Amazons: An Intimate Memoir by the First Woman Ever to Play in the National Hockey League

by Cleo Birdwell

  But you know that for the next two and a half hours, all the laws of civilization will be suspended and you will be part of a little drama of aggression, retaliation, and death under the smoky lights.

  Your typical unique hockey night in Philadelphia.

  Within five minutes, it dawned on me that a large amount of this aggression was being directed my way, and furthermore that every time someone took a run at me, the crowd went into a feeding frenzy so violent and bloody-sounding and high-pitched that you’d have to play the tapes outside the hearing range of your children or they’d enter convents for life, and that includes the males.

  It’s not that I’d been treated so gently in other games. It’s just that somehow, by unspoken consent, it was now all right to try to maim and kill me. Who knows why? Those mysterious energies were in the air, and this was the night it became all right. It was like man discovering the laws of gravity or the secrets of the atom. A veil had been parted and the Spectrum crowd was looking into the clear, blue universe of a whole new idea.

  It is all right to maim and kill Cleo Birdwell.

  I’d bet anything there was no order given and no discussion among the Flyers beforehand. This was just the night. There are always players who will be on the receiving end. Great scorers whose play suffers when they are intimidated. Rubbery-faced little guys who were just born to get beat up. Pretty boys with long, blond hair. Why not the first woman in the NHL?

  In a way, you could call it a victory for the movement. While great minds theorized, however, I was being measured, labeled, and poleaxed, and the crowd was acting more mentally arrested with each passing moment, screaming made-up and never-before-heard obscenities, as though they were overwhelmed by a massive thyroid deficiency. J.P. caught the drift of things after a while and made the mistake of asking me if I wanted to come out. I’m a levelheaded person on the ice, but I do have a flash point and I almost reached it then and there. I gave him a look that nearly put him in traction.

  He backed down fast, and I took my next regular shift, but this time I didn’t have Fergie and Gord on my wings—clever skaters who knew how to blend with the environment when the going got extra rough. They were like chameleons. You could be looking right at them and not find them. They changed color. You couldn’t pick them out of the background.

  Anyway, Jeep put me on a line with Wayne Lassiter, a sleepy, apathetic, case-hardened, coldblooded, casual assassin, when he was in the mood, and mild-mannered but very huge Eric Torkle-son, of Torkle fame.

  The Flyers thought this was provocative, and it led to even harder checking, more elbowing, more slashing, the usual fights with hair-pulling, spitting, and making a tent out of someone’s jersey with his head inside it.

  I tried to see the humor in the situation.

  In the second period, it was supposed to all die down. That’s how these things work. You can’t maintain such a high level of dumb, brute havoc for more than one period. But this was Kill Cleo Birdwell Night, and therefore an exception. Even more resounding and wholehearted than the players’ discovery that it was all right to kill me was the crowd’s delight in watching it. It was not only all right to watch it, it was all right to want it, it was all right to call for it.

  Life can be beautiful when a whole bunch of people get together and agree that something that was not all right for three thousand years is suddenly all right. A veil has been parted. Men who wear lip gloss must know this feeling.

  But that’s all the wry philosophy you get out of me. What saved the night from total carnage was the fact that Jeep vaulted the Herculite panel once again, this time to battle a man who’d been shouting foul things about his wife and children.

  On the bench we were all in such a high state of combat-readiness that we followed him automatically, about four players getting over the barrier even before Jeep did, and the whole thing eventually settled down into a relatively harmless pushing and shoving match. The crowd got such a bang out of having all those Rangers amongst them that soon after we were back on the ice, they grew weary and glutted and oversatisfied.

  The game was played out routinely, and in the locker room afterward Murray Jay Siskind led the media out of their landing craft.

  “What was happening out there, Cleo?”

  “Good, clean body checks. You saw.”

  “This was special,” Murray said.

  “Happens every night all over the league.”

  “Bullshit, Cleo. That’s the crappy joke code you’re reciting. They were after you and they had no reason except one—the unavoidable and unalterable and age-old reason.”

  “That’s right, Murray, I’m having my period and the scent of blood got them all worked up.”

  Everybody laughed, haw haw haw, and I went off to my Siberian cubicle to screw my left arm back on and take a good, long look at my lower set of teeth. About ten minutes later, I was sitting there, utterly drained, bushed, and beat up, wearing nothing but one hockey sock and a towel draped fetchingly across my loins, when I realized someone was crouching in the very immediate vicinity.

  It is Murray Jay in his high-school toggle coat and 1957 desert boots, cradling the familiar eight-hundred-page manuscript.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here. You’ve earned a moment of privacy if anyone has.”

  I was too tired to raise my eyes any higher than his little Amish beard.

  “Should I leave?”

  “I don’t care, Murray.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be here. I’ll wait until you’re dressed. Maybe we can talk.”

  I tried to nod.

  “Did you see what they were doing?” he whispered.

  “I was in the building, Murray.”

  “They came from all over the ice.” His whispering grew fiercer. “Do you have any idea what was going on out there?”

  I looked up into his little circular glasses.

