by Glenn Parker
“Yes it is. I often go up there when I want to get away for a few hours. Good for the soul.”
The two men walked together, picking their way along a little-used path. By the time they reached the top, they were both breathing hard.
“Now that’s what I call a deceptive climb,” Don said, after catching his breath. “I didn’t think it was so steep.”
They stood looking down at the town bathed in the bright morning sunlight. The hill offered a striking view. It gave him a new perspective on the town.
They sat on a rock and Jess looked out over the panorama below. “How do you like your job so far, Don?” Jess asked.
“Fine, sir,” Don said. He glanced over at his boss feeling a need to convey his feelings about the job. “I enjoy the work —
it’s interesting and Chuck and Bob are good to work with. They’ve taught me a lot.”
“I’m glad,” Jess said, looking out across the town.
Don waited. He had the feeling that Jess wanted to say something more. When he didn’t, Don said, “whoever said it was a beautiful view from up here wasn’t exaggerating.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Jess replied abstractly. He turned and regarded Don. “I saw you at the game last night. What did you think of it?”
“I thought it was a little one-sided. But I was impressed with the caliber of play. This league could give some of the junior teams a pretty good run for their money.”
“If you ever want time off to play,” he said, casting a sideways glance, “don’t hesitate to ask.”
It was a kind gesture and Don appreciated the offer. He chose not to comment, unwilling to open a subject that he knew would lead nowhere.
Presently they rose and made their way back down the hill toward the town, the church bells echoing in the distance.
Jennifer arrived punctually at one o’clock. She was dressed in a short skirt and pink leggings that struck Don as completely inappropriate and yet pleased him. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her.
“All ready to do a little sight-seeing?” she asked.
Don got into the car beside her. “You bet. Do you happen to know where the old McBride Bridge is?”
“Everybody knows where that is,” she said. “It used to be a favorite spot for the high school crowd, a kind of lover’s lane. Is that where your land is?”
“Well, it’s near there. According to Mom, there’s an old cabin on the land. You can see it from the bridge apparently.”
Jennifer put the car into gear and they headed south. “I think it’s about ten minutes from town,” she said. “It’s very pretty around there.”
“I was afraid it would be dull, flat prairie land, good for nothing but gophers and snakes,” Don said.
“Oh no. It’s quite hilly and there are lots of trees and shrubs. It’s one of the nicest spots around here.”
“You know,” Don said a few minutes later, “I’ve never asked you what you do, where you work.”
“Right now I’m helping Dad and learning a bit about his business. He’s a Notary Public. You’ve probably seen his office on Main Street. I was at university last year but decided it wasn’t for me. I guess you could say I’m in a state of limbo right now.”
“Sometimes that’s a good place to be,” Don said.
They turned off the main highway and bumped over a long stretch of rough back road.
“There’s the bridge ahead,” she said as they came over a hill and descended into a tiny valley. They stopped at the bridge and got out. Don looked around.
“I don’t see any cabin. According to Mom, the cabin is right in the middle of the property.”
They crossed the bridge and suddenly a cabin came into view through a grove of trees.
“There it is,” Jennifer said, pointing.
A thin line of smoke drifted from the chimney. “Looks like somebody’s living in it,” Don said. “Either that or it’s the wrong cabin.”
They got back into the car and drove across the bridge toward the cabin. An old car was parked outside of it and a dog came strolling up as they pulled up close to the back door.
The cabin was small but well-built and sturdy. The back door was opened and a tall, bearded man in his mid-twenties appeared. Don and Jennifer got out of the car.
“Good afternoon,” the man said pleasantly. “Can I help you?”
Don noticed that he walked with a cane and he held a paint brush in his hand. He was wearing a smock smeared with paint.
“Do you own this place?” Don asked, thinking he had perhaps found the wrong cabin.
A young woman appeared at his side and put her arm around him. She was blond and pretty.
“No I don’t,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I think I do,” Don said, looking around.
The man began cleaning his paint brush on his smock. “My name’s Allan Bishop. This is my wife Peg.”
“I’m Don Jordan and this is Jennifer Simons,” Don said. He paused. “Allan Bishop? You’re not the Allan Bishop who played for Regina a few years ago.”
He looked surprised. “The same. But I didn’t expect to be recognized here.”
“I used to watch you play hockey when you came to Saskatoon,” Don said.
“Well, come on inside. I mean, after all, it’s your place, isn’t it?”
The cabin consisted of only one large room. Everywhere Don looked there were oil paintings on the walls, leaning on chairs, even lying on the floor.
Allan removed them from the chairs. “Sorry about the mess, but as you can see we haven’t exactly got a lot of room.”
“Your paintings are beautiful,” Jennifer declared. “You’re very talented.”
“Thank you,” Allan said, throwing some coal on the fireplace. “I just hope the public and art critics have the same opinion.”
Don glanced around the room. It was like a miniature art gallery. The paintings were mostly landscapes although there were some portraits and he had to admit that they were good.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “A hockey player turned artist?”
“Can I offer you some coffee?” Peg asked. Don detected an uncertainty in her voice. Had he struck a delicate chord?
“Thank you,” he said.
