on his anti-AIDS gloves at the same time.

  From the Leafs bench, Derek watched in awe.

  Further down the bench, behind Marcotte, Sylvie poked her head out from the corridor to see what the commotion was all about.

  Helen dragged the trainer the last twenty feet to Riddick. They knelt down beside the injured player. The trainer shook his head at the mess spread before him. He hadn't been sick since his intern days at Oshawa General, but the turkey sandwich he had for lunch was starting to flap its wings in his stomach. He took a deep breath.

  "Multiple contusions, shoulder separation ..."

  "Oh, no ..." said Helen.

  "... lacerations, possible punctured lung, bruised kidney ..." said the trainer.

  "Oh, my ..." said Helen.

  "Where do I start? This guy needs a new body."

  "Oh, yes ..."

  From the Leafs bench, Derek punched the air.

  "Yes!"

  The gods had answered. For games that went into sudden death overtime, they always put in an obligatory appearance. The gods did however, frown upon coaches who urged their players that there was such a thing as a "good penalty" to take. Finally, because all players were created equal, the heavens smiled on games that ended in ties.

  Coolidge watched the fallen Riddick, then turned his attention to Derek, who was holding his fist high in the air. The Leaf winger nudged Hoover.

  "Morbid sucker, ain't he?"

  Sylvie appeared beside the Leafs bench. Derek strode over to her, smiled, and reached out for her. She slid into his arms. Together they watched the Serpent players, trainer and Helen wheel Riddick off the ice on a stretcher.

  "Do you think it will last?" asked Sylvie.

  "Hell, I got eight years out of a bum knee."

  The two shared the "it's-been-so-long" lover's look. Their pupils raced around the corner of each other's corneas, bumped into each other, got up and dusted themselves off. Derek gripped the boards to steady himself. Sylvie's heart tripped, but somehow she managed to stay upright as well.

  Artie tapped Derek on the shoulder.

  "Uh, we've got a game here, boss," said Artie.

  Derek nodded and turned to Sylvie.

  "Can I take back something I said? Like ... everything?"

  Sylvie put two fingers to her mouth. She kissed the tips of them and pressed them against his lips.

  "A little Montreal compassion for you."

  Derek returned to his place behind the bench. Determination rode a new horse called Bodacious Tatas. She was coming into the home stretch, two lengths back.

  What happened next was the worst thing imaginable.

  The Serpents sprung the trap on the Leafs. The ten razor-sharp skate blades, circling in a fifty-foot radius were the trap's teeth. The bait was the two-goal deficit that forced the Leafs to forge ahead into the mouth of the trap.

  The neutral zone trap was a diabolical defensive plan devised 53 years ago by a Florida snowbird with too much time on his hands. It was "Croc-Hockey", Everglades-style. The defensive players waited between the blue lines like crocodiles in the weeds. The crocodiles would clutch, grab and practically devour the player ... spitting the puck back out. The player was then released so they could retrieve the puck and continue this game of fetch gone wrong.

  The Serpents did their distant crocodile cousins proud. Erskine's lot pestered and sequestered. They held and interfered with the Leafs, but there was no snapping. That would have earned a 10-minute misconduct penalty. The Serpents hooked, held or pushed offside every Leaf player that had an inkling of skating with the puck. It was a defensive shell game with the Serpents lining the blue line five men wide. The Leafs were unable to penetrate the zone by dumping the puck in or working it across the blue line.

  Fifteen minutes ticked off the clock. Sylvie bit her bottom lip. Derek was the unwitting bird sitting atop the crocodile's mouth, suddenly noticing that the floor was bumpy ... and moving.

  On the ice, the predominantly rag-tag play continued in the center of the rink, as Herculean repelled each May-Ja-Look thrust.

  "The Serpents have slowed the game to a standstill since the Leafs goal early in the period," said Able.

  The scoreboard read SERPENTS 5, LEAFS 3. 1:58 remained in the third period.

  "Time is running out for the Leafs," said Able. "The Serpents are called for the offside."

  Erskine stalked behind the bench.

  "Two minutes! Two minutes left! Check your sticks, everybody. I don't want any illegal sticks out there!"

  Some players took a quick look at the blades of their sticks. Woodley looked down at his and smirked. He had specifically measured it before the game. He was regulation, thank you very much. He looked back to the action on the ice. He puzzled the situation again however, and looked back down at his blade. Had the curvature increased? He mulled it over. Nahhh. Impossible. He turned his attention back to the ice.

  "Woodley!" said Erskine. "Take left wing."

  The player jumped over the boards.

  "The Leafs are hemmed in their own zone," said Able. "Starsikov knocks the puck away from Woodley and starts up ice. Woodley hooks at him. Starsikov sends a pass across to Harley Farquharson. Farquharson is hauled down by Corcoran before the puck gets there. There's going to be a penalty. The Leafs are going on the power play."

  The referee blew his whistle. He pointed to Corcoran, and signalled interference as he skated by the time-keeper's bench. Derek motioned to the ref, who skated over to the Leafs coach.

  "We want a stick measurement for number 18," said Derek, pointing to Woodley.

  "You'll get two minutes for delay of game if he's legal," said the ref.

  "No, I'll have two cents to my name if he's legal."

  The referee skated away from Derek, signalling to Woodley.

  Woodley saw the ref out of the corner of his eye. Shit! What's he pointin' at me for? That was no goddamn hook.

  The ref skated over towards Woodley.

  "What the hell do you want?" asked Woodley.

  "Your stick. Hand it over."

  Woodley gave it to him. A false sense of security and gnawing suspicion grappled inside his head. Gnawing suspicion scored with a vicious scissor kick to the solar plexus. The striped arm of the law had just relieved him of his weapon. He felt naked.

  He knew his stick had to be legal, but anything could happen in stick measurements. The referee could be thinking about a post-game wobbly pop instead o
f the sixteenth of an inch needed to buy Woodley's innocence. The Serpent winger skated over to the time-keeper's bench. The ref was already there. The time-keeper handed the ref the measuring instrument. One of the linesmen intercepted Woodley a few feet from the ref.

  "You cross that line and you're gone."

  "Hey!" Woodley shouted over the linesman's shoulder at the ref. "When was the last time that thing was calibrated?! Is that metric?!"

  Woodley didn't know calibration from calligraphy, but it sounded good. If he put the bug in the referee's ear and got him thinking, the ref might lean his way on a close call. Which way did a tie go? Would he wear the goat horns of infamy? What witness protection program could escape the global reach of Erskine? These questions raced through Woodley's head.

  "The referee is talking with the off-ice officials," said Able.

  The ref handed the stick over the glass to the time-keeper.

  "Yes, the Serpents have been called for playing with an illegal stick."

  Erskine smacked himself in the head. Derek licked his lips, adjusted his tie and motioned for Cal Arrette to come to the bench.

  "The Leafs pull their goalie," said Able. "Down by two goals with 52 seconds left, they have a six-on-three manpower advantage. Starsikov will take the face-off."

  Starsikov motioned for Hutchny to line up behind him. Hutchny shook his head and pounded the ice with his stick. He was intent on staying where he was ... to the right of Starsikov, against the boards. Starsikov glared at Hutchny. The referee skated between them.

  The ref motioned to Starsikov.

  "Let's go, white ... get your stick down."

  Starsikov replied in Russian, "I will chop off your hand if you don't drop the puck today."

  North American referees had their own code for understanding European players. If they were able to translate the slur, it was a ten-minute misconduct. If they were unable to translate, but judged the tone to be derogatory, the player was only tossed out of the face-off circle. The referee pointed to Starsikov, then outside the circle.