Rockets Versus Gravity (5 page)

“You should put it right in that little prick's eye!” Dad yelped. “Fuckin' show 'im, that little panty-wearing rich boy. It's the Code, Aaron. You always gotta live by the Code.”

Keegan never drops the gloves, though. No matter what you say to him, no matter what you do, he always just smiles and skates away. One of his teammates usually charges in to do the fighting for him; they can't have the guy who scores ninety percent of their goals getting injured in a brawl.

In his own hockey-playing days, my dad was like Keegan Thrush in one way: he always skated away from the altercation with a smile on his face. But that was after leaving his opponent's body, and some of his blood, and often a few of his teeth, splattered and scattered on the ice. When Dad played for the Blue Flames, he was known as Pauly “The Pummeller” Springthorpe. He still holds the all-time record for penalty minutes in the Wheatfield League.

One of the managers at the Krispy Green Pickle factory was a fan of “Old Time Hockey,” and he had the entire library of
Don Cherry's Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Hockey
videos at home to prove it; so when Dad hung up his skates after going undrafted in his final Junior year, he was invited to go to work on the jar-filling line at Krispy Green.

During the scheduled breaks at the factory, Dad had a habit of leaving his position on the line for a half-hour or more to smoke his hand-rolled cigarettes, or sometimes to have a snort or two from the mickey of Scotch he kept inside the pocket of his coveralls. The problem was, the scheduled breaks were only supposed to last for fifteen minutes, and the rest of the guys on the line had to wait (and do nothing and therefore make the factory no money) whenever my dad was late returning.

When the afternoon-shift foreman called Dad out in front of the other guys, Dad transformed once again into the Pummeller. He left the old man lying on the concrete factory floor with a broken nose, a row of smashed teeth, lacerations on his face where his glasses had shattered, and three cracked ribs. (“That last part wasn't my fault!” Dad pleaded in court. “He hit the conveyor-belt motor on the way down!”)

While he was on the ice, wearing his Faireville Blue Flames jersey, Dad would have served five minutes in the penalty box for fighting, or, if he really beat the crap out of a guy, maybe an extra ten and a game misconduct. For the incident on the factory floor, while wearing his factory-issued coveralls, he was punished with a minimum sentence of five years in prison for aggravated assault.

After he served his time, nobody offered to give Dad his job back at the factory, and he hasn't had one since.

Anyway, thanks to my dad's reputation, I'm usually obliged once a game to go out and fight the goon from the other team, who is usually an alternate fourth-line forward or a bench-warming defenceman. I usually win; Dad taught me a few things about fighting over the years, whether he meant to or not.

You know that Johnny Cash song, the one where he says he had to get tough or die? Sometimes Wheelie Koontz plays that one when a penalty is called for fighting, and I feel like Johnny Cash is talking right to me as I skate over to the Sin Bin to spend five minutes (or less if the other team scores on the resulting power play, which they usually do).

I'm not just a goon, though. I hate being called that. I'll beat the shit out of you if you call me a goon. (That was a joke.) Considering the team I'm playing for, I'm actually a competent two-way defenceman, with a good plus-minus rating and a pretty hard shot from the point; I once scored from just inside the red line on Gasberg's starting goalie, who is already being scouted for the NHL.

My dad, on the other hand,
was
a goon. I'm not sure he ever scored a goal. If he did, nobody has ever mentioned it. They only ever talk about the fights.

M
y defence partner is Desi Desmond. Desi just barely made the team as a
stay-at
-home defenceman, but then again, pretty much all of us “just barely made the team.” The talent pool is pretty shallow around here these days.

Desi is determined and unflappable, but he certainly isn't bursting with talent. While Keegan Thrush scores goals by impressively deking around opposing players with his nimble skating and skillful stickhandling, Desi gets the occasional point by taking hits in the corners and crashing the net. But mostly he blocks shots. He's got permanent welts all over his body to prove it. He's certainly prevented more goals against the Blue Flames this season than our goalie has.

Desi lives on East Derrick Street, the same as me. I'm on the west end, though, in one of the new rent-controlled buildings that the locals call “Cardboard Acres,” while Desi lives on the east end, in one of the bow-roofed shacks near the railroad tracks. Yes, there is physically a “wrong side of the tracks” in Faireville.