  “All right, I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “You’re half-undressed and you want to shower and you want some time to yourself.” He started whispering again. “But they didn’t care about the game. Major penalties, game misconducts, fines, suspensions. Meant nothing. They were intent on one thing only.”

  I tried to shrug.

  “All right, I’m going,” he said.

  He remained where he was, down on one knee in front of me, looking right into my nipples. One eye to each nipple. He looked like Ragnor the Sea Snail.

  “Cleo, there’s something I want you to know. I think you ought to know this about me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not afraid to be tender.”

  We locked eyes, sort of.

  “I used to be afraid to be tender. I thought it was something men weren’t supposed to do. I thought men were supposed to be strong, sort of laconic types. You can tell anything and everything to your best buddy, but never to a woman, even if you love her. We were lady-killers then. What was tenderness? What American male could be tender? Tender was calves’ liver. Tender was the center of a good, thick steak before going to a Knicks game with your best buddy. Tender was the night. But I’m over that now. I’m a man at last, which means I’m not afraid to cry. As a boy, I never cried. I was afraid to cry. Now I cry all the time. Cleo, I’m old enough and mature enough to know I can express gentle emotions without the childish fear that my masculinity is somehow threatened.”

  Behind his little owlish glasses, Murray had velvety eyes. They were heavy-lidded, dark, a little bit sneaky, I would say, with long, curly lashes. His lips were cracked and puffy. He had thick, black, tight, heavy hair.

  If there was such a thing as the Citizens’ Committee for the Color Brown, they could have used Murray in their commercials. His desert boots were buff, his corduroy trousers were dark brown, his toggle coat was tan, his sweater was beige, and his shirt was light brown checks alternating with dark brown checks.

  “I’d like to get my ass into the shower,” I said.

 
; “Oh, sure, listen, of course. I shouldn’t be here. I have no right being here. This is your space on the planet, as the kids used to say.”

  I tried to smile.

  He was still crouched there, almost in a pose, as if he were waiting for someone to come along, take off his clothes, fit him into a track suit, put a piece of wood under his foot, and fire a starter’s pistol into the air.

  “Any time you want to talk, Cleo, I’m available.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “I am permanently available,” he said.

  He looked into my eyes and began nodding, as if he’d just made a major decision. Nod, nod, nod, nod.

  “It’s good to be with you right here, right now,” he said. “These are the moments no one sees, even the people close to the club, the day-in, day-out people. The intimate, unguarded moments. I feel privileged, Cleo. These are the good moments, aren’t they, despite the hurt and the pain? You are fully aware of your body. The hurt will go. The hurt always goes. The important thing is that you fully inhabit your body. This is what makes athletes different. This is why athletes are so revered today, such heroes and paragons and champions. You inhabit your body and I don’t inhabit mine. The rest of us have no bodies. Isn’t that what the twentieth century is all about? People wandering around searching for their bodies. This moment is special, believe me. It is an existential moment, as the grown-ups used to say. You are inside yourself, and I am nowhere, I am wandering.”

  Nod, nod, nod, nod.

  “You have a place to be,” he said.

  I tried to nod back. I was too tired. Finally he stopped nodding, and stopped waiting for me to nod, and got up and went away. One of our stick boys, Mr. Chicken, who was about a hundred years old and had no real name that anyone knew of, yelled out, as best he was able, that my shower was ready. I managed to put my stooped body under the water for a few minutes. Then I put on my clothes, wondering when the hurt would go, and went to the hotel to get some sleep.

  First I called Shaver from deep under the covers.

  “Did you see the game?” I said.

  “I don’t watch hockey anymore. If I can’t play it, why should I watch it? I’m rereading The Immortal Peacock.”

  “Did you talk to our friend Dr. Glass?”

  “Why should I talk to Dr. Glass? I don’t have anything to say to him.”

  “He’s only trying to help, in his own way.”

  “I’ll talk to him in a few days.”

  “What did you do besides read?”

  “Cleaned the apartment,” he said. “That reminds me. Where’s the Lemon Pledge?”

  “In the cabinet under the sink.”

  “Last time it was in the bedroom closet. That’s where I looked. If we can be a little more consistent, it’ll be easier to keep the place clean. Where’s the Miracle White?”

  “What the heck is Miracle White?”

  “It gets out stains. For years I’ve been lugging around a shopping bag full of clothes with stains. Now that I finally have some free time to get out the stains, I can’t find the Miracle White.”

  “Look in the broom closet.”

  “Where’s the broom closet?”

  “Behind the kitchen door.”

  “Okay, thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “You know when I’m coming back. It’s a fifteen-day road trip. I’m coming back in fifteen days.”

  “I’m not feeling all too well,” he said.

  “Call Dr. Glass. In his own way, he’s a doctor. You’ll feel better, I’ll feel better, and he’ll feel better. I really wish you’d call him, Shaver.”

  “Where do you go next in case I have to reach you?”

  “You know where I go. I go to Boston.”

  “Where’s the Automatic Dishwasher All?”

  “Under the sink,” I said.

  “It’s not. I looked.”