Allan leaned forward and gazed into the fire. “I’ve always been interested in art,” he said by way of explanation. “In fact I had intended going to art school but of course hockey always took precedence. During the summer after my second year of junior, I was in a car accident. Not a very serious one, but serious enough to cause permanent damage to my knee. It ended my hockey career. In fact it almost ended me because hockey meant everything to me. It was around then that I met Peg. She saw some of my paintings one day and thought they were pretty good so she encouraged me.” He paused and gestured around the room. “You can thank her for all this. I couldn’t have done it without her.”
Peg laughed in the background. “Don’t believe a word of it,” she said. “He worked hard. In fact, I spend most of my time trying to make him relax once in a while.”
“Are you living down here now?” Allan asked.
“Jennifer’s from Fairmore,” Don said. “I’ve only been here for a week.”
“Don played for Saskatoon last year,” Jennifer volunteered. “He’s quite a hockey player too.”
“Your ex-coach is coaching Saskatoon now. When I was playing for him, he mentioned you a few times,” Don said.
“Old Brush. Wow! But what are you doing down here then? I’d have thought —”
“He quit hockey,” Jennifer said, looking at Don. “We can’t even get him to come out for our local team. What do you think of that?”
Don looked over at her but she was smiling. Was she mocking him? Or was that just a dig to goad him into playing?
“I find it hard to believe anybody would just up and quit,” Allan said. “You must have had your reasons.”
“I did,” Don said. He felt reluctant to def
end his actions. “I…I was suspended last year,” he began, “for striking a referee. It had been simply a matter of losing my cool, which I had done on several other occasions. That’s something a player can’t afford to do. I decided that there was no place in the game for me until I could control my temper.”
They were silent for a moment before Allan spoke. “You wouldn’t be the first person to strike a referee. It happens sometimes. It’s not something I would recommend, mind you, but I don’t think it’s reason enough to throw away a career. It’s a matter of chalking it up to experience and not letting it get you down and learning from your mistakes.”
“You sound like Brush,” Don said. They both laughed.
“All I can say is that I would trade the last two years of my life to play hockey again. I enjoy my art, in fact, I love it, but hockey is different. It gets in the blood.”
“How do you manage living out here?” Don wanted to know. “You can’t make much money selling paintings I wouldn’t think.”
“I was lucky enough to get a settlement after my accident. It wasn’t great, but it keeps us going.”
As they were about to leave, Allan said, “Look, I’m sorry about taking over your place like this. Just say the word and we’ll be out tomorrow. I can always find another place.”
“What! And disrupt the painting of a possible masterpiece? Nonsense. Besides, I can tell by looking around that you’ve done a lot of work on the cabin. It couldn’t have been much when you moved in.”
Allan looked over at his wife. “Yeah, the place was a bit of mess when we moved in all right.”
“Tell you what Allan, you can paint me a picture sometime. That would be more than enough payment.”
“It’s a deal,” Allan said, extending his hand. “I’m glad you came out. It’s a load off my mind.”
As they were about to drive away, he yelled, “and good luck with your hockey career. I envy you.”
Don cast a glance at Jennifer. “Seem like a nice couple, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do. And he could be right about your hockey career, you know. Do you think you needed to give it up? I think you’re being a little hard on yourself. Losing your temper? You’ve got the perfect opportunity to work on that by playing with our team. I don’t think the pressure of playing down here would be anything like playing junior.”
They drove along in silence. Don stared at the road ahead. Allan Bishop had opened up an old wound. He had been content with his job, enjoyed living in a small town and had come to terms with giving up hockey. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Where do I go from here?” he said, thinking aloud. “It feels a bit strange when I think about Allan not being able to play hockey anymore and wishing with every bone in his body that he could and here I am, perfectly able, but choosing not to play. Does that make any sense?”
“You’re the only one who can answer that,” Jennifer said. “But I can tell you right now, you might regret giving up a game that you have such a gift for. And you’re going to make a whole lot of people around here very happy if you decide to play again, myself included.”
“You know, you’re a very persuasive girl,” Don said. “You missed your calling. You should have been a diplomat. But I still have a big problem: my temper. What am I going to do about that? The thought of putting somebody in the hospital doesn’t sit very well.”
“I don’t know,” Jennifer said. “I’m not a psychologist. But I would be willing to help you with it any way I can. Sometimes when you feel like you’re losing it, it helps to talk it over.”
By the time they arrived back at the hotel, Don had had a change of mind. “Tell your Dad I’ll be out on Tuesday night,” he said. “I guess it’s about time I came out of my shell and joined the world. I need to confront my problem — not run away from it.”
She smiled, reached out and gave him a hug. “I’ll tell him. It’ll make his day. And thanks for a nice afternoon. Let’s do this again.”
Perhaps, he thought, as he walked toward the hotel, he had been wrong about himself. What better way to find out than by playing for Fairmore. If he could survive in this rough and tumble league, he could survive anywhere, he was sure of that. It would be a good test for him.
CHAPTER SIX
After work on Tuesday, Don paid a visit to the only sport shop in town, bought a new pair of skates since he had left all his equipment in Saskatoon, and had them sharpened. Then he went back to the hotel.