The more
well-to
-do citizens of Faireville point to East Derrick whenever they want to scare their kids away from drugs and alcohol. Jokes are also made about inbreeding, especially at Desi's expense, since he isn't exactly a pretty-boy, with his tiny, close-set eyes; his wide, flat nose; and his crooked, yellow teeth.

Nobody in the arena is cheering for Desi Desmond. Or for me. Or for any other player on the roster for the Faireville Blue Flames. Not today.

And so it remains until now, the last minute of the final period of the game.

Keegan Thrush has already broken his own record for points scored by a single player in a Wheatfield League regular season hockey game, and somebody has probably already run across the street to the Faireville Pro Shop to get the trophy engraved.

Keegan scored three goals in the first seven minutes of the first period, and, to celebrate the hat trick, toques and baseball caps rained down on the ice like a primary-coloured hailstorm. It took the ref almost ten minutes to toss all of the headwear back over the glass.

Now we're in the last minute of the game, and Keegan's scored ten goals and added two assists; yes, a player on the Gasberg Pipefitters
not
named Keegan Thrush managed to get two pucks past our flustered goaltender at the beginning of the third period — goals that Keegan set up, of course, and only after he had scored ten himself.

The puck drops, and the game is on.

0:57

Keegan's already set a new league record for
points
, but still he presses forward. He wants to score that eleventh
goal
.

He skates through all of our defending forwards as if they're standing still, because compared to Keegan, they pretty much are. Keegan fires another
hundred-mile
-
an
-hour shot at our goaltender, but Desi Desmond leaps in front of it, blocking the shot with his chest.

0:49

My dad knows that he is not the most popular guy in town these days, and he usually tries to keep a low profile, but now he leaps to his feet and starts chanting, “Desi! Desi! Desi!” Desi Desmond's parents and sister, who are seated nearby, join the chant. But their small voices are drowned out by the roar of the mob, who respond by thundering, “KEEGAN! KEEGAN! KEEGAN!”

0:40

As the scoreboard clock continues counting down, Keegan picks up the rebound from Desi's chest and fires the puck at the top corner of the net, which he knows to be one of our goalie's (many) weak spots.

But a winded, panting Desi Desmond scrambles up onto his skates, leaps in the air, and punches at the flying puck with the knuckles of his battered glove, redirecting the puck just over the crossbar.

My dad jumps up and down, slapping his palms against the glass, screaming, “Desi! Desi! Desi!” But, against the volume of Keegan Thrush's fans, he might as well be mouthing the words.

“KEEGAN! KEEGAN! KEEGAN!”

0:33

Keegan flies around behind the net to regain possession of the puck, but Desi meets him halfway and sends him flying with a perfectly placed hip check. Even over the frenzied roar that rattles the glass around the ice, you can hear the thump of their bodies colliding.

A few old timers who love physical hockey join in with Dad and Desi's family, barking, “Desi! Desi! Desi!” You can hear their voices now, faintly through the din.

Ramsay Thrush is watching the game from behind the glass where the Zamboni enters and exits the rink, away from the rest of the crowd. Am I imagining things, or did I just see the ref glance over at him and nod slightly?

The ref blows the whistle, and the clock stops.

0:22

“Penalty!” the ref cries. “Number twenty-seven, Desmond, two minutes for roughing!”

“Are you fucking KIDDING me?” my father shrieks. “Pretty Boy had the puck! That was a totally legal check!”

A few of the old timers nod along with my dad's assessment, but as Desi limps across the ice to the penalty box, shaking his head at the injustice of it all, the rest of the masses scream in delight. Their hero's team is about to get a power play! Keegan's eleventh goal is virtually guaranteed.

“KEEGAN! KEEGAN! KEEGAN!”

Keegan Thrush skates over to take the faceoff. He glances up at the clock: twenty-two seconds. The ref drops the puck, and Keegan wins the faceoff. He immediately takes his stick in both hands and slams our player in the chest, knocking him down to get him out of the way.