  “Then we’re out.”

  “If we can make lists of stuff we’re out of, it would help whichever person was trying to get the place a little clean for a change.”

  I stuck my hand out from under the covers and put the phone back on the cradle. I was asleep in seconds.

  In the middle of the night, more or less, I opened my eyes and listened carefully. I lay absolutely still, and I was alert, I was wide awake.

  There was someone in the room.

  Slowly as possible, I eased up into a semisitting position. Without moving my head, I let my eyes sweep the room, again and again. Gradually they were getting accustomed to the dark. It was only after ten or twelve seconds of doing this that I realized I’d been wakened by a sound, and that the sound had come from the right, between the window and the suitcase stand.

  Do I turn on the lights? Do I jump out of bed? Do I start yelling? Do I grab something to defend myself with? What do I grab?

  I did nothing. Instinct told me to do nothing. It is clever that way. I just kept my eyes on that one same spot until finally the outline of a low, hulking shape became faintly, faintly visible.

  Then it spoke.

  “Please don’t be mad,” it said.

  I gazed into the shadows.

  “Who is that? What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t turn on the lights. No lights, Cleo. I want it to be dark.”

  It was the voice of color commentator Toby Scott.

  “I want a piece,” he said. “That’s the phrase, isn’t it? I want to tear off a piece.”

  “You’d better be talking about paper, Toby.”

  “I’m naked, Cleo.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “There’s a naked man in your room and he’s looking to knock off a piece.”

  “Toby, I’ll hit you so hard you won’t need a hand mirror to look up your own asshole.”

  We both paused to think that one over.

  “Well, I came down a whole long corridor naked and I’m not leaving until we do something.”

  “We’ll do something. We’ll pick up the phone and call security.”

  “I know you won’t do that,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re a Christian and I’m a Christian. We’re both Christians, Cleo.”

  I moved myself up to a full sitting position. Toby was still nothing more than a dim, crouching hulk.

  “How do you know what I am?” I said.

  “There were lots of Birdwells back home. All the Birdwells I’ve ever known have been real good Christians.”

  “Religion’s a little bit beside the point right now.”

  “Religion’s never beside the point. My life was a mess, Cleo. I was drinking, I was staying out, I had no purpose, no aim. Then I let Christ come into my life. Everything changed almost overnight. My life has a center, a focus. There’s a solid base of fellowship and love.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Toby, but what are you doing naked in some poor tired person’s room?”

  “I guess it’s the road, Cleo. You know what it does to people.”

  “We’ve been on the road one day. This is only Philadelphia.”

  “It’s Merle, too. I’ve been upset over Merle. You know how sick he’s been.”

  “What happened? My God. Did he die?”

  “He got better,” Toby said. “He’s coming back to work next week.”

  “I thought you two were friends. Why are you upset?”

  “I was doing play-by-play while Merle was in the hospital. Now I’ll have to go back to doing color. I’m no good at color. Color is hard. What is color, anyway? Besides, as soon as Merle gets back, he’ll start getting on me. He gets on me all the time. He says he’s trying to teach me the business, but he just likes getting on me. When there’s a time-out, I say. There’s a stoppage in play.’ That drives him crazy. ‘Why can’t you call it a time-out?’ he says. Merle’s a real good Christian, but he gets on m
e something fierce.”

  “Why can’t you call it a time-out?”

  “Because it’s television. In television, you say ‘stoppage in play.’ Merle started out in radio. He did his own color. He’s the kind of person who wakes up talking. I’m an ex-goaltender, Cleo. I spent the first twenty-eight years of my life standing in the crease waiting for the other team to carry the puck into my end. I never said anything. Goaltenders can barely speak. They ought to let us finish out our lives wearing plastic masks.”

  “Are you sitting, Toby?”

  “Crouching.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Squatting in the dark.”

  “Don’t you think it’s about time you went back to your room? We’ve had our little talk. You feel better, I feel better.”

  “How does it work?” he said. “Do you invite me into the bed or do I just get up and come over there and start doing things?”

  I couldn’t figure out how such a paunchy, ferret-eyed little person with a high-pitched, squealy voice could have raven-black hair. How many raven-haired men do you see? With hair that black and shiny, plus a cleft chin, which is pretty rare in and of itself, it was a shame that the rest of him was so awful. He was a one-man slum. He was one of those totally washed-up young men who ends his career in hockey, baseball or whatever and then just physically comes apart, overnight. His body was dog-eared. His eyes were little swively iron balls.

  Raven-haired Toby Scott.

  If you read that in a magazine, you’d think the person was some kind of dashing figure, a Grand Prix racer or millionaire playboy, maybe the heir to a fortune in soft plastics, who produces his own big-budget movie, which is shot in six or eight mouth-watering European locales and loses a lot of money but was just a lark anyway with an international cast flying in and out mainly for tax-shelter reasons and none of the stars worrying about damaged prestige because it’s the kind of movie that everyone knows in advance is going to be flashy, empty, and dead, and they know we know it, and it’s one of the little indulgences we allow each other, or a famous society yachtsman whose wife commits suicide.