by Dan Dowhal
The other incidents wriggle their way back into his mind. There was the time he climbed over the balcony railing of his 41st-floor condo in Manhattan and balanced there, holding on with only five fingers … then three … then just one. But you didn’t let go. You climbed back over. And that was during the divorce, when you were really hurting.
His traitorous memory moves on to the moment during his half season with Philadelphia when he learned that he had been traded again, the sixth time in nine years. Not even a heads-up swap for another player, but cast off for a fourth-round draft choice. On that occasion he had placed a hunting rifle under his chin and tested whether his arm was long enough to pull the trigger. (It was.) Even now he can distinctly feel the overwhelming bleakness of that moment, a heaviness pushing down on his chest that felt like it would never go away, as well as the tears he fought hard to contain because it was not manly to cry.
But you didn’t pull the trigger, Shane. You felt it, hard and cold, against your finger … all you had to do was squeeze, but you didn’t. And that coach had it in for you from the beginning. Getting traded was the best thing that could have happened. You went to a playoff contender. They wanted you. Remember that game-winner you scored at home in Game Three of the first round? Wasn’t that sweet?
It was sweet, but that was part of the problem. Those rare moments when he contributed to the team with more than his fists only made him feel worse when the glory faded into memory, and he went back to his designated role. Enforcer. Fighter. Goon!
“You’re what’s wrong with the game!” fans would shout, and pundits would agree from the pulpit of the television screen.
“It’s always been part of hockey … it’s what the fans want,” others would say, and so, for eighteen years Shane has had steady work.
“Get him, Shane! Beat the crap out of him!” the hometown fans would scream when he and his opponent dropped their gloves, knotted up each other’s jersey in one hand, and looked for an opening to deliver a lightning strike with the other. You’d circle around and around in that synchronized dance, the din from the cheering and jeering spectators overwhelming at times, the referees orbiting all the while, pretending they wanted to stop it, but purposely allowing it to continue.
Then there were the punches themselves. It was bad enough even when you won. The objective was to land one fully on the side of the head or in the face, but that was tricky; all too often you’d end up pounding your knuckles into a pulp on the side of someone’s helmet. As for the punches you were on the receiving end of, better not to dwell on those bone-crunching blows that tilted the universe, sent a ringing through your ears, and caused a multitude of tiny flares to dance before your eyes. Blood, almost certainly, or you hadn’t done your job, hadn’t put on enough of a show. Stitches and lost teeth, other times. Sometimes, when you came up against someone meaner or better and got your lights punched out, the headaches afterward lasted for weeks. Lately, it seemed like they never fully went away.
He knows he is blessed just to have made it into the NHL, let alone to have played for so many years. A million kids out there would kill for his spot. He appreciates this, and thus feels guilty for the hopelessness and self-loathing he has felt, especially in the latter days of his career, which he has increasingly tried to wash away with alcohol and drugs. But he has never been able to talk to anyone about it, not even his ex-wife, Veronica, during their best years. And there were some good years — great ones, actually — especially out in California, where the fans were more interested in baseball and basketball. People didn’t even recognize you, and nobody gave you a hard time, not even the media.
He and Veronica had even tried for a baby back then. Maybe things would have been different if they’d succeeded. But after the second miscarriage, she grew depressed, sometimes angry, blaming all the drugs in his system — the steroids, the painkillers — for the miscarriages. Hell, she didn’t even know about all the booze and weed and coke and pills he went through, especially on the road, although that was mostly just to fit in. Especially when he had to earn his place in so many new locker rooms over the years. Perhaps he’d started out partying for kicks and camaraderie, but lately it felt like he did it to stay numb, to keep himself from losing it.
He doesn’t blame Veronica for divorcing him. He made sure she was well taken care of, even when his lawyer and his agent complained he was bankrupting himself. Now he regrets not talking frankly to Veronica about the turmoil and confusion roiling within. Nor did he open up to any of the puck bunnies who came afterward, including Brandi, even after they’d shacked up together.
As these thoughts steamroll through Shane’s mind, something brushes up against his foot. This time it is definitely not his imagination, and he flings himself upright in a giant spasm, jerking his knees up so high he hits himself in the chin. Earlier, he told himself that if a rattler should appear, the best thing to do would be to hold still and avoid sudden movement, but this stratagem dissipates in the face of blind, panic-driven reflex.
It is not a snake that has disturbed him, however. With a flood of relief that makes him want to laugh, he sees a mouse scurry toward the corner and meld into the shadows. Although he can practically taste the adrenalin still, Shane flops back into a prone position and feels himself relax. You big pussy! It was only a mouse, he chides himself. It dawns on him that if he really wanted to kill himself, he should have been hoping for an escaped rattlesnake to actually bite him. Go stick your hand in one of those cages, if you’re so hell-bent on doing yourself in, Shane. Not an appealing idea, is it? He chooses to interpret his fear of the vipers as a will to survive.