At seven o’clock he walked the five blocks to the arena, his new skates slung over his shoulder. As he approached the building, he saw several cars pull up and some of the members of the hockey team get out. He followed them inside.
Lew was in the dressing room mulling over a new play he had been developing. When Don appeared, he stood up and gripped him by the arm. “Am I glad to see you,” he said.
The dressing room was small and inadequate and smelled of liniment and sweat-soaked uniforms. Don looked around for a place to sit down.
“Fellas,” Lew said to the dozen players who were milling about in varying stages of undress, “I want you to meet Don Jordan from Saskatoon. He’s joining the club.”
There were some hi’s and waves as Don nodded at the players. Did he sense resentment?
“I left all my equipment up north,” he said, “but I managed to pick up a pair of skates. Have you got any spare equipment around?”
Lew grinned. “That’s one thing we’ve got lots of,” he said pointing to a box in the corner. You’ll find everything you need in there. The practice uniforms are on hangers along the wall. Just grab one that fits you.”
Ten minutes later Don was fully dressed. He felt uncomfortable wearing the strange equipment, but the new skates felt good and sturdy. When he hit the ice, he skated slowly, measuring his strides. He knew that he wasn’t in great condition and that he should take it easy for the first few practices.
The other players had three practices and a game under their belt and whizzed by him, some stick handling, others simply skating to loosen up.
The new skates felt good and Don knew that it wouldn’t take him long to hit his stride. The ice was smooth and hard, equal to the best he had played on while playing junior.
A few minutes later, Lew skated onto the ice and blew his whistle. The players gathered around him waiting for instructions.
“Okay, we’ll begin by doing a few stops and starts to loosen up then we’ll do some shooting. Your shooting was pathetic the other night. You’ve got to shoot before you can score, you know. Shoot from the blue line to start and practice getting your shots away quickly. After that, we’ll have some scrimmage. Okay, let’s line up along the back red line.”
Don was breathing hard after the stops and starts and leaned against the boards to catch his breath. Lew skated up to him.
“You’d better take it easy, Don,” he said. “You’ve been off your skates for a while. No use you having sore muscles.”
During his minor hockey days, Don had developed an excellent slap shot. When it came time for shooting practice, this became evident. Although none of the other players would have deigned to admire it openly, all eyes were on him when he took his shots. He didn’t disappoint them. A few curious fans who had heard that Don might be playing, sat in the stands. Their exclamations punctuated his every shot.
Lew blew his whistle. “Let’s have some scrimmage,” he said. He passed out some white T shirts. “First line against the second. Don, you play on the second line in Harrison’s place. He’s not here tonight.”
The other two members of the second line, Ole Johannson and Ev Timichuck skated up to Don. “You want to take centre?” Johannson asked. “That’s where Harrison plays.”
Don nodded and skated to his position. The puck was dropped. Don looked across from him to see Garry Ackerman get the draw. He dropped the puck back to his defenseman and swung back into his own zone to wind up. Don moved forward just as Ackerman picked up the puck inside his own blue line. Ac
kerman saw him coming and tried to swerve, but Don poke-checked the puck away, picked it up and moved toward the goalie. There was only one defenseman to beat. He faked a pass, put the puck between the defenseman’s skates and broke in on the goalie all alone. The goalie went down. Don fired the puck up high over his shoulder and into the corner of the net.
Lew blew his whistle and skated toward Don. “Nice move,” he said. “Ackerman, pass the puck out of your own zone, don’t try to stickhandle it out. And Jake, you went down too quickly. Wait until he makes his move before you make yours, or he’s going to beat you every time.”
Don skated back to his position for the face off.
“Lucky goal, hot shot,” Ackerman said, glaring at him. “Next time keep your head up. It won’t be so easy.”
Ole Johannson got the puck this time and dropped it back to his defenseman, Benny Jukes. Jukes passed it over to the other defenseman, Larry Domico.
Don began to break up centre then swung toward the right wing to shake his check. Domico saw him and put the puck on his stick. Don crossed the blue line, pivoted and passed the puck to Johannson at centre. Just as he let the puck go, he saw Ackerman out of the corner of his eye and managed to swerve just enough to avoid his body check. Ackerman swore and circled back. Johannson got a good shot away, but it was blocked by the goalkeeper and cleared behind the net where the defenseman picked it up.
Don moved in to fore check. The defenseman, Buller, passed back behind the net to Arnie Lockhart, the other defenseman.
Suddenly, Don felt a sharp pain in his ribs and saw Ackerman skate past him. He had given Don a butt end so skillfully that no one had even noticed it. Don winced with the pain and chased his check. If Ackerman wanted to play dirty, he said to himself, he would oblige him. Dirty play wasn’t foreign to him; he had run into plenty of it while playing junior.
But he knew he couldn’t retaliate. He would just have to take it. Apparently, this was what Ackerman wanted — to get him mad, make him lose his cool. Well, he had done that often enough in the past. He was a little astonished at exercising such restraint, something he hadn’t been able to do while playing junior. He wondered briefly why he was able to hang onto to his temper now when he hadn’t been able to do it in the past. Was he growing up or was it just a temporary aberration?