Finnie Walsh (2 page)

“It sounds worse than somebody getting
disembowelled,”
Finnie said.

I didn’t know what that might sound like, but I imagined it was pretty bad.

There is a difference between someone who plays goal and a goalie; Finnie Walsh was a goalie. He believed it was his mission, his duty, to keep pucks out of nets and, in the larger scheme of things, to keep tennis balls from hitting sleeping mill workers’ garage doors.

Finnie was my only friend who had real goalie pads. Three days after my father’s accident, Mr. Walsh took Finnie and me to the sporting goods store. It was a Sunday, but Mr. Walsh owned the store and could go there whenever he wanted. He told Finnie that he could have any pads he wanted. We looked at menacing black pads, gleaming white pads and lush sable ones, but Finnie was unimpressed. He went to the back of the store and out of the second-hand bin, picked out the most beat-up, world-weary set of dirt-brown pads I had ever seen.

“Why the hell do you want those?” Mr. Walsh asked.

“They have
history.”

I thought that their history, whatever it may have been, did not look very encouraging. “They have holes,” I said.

“Holes can be patched,” Finnie said and smiled. And so the pads were his. He rummaged through the second-hand bin some more until he found a helmet, pants, a blocker and a chest protector. There were no catching gloves in the bin so he was forced to accept a brand new catcher from his father. It looked out of place, this shiny black glove, next to his beat-up pads and blocker, but it was still by far the best set of goalie equipment owned by any kid around.

Mr. Walsh made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. “Tell you what, Paul. You’re gonna need yourself a new stick, if you’re gonna get anything by Finnie when he’s wearing
that
getup.”

Looking at Finnie, who had by then donned all of his gear, I was forced to agree with Mr. Walsh. Goalie equipment wasn’t as big back then as it is now and though Finnie may have been big for his age, no seven year old is that big. He was so weighted down he could hardly move, but behind his mask he was grinning. He looked huge.

Mr. Walsh was an understanding man, even if he was a little gruff. That was probably one of the few times I ever saw Finnie
genuinely appreciate anything his father tried to do for him.

“Thanks, Dad,” Finnie said, stumbling across the sporting goods store and hugging his father as best he could.

There was an old reservoir, no longer in use, a 15-minute uphill hike from the Walsh sawmill. There had once been a road leading up there, but since the city had stopped using it the road had been reclaimed by the surrounding forest. Few people ever made the trek, partly because of the lack of a road, but mostly because there was no real reason to go there in the first place.

The reservoir was basically a large hole covered by a flat concrete lid. Beside the reservoir was a decrepit shack that had once been a pumping station. There was also a large pile of gravel, its purpose unknown. Other than that, there was nothing but forest and the faint smell of sawdust coming from the direction of the sawmill.

After leaving the sporting goods store, Mr. Walsh gave me and Finnie a ride to the sawmill and we hiked up the trail that led to the reservoir. Finnie had been wearing his goalie equipment since we left the store, even though it was difficult for him to move and he’d had a lot of trouble getting in and out of the car, let alone up the hill. I had suggested that he carry the equipment in the bag Mr. Walsh had given him, but Finnie had refused.

When we arrived, he stood in the middle of the reservoir and looked around. “What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Our
practice facility
.”

“It’s pretty far to walk just to play hockey,” I said, knowing full well that Finnie would walk to the moon before he’d play on my driveway again.

“That’s okay. It’ll toughen us up.”

I, unlike Finnie, was not particularly interested in being toughened up, but it was a good spot. The concrete surface was smooth and flat and there were no garage doors or sleeping fathers around. Eventually we got a net, but that first time we used a couple of beer bottles for posts. I took shots on Finnie and almost always scored. He wasn’t bothered by this; he knew he would get better.

“I was really close that time,” he would say. “I think I’d get that shot next time.”

We played until it was dark, until we could play not a second longer. Finnie was exhausted by his own gear and I was tired of chasing after my shots when they went by him. We were both still reeling from the events of the past few days.

We got back to the sawmill just as the night shift was arriving for work. I saw the startled looks on the faces of the men who had worked with my father; if they hadn’t thought it strange that Finnie and I were friends before the accident, they certainly did now. Finnie pretended not to notice and so did I. Mr. Walsh had left for the day, so we had to walk back to town. It wasn’t far, but we were tired so we stopped at the school to rest. We were sitting on the swings, not swinging, when our teacher’s daughter, Joyce Sweeney, emerged from the bushes behind the playing field. Frank Hawthorne followed her a moment later. Frank was 12 and in grade five, having failed several times. Neither of them saw us. He was certainly not someone Mrs. Sweeney would have chosen to be behind the bushes with her daughter. Everyone, including Finnie and I, thought they knew what went on in those bushes. “That’s where people go to do
that”
is what Finnie had told me.

After Joyce and Frank awkwardly parted ways, she walked across the field toward the playground. There she stumbled across two seven year olds, one of whom was wearing goalie equipment.

“Oh!” she said, frightened by our not-at-all-sudden presence.
She smoothed her dress, which was not rumpled. “What are you two doing here?” she asked us.

“Nothing. What’re you doing?” Finnie asked.

She could see what we thought she had been doing. We were wrong, of course, but we didn’t know that then. “Not what you think.”