From the corner the mouse disappeared into comes the loud snap of a mousetrap being sprung. When no follow-on squeaking or scraping ensues, he concludes that the spring-loaded bar has snapped the rodent’s neck cleanly. He finds it ironic and somewhat sad that the rodent managed to elude hundreds of hissing, hellish vipers only to perish in a mousetrap. But hey, that’s life. At least it died quickly.
Unfortunately, Shane cannot be quite so philosophical about his own recent misfortunes, especially not the incident that has ended his playing career and made him a pariah — and possibly a criminal. As has transpired every single night in the week since the tragedy took place in Chicago, Shane finds himself replaying and analyzing the fateful moment, freezing it in his mind, and viewing it from every conceivable angle.
It is not the final, fatal impact that troubles him most, although he knows he will never forget the sickening sight of Ken Linton’s head smashing against the ice. No, it is the before and after of the incident that haunts Shane. He clings to the belief he did not deliberately injure Linton, although at the professional level, the game can be lightning fast, and even a veteran like Shane can find it all a disorienting blur at times.
He clearly remembers that Linton had just passed off the puck and wasn’t looking where he was going — admiring his handiwork, cocky little bastard that he was. Whether or not Shane could have avoided the contact is moot. When it’s the playoffs and you get a chance to catch the other team’s top goal-scorer with his head down, you take it. What he did was completely within the rules of the game, and it was a clean hit, damn it — no dropped shoulder or raised elbow. Surely everyone could see that from the slow-motion replays that ran incessantly in the days afterward.
He believes Linton sensed the hit coming at the last second and started to try to dance around it, but it was too late. As a result, however, he was off balance when Shane’s bulk struck his slight frame. Both players were spun around violently by the force of the collision, and Linton’s helmet came flying off. It was a one-in-a-million occurrence. And then, in his mind, Shane sees it again, so vivid and real: himself fighting to stay on his feet, then rotating back just in time to see Linton’s skull smash against the ice.
It was an accident, pure and simple, so what transpired afterward is equally hard for Shane to relive. An uncanny hush fell over United Center as the medical st
aff converged on Linton, but as he was wheeled away, with the paramedics performing CPR, a sound started — soft and low at first, but growing into an ear-numbing clamour. Twenty thousand livid Blackhawks fans were booing and screaming curses at Shane.
The game officials conferred amongst themselves, and then the referee pointed at Shane and signalled a game misconduct penalty. Shane wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the crowd’s decibel level shot up even higher. You could barely think in such a din, let alone conduct a conversation. He had been on the ice the entire time, hovering anxiously nearby in the hope that Linton’s eyes would flick open. When Shane saw the referee’s gesture, he skated over immediately to protest the penalty. He knew the ref, Jack Olsen, fairly well, and had always considered him a fair dealer, so this was an outrage.
Olsen placed his hand on Shane’s arm and shouted in his ear, “Look, I know it’s not fair, but he’s hurt real bad, and the crowd is screaming for blood. I’m doing this for your own protection … to get you into the dressing room.” In hindsight, Shane should have simply gone quietly. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. No referee ever changed his mind after a call.
But his damned temper kicked in. He shook off Olsen’s hand and started berating him. All the other officials suddenly swarmed Shane — funny how they’re not equally feisty when it comes to breaking up fights between players. It was drilled into Shane from a very early age that it’s a grave sin to lay a hand on an on-ice official, so he actually gave up the argument the moment they converged on him. He was letting himself be towed toward the bench when one of the linesmen’s skates got tangled up with Shane’s, and they all went down in a heap. To the rest of the world it looked like he was resisting four officials and had to be wrestled to the ice. That clip also has been replayed constantly on television sets everywhere, second only in on-air popularity to the graphic image of Linton’s lethal blow.
The Blue Jackets lost the game in overtime, and Shane could only watch the outcome helplessly from the visitors’ dressing room. Afterward, not a single one of his teammates blamed him in any way. He had taken out their opponents’ top sniper and given them a chance to win. Several made a point of coming over to assure him that it had been a clean hit. Of course, that was while there was still hope of a recovery for Linton. He never regained consciousness. Some announcers speculated that he’d died upon impact. They didn’t release the news of his death until later.
Back in Columbus, his teammates closed ranks and helped him crash through the scrum of cameras and reporters at the airport. Ironically, his agent, Morrie Getz, was waiting to spirit him away in a cab. Ironic not because Brandi, his live-in lover and supposedly the one person in the world closest to him, hadn’t shown up (she was, he’d learn shortly, too busy changing the locks on the condo, emptying out the bank account, and maxing out their joint credit cards), but because Morrie no longer had any financial incentive to help his client, given that Shane was out of a job and blackballed from the league. But Morrie has always had a soft heart, as far as agents go, and Shane supposes those eighteen years together counted for something, even if he was only paid the league minimum wage for many of those years.
Morrie dropped him off with platitudes that things could be worse. Those words soon turned out to be prophetic. Shane remembers his burning outrage upon discovering he was locked out of the home he shared with Brandi and that he’d paid for. The concierge and the building security guys were sympathetic, but firm. The condo was legally in her name — just a tax move for Shane’s benefit, she had convinced him when arranging the purchase — and they had been specifically instructed that Shane no longer had access privileges. He recalls his volcanic eruption of rage in the condo’s lobby, culminating with the smashing of a glass coffee table, and knows he’s lucky that security didn’t call the police.