0:18

As our player falls to the ice, clutching his chest, gasping for breath, the arena continues to thunder with the mantra of the masses: “KEEGAN! KEEGAN! KEEGAN!”

My dad's protest cuts through the roar like a slender blade. “No call? NO FREAKIN' CALL? That's CROSS-CHECKING! Come ON!”

0:11

Keegan stickhandles through the three Blue Flames players jittering back and forth between him and the net.

0:08

He winds up and fires.

I jab out my stick, deflect the puck wide.

With his cheetah-like speed, Keegan Thrush has chased down the puck before I've even regained balance on my skates. Before our goalie even has time to reposition himself, Keegan spins and fires again.

0:04

The puck flies too close for me to do anything else, so I leap at it headfirst to block or deflect it. It cracks against my helmet, flies straight up in the air.

Keegan Thrush swats at the airborne puck, and the heel of his stick connects. The puck spirals through the air, arcs downward behind our goalie's shoulder, and wobbles on the ice just behind the goal line.

The adrenalized masses go insane.

“KEEGAN! KEEGAN! KEEGAN!”

“HIGH-STICKING!” my dad screams. “DISALLOW THE GOAL! DISALLOW THE GOAL!”

I know one thing with absolute certainty: the ref will not disallow that goal.

0:00

As the buzzer sounds to end the game, Keegan Thrush swings his stick in the air like a battleaxe and chops me in the back, right between the shoulder blades.

The cheering continues.

“KEEGAN! KEEGAN! KEEGAN!”

I'm on my knees on the ice. I try to catch my breath. I try to shake off the ringing in my ears. I try to will my vision to clear.

I've got to get up and make him pay for that. It's the Code.

My dad is trying to climb the glass to get at Keegan himself, but a bunch of other burly men are tugging him back down again. “DIRTY LITTLE FUCKER!” Dad hollers at Keegan. “DIRTY LITTLE FUCKER!”

“Come on, Pauly!” someone admonishes my dad. “Watch your language! There's kids here!”

By the time I'm able to rise up on my wobbly legs, Keegan Thrush is surrounded by the rest of the Gasberg Pipefitters, who are hugging and high-fiving him. The ref is over there, too, waiting for his turn to bestow accolades on the hero of the day.

Keegan's admiring teammates usher him toward their dressing room door, where Ramsay Thrush probably has chilled champagne and caviar waiting for them.

I'll never get to him now.

I'll never get to him, ever.

He will never have to pay.

I
'm the last player to leave the ice.

I glance over at the glass where the Zamboni comes in and out. Keegan's dad is no longer there. He's probably gone out to his Maserati to write a cheque for the ref. It's probably not the first time he's done that.

My dad is gone, too. He's probably been escorted from the building by the Faireville Town Police. It isn't the first time for that, either. Dad knows all of the town cops by their first names.

My dad will probably try to start a fight with Keegan's dad in the arena parking lot. Dad will want to knee Ramsay Thrush in the balls, punch him in the stomach, slam his face against the trunk of his Maserati, over and over again, until the car's gleaming royal blue paint is stained purple from fresh red blood.

If not the police, then some stalwart citizens of Faireville will prevent this from happening; Ramsay Thrush is an upstanding civic leader and an admirable philanthropist. Pauly “The Pummeler” Springthorpe is a drunken has-been and an unemployed loser.

Keegan's dad will get to drive his record-breaking superstar son home in his Maserati, while my dad will probably be driven to a holding cell in the back of a police cruiser. It's all pretty much inevitable.

Up in the DJ booth, Wheelie Koontz is playing a song with the lyrics, “The winner takes it all, the loser takes the fall.” Or something like that.

I sigh and skate toward the dressing room door.

I pull off my gloves and tuck them under my arm, then I pinch my “lucky” ring, and I twist it and twist it until it finally pulls free, taking bits of skin and blood with it. I drop the ring into the snow that's collected between the boards and the ice surface.

Maybe it will wind up inside the Zamboni. Maybe it will wind up embedded in the ice.

I don't care
, I tell myself.
I'm finished with this game.

But somewhere between the dressing room and the arena parking lot, I realize that none of this is the game's fault.