“What was Frank Hawthorne doing?”

“How should I know? You should just mind your own business. Why are you wearing all that stuff anyway?”

Finnie had apparently forgotten he was still wearing his pads and suddenly became embarrassed. He didn’t answer.

Joyce sensed that she had beaten him and turned to me. She must have realized I was an unworthy adversary, however, because she only had kind words. “Sorry about what happened to your dad, Paul.”

I appreciated her sentiments, but didn’t know what to say. I smiled.

Joyce turned and walked away, then stopped and walked back. “Hey guys, don’t say anything to my mom about seeing me here,
OK
? I mean, I could get into a
lot
of trouble.”

“Sure,” I said.

“We won’t tell, Joyce. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks.” She could tell we were sincere. She didn’t know it was because we thought that, if we kept her secret, she might repay us with our own trip into the bushes. Both of us wanted to find out what “that” was all about, although had anyone asked us we would have denied it and said that girls were gross.

After she left, Finnie and I discussed Joyce Sweeney and “that.”

“My dad told Patrick that sex is the most overrated thing ever,” Finnie said. Patrick, the eldest of Finnie’s three older brothers, had just turned 16 and had recently achieved a certain level of
fame for his conduct during “career day.” When asked by his teacher what he wanted to be when he grew up, he had proudly announced his intention of becoming a porn star. “I’m going to hump my way to the top,” he’d told his dumbfounded teacher.

The incident had almost resulted in his expulsion from the Portsmouth Boys’ School. Had Mr. Walsh not been the school’s most financially generous alumnus, Patrick would almost certainly have been expelled. He’d simply been sent home for the day with a stern warning.

I’m sure Roger Walsh did not have a real problem with his son’s aspirations; he no doubt recalled having similar ambitions when he was Patrick’s age. He did try to discourage his son though, as he was positive his late wife would not have approved of Patrick’s career hopes. Besides, he wanted to shield his son from what was assured disappointment. The life of a porn star is not as glamorous as teenage boys think it is.

As far as I can remember, my father never mentioned whether sex was overrated or not. At least not in my presence. I doubt my mother would have appreciated such a comment. I was only seven, after all, and Louise was Louise. I’m sure it never even occurred to my parents that either of us might require their opinions on the subject. They were right, of course; it was a very long time before I ever got a chance to do “that,” and by then I had figured out what I needed to know and wouldn’t have wanted to talk to my parents about it anyway. That didn’t stop Finnie and me from speculating about the subject though.

“Joyce Sweeney is
hot,”
Finnie said.

I agreed with him. Joyce was definitely a girl to keep an eye on.

Before we could get into any detail regarding exactly why she was worth so much consideration, a car pulled into the school parking lot. It belonged to Mr. Walsh, but it was driven by Patrick Walsh, who had earned his driver’s licence only days before. He would
have had it a month earlier if he hadn’t been grounded for his infamous porn star remarks. Patrick got out of the car and ran toward us. Without saying anything, he tackled Finnie off the swing and started punching him. I was used to this; it was the standard treatment Finnie received from each of his brothers. Patrick was the least severe of the three. He was the largest and the strongest, undoubtedly, but he was secure in his position as top dog and only exercised his power when he thought it necessary. I watched as Patrick pounded his fists into Finnie’s padded chest. I didn’t want to involve myself in what I considered to be a family affair.

“Goalie pads? You think goalie pads are gonna help you?” he screamed, punching away.

“Fuck off, Pat,” Finnie yelled, his arms flailing blindly, hitting nothing but air.

“Who is your king? Who?”

“Fuck you!”

Patrick sat with his knees on Finnie’s elbows, pinning his arms. He held Finnie’s head still with one hand and extended his middle finger. Finnie struggled wildly, but Patrick was too strong. With his middle finger, Patrick tapped Finnie rapidly and steadily in the middle of his forehead. After several minutes of this, Finnie broke. He could take the punches, but he hated this particular brand of indignity. “You’re the king!” he cried.

“Who? Who is the king?”

“You are!”

“Say the oath!”

Finnie started to fight, but the tapping resumed and once again Finnie broke. “Long live King Patrick!”

This was not good enough. “The whole thing!”

“The king is dead. Long live King Patrick. God save the king!”

Patrick got up off a flustered Finnie, acting as if nothing had happened. He calmly lit a cigarette and took a tentative drag.
“Why the hell is he wearing all that stuff?” he asked me.

“We were playing hockey,” I answered.

“Dad’s pissed that you’re not home yet,” he said to Finnie. “He sent me to find you.”

“We were on our way home.”

“Whatever. Come on, get in the car. I got better things to do than chase you around.” He turned to me. “You want a ride?”

“No thanks.”

Finnie walked to the car. “See you tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.

I didn’t see him the next day, though. It was a Monday, but my mother let Louise and I stay home from school on account of the accident. I spent the day silently observing Louise’s kingdom and the steady stream of people who came and went, leaving food and cards and other gifts they thought were appropriate. Finnie did not come by, believing that he was not welcome.

We were not allowed to go see my father. It was not considered suitable for children to witness such things. I didn’t understand why, so I asked Louise what the big deal was.

“Mom says kids shouldn’t have to see stuff like that,” she said.