In the end, Shane waited outside the building until someone was leaving the underground parking lot. Sneaking in before the automatic door closed, he punctured the tires of Brandi’s BMW (also paid for by him) before riding off on the Ducati — the one remaining thing of worth that was truly his.
The rest is a hazy, vodka-soaked, cocaine-powdered half memory for Shane. He foraged as much cash as he could, climbed on his motorcycle, and rode west originally, toward Chicago, having some fuzzy notion of trying to explain himself to the media and fans there. But the idea made less sense the closer he got, and in central Illinois, he stumbled across signs for the legendary Route 66 and decided to follow it southwest. Not because the signs proclaimed Route 66 to be the “Mother Road” and the “Main Street of America,” but rather because Mario Lemieux, Shane’s biggest hockey hero, had worn number 66. They were comparable in physical size, though not scoring prowess. I followed Number 66 into the NHL, Shane reasoned. Let’s see where it takes me now.
Where it took him was Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, the top of Texas, and finally New Mexico. During the day, he’d drive as far as his hockey-ravaged body and the Ducati’s poor ergonomics allowed, before finding some cheap motel for the night and getting wasted. For company, he frequented roadhouses and dive saloons, conversing with anyone he met at the bar or behind it, but never divulging his true identity or occupation. His playoff beard helped disguise his now infamous face, and he wore sunglasses, even at night.
There was something appealing in the anonymity. It wasn’t just avoiding the frenzy over Linton’s death. People treated you differently when they found out you were a professional athlete — like a celebrity, or at least someone who should buy a round for the house. It was an eye-opener to see the world from the cheap seats, as just another Joe sitting on a barstool.
In New Mexico, Route 66 lost its appeal, or rather, the idea of ending up in California did. He decided to work his way down the back roads and eventually out of the country to Mexico, where his money would go further, and where no one had ever heard of Shane Bronkovsky. Or Kenny Linton. And so, that morning, after sleeping off his latest hangover, he checked out of a motel near Las Cruces and rode south. It was a beautiful day for it, sunny and warm, the highway practically deserted, with straightaways where he could really open up the Ducati …
And look where you ended up, Shane. Busted up. Robbed blind, left with just the clothes on your back. Sleeping on a dirt floor surrounded by poisonous snakes.
He lies there in the dark, listening to the wind flinging grit against the stable, while inside, serpents sporadically strum the wires of their cages, and he ponders his misfortune. He doubts that the universe singled him out for special punishment, reasoning that this is more like one of those occasional one-sided hockey games where every bounce and rebound and call by the referee went the other team’s way, and his side would get royally drubbed. “That’s all right, boys,” the coach would say then. “It was just one of those nights. We’ll get ’em next time.”
Yup, shit happens, Shane. What was it they used to say back home in Peel Crossing? Sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes the bear eats you.
Shane doesn’t know if there are any bears around this part of the States, but he supposes the locals have an equivalent aphorism. Given that Tammy seems to be fairly religious, he imagines her saying something like, “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.”
Tammy. His restless mind, having run itself out stampeding across space and time, comes to roost at Rancho Crótalo. Despite the boy Vern’s admonishment that men are not allowed inside the house — or perhaps because of it — his imagination takes him inside those tired, old walls. Although it would be impractical and highly improbable, he pictures himself and the ranch’s three women sleeping together in one bed.
He dismisses the thought that even a fully functional man would have trouble satisfying three women. In his case, on top of the headaches and dizziness plaguing him for the past few years, there have been persistent bouts of impotence. But, hell, it’s only a fantasy, so he pushes pragmatism aside, hoping to masturbate and ride the afterglow of orgasm into a deep sleep.
But it is fruitless. No amount of fantasizing or rubbing can induce an erection. Sighing, he rolls over and resigns himself to a night of masturbatory celibacy.
SEVEN
Morning squeezes through the seams of the barn board and prods Shane awake. Despite a sleepless night, he is actually feeling pretty good, given it is the first time in a week he hasn’t had a hangover. There’s an unexpected chill on his nose, and he would prefer to stay bundled in the bedroll, but the need to urinate asserts itself.
The wind has died, and the low-slung sun is proclaiming its presence. Shane empties his bladder and takes a minute to study the landscape. As barren and alien as the Chihuahuan Desert first appeared, and despite the bad things that happened here, he’s beginning to see that it possesses its own unique beauty. Different, certainly, than the in-your-face green upon green of the boreal forest where he grew up. No, this is more like the woods in winter, blanketed uniformly in white, but given infinite variety by the underlying topography. And there are mountains here, too, admittedly distant and hazy, but surrounding them on all four sides.
It’s been a while since Shane has been up this early, but he doubts he’s risen before the ranchers. He heads toward the ranch house in search of breakfast. The kitchen door is unlocked, a sign the women are up and about. He pushes through and finds himself in the middle of an argument, albeit a one-sided one.