Finnie Walsh (9 page)

I was allowed to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve as we said goodbye to 1981 and welcomed in 1982. Because my mother was pregnant and my father was not comfortable in social situations on account of his arm, the whole family was together for the end of the year. In past years Louise and I had been left at home with a babysitter while my parents had attended one of many neighbourhood parties.

That night as my father and I sat on the front steps, tightly bundled against the cold, we could hear laughter drift in from nearby cocktail parties. My father insisted upon being the first person to enter the house in the new year, so we were outside
waiting for midnight. He had a glass of Jamieson’s whiskey and I had a glass of milk that he had secretly augmented with a tiny, but palatably present, amount of Irish cream. My mother and Louise had decided to stay inside because it was deadly cold outside. We could see them through the window playing cards in the front room. My mother had a glass of orange juice and Louise had milk, which I doubted had been supplemented in any way.

We had just raised our glasses while my father was searching for something toast-worthy to say, when a snowball hit him squarely in the head. Miraculously, he managed to avoid spilling his whiskey as he dove for cover. A veteran of many snowball fights myself, I likewise sought protection, my eyes searching the dimly lit street for our attacker.

Although his aim was good, Mr. Palagopolis was not one for stealth. He stood on the sidewalk, shaking his fist and screaming. “Too far, Bob Woodward! You’ve gone too far!” He was once again missing his claw and was having considerable difficulty constructing another snowball to hurl at us.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Palagopolis?” my father shouted, keeping his head down.

“You know damn well what’s wrong. You got my claw again. Third one since September.”

“What’s he talking about?” my father asked as a snowball whizzed by his head. For a one-armed man, Mr. Palagopolis had fantastic aim.

“I think someone’s stolen his arm again.”

“I didn’t take your arm, Mr. Palagopolis.”

“Sure, that’s what you want me thinking. I know you’re the only other one who needs it. Got to be you.”

“But we’re missing opposite arms.”

Mr. Palagopolis had his arm cocked, ready to throw another
snowball. He paused for a moment, thinking, then lowered his arm. “We are?”

“Sure. Look, I’ve got my right arm and you’ve got your left. It wouldn’t even fit me.”

Mr. Palagopolis dropped the snowball and ran up the driveway to the steps. My father cringed, expecting to be hit again at close range. Instead, Mr. Palagopolis looked at his missing arm, confirmed what my father had told him, then slumped down on the steps. “I’m so sorry, Bob Woodward. It’s just that every time I get a new arm somebody takes it from me. It’s getting me mad.”

My father stood up and brushed himself off. The front door opened cautiously as Louise and my mother poked their heads out.

“Mary, would you please get Mr. Palagopolis here a glass of what I’m having?” my father asked. My mother nodded and disappeared into the house.

“It’s just that a man should have two arms, or at least one arm and one claw, and for some reason I can’t seem to manage either.”

“It’s not right, Mr. Palagopolis. We should both have two arms.”

“You can call me Pal, Bob Woodward. People call me Pal.”

“Sure, Pal. You can call me Bob.”

“I do, Bob Woodward.”

My mother returned with a glass of whiskey for Mr. Palagopolis. He took a big gulp and sighed. “I miss my arm, Bob Woodward. Been 30 years and I still miss her.”

“I miss my arm too.”

“Between the two of us, we have enough arms for one whole man.”

“You know, Pal, you’re right. That counts for something.”

“Bad thing we can’t loan them off.”

My father leaned his head to one side and a small smile upturned his lips. “Sure we can.”

“We can?”

“Sure. Stand up.”

Mr. Palagopolis stood up. My father stood behind him. He placed his arm where Mr. Palagopolis’ arm should have been, moving it as he thought appropriate.

“Jesus!”

“Sure! Just pretend that it’s your arm; have a good time. For the next little while, it
is
your arm.”

Mr. Palagopolis shifted his drink from his left hand to his right and took a sip. He adjusted his hat, reached into his pocket and removed a cigarette. He lit it and puffed contentedly, tapping the ash with the tip of his right index finger. As he took another sip of his whiskey, several tears ran into his bristly moustache. “Thank you, Bob Woodward. Let me be your arm now.”

I don’t know how long this went on. Because of the late hour and because of the liquor in my milk, I fell asleep right there on our front steps in the middle of winter, snug under the protection of two one-armed men. I suppose someone eventually took me inside, because the next thing I remember is waking up with a sore throat and a runny nose.

Whenever I was sick, I spent my time with Louise. If you needed to rest calmly but didn’t want to be bored, Louise was your girl. That day, though, she was nowhere to be found. I asked my father where she was; he didn’t know. I asked my mother and she told me that Louise had gone out early that morning with a friend.

Louise had never had a friend before. None of the girls in her class seemed to want to have much to do with her and Louise, generally speaking, didn’t like boys. I was intrigued.

Over the next week, the last week of winter vacation, Louise continued her disappearing act. When she did return she was tight-lipped about where she’d been.

My father started to spend a lot of time with Mr. Palagopolis, or Pal, as he insisted we call him. Besides their missing arms, they had other things in common. Pal also enjoyed
National Geographics
and he was easily my father’s equal when it came to eccentricity. Pal was in his late 50s though, and was prone to bronchitis, so they refrained from sitting on the back deck during the winter months. This was especially hard on my mother, who, while trying to rest, was repeatedly awakened by the two of them arguing about some minor point of starfish anatomy, the lactose content in cheese or whether volcanoes are more dangerous than earthquakes. My mother would ask them to keep their noise to a minimum and they would try their best, but sooner or later they would be yelling at the top of their lungs and my mother would have to ask them to settle down. Several times she even threatened to kick the two of them out of the house, but I don’t think she really meant it.

It was good to see my father enjoying himself again. After what he’d done to the garage, we had begun to think he was going a bit nuts. I’m not sure why we thought that hanging around with Pal precluded that possibility, but we did, so we were all a little happier.

I found their conversations fascinating if somewhat perplexing. Although I would rather have been out playing hockey with Finnie, listening to my father and Pal argue was a welcome alternative.

By mid-January of 1982, any remaining doubts regarding the greatness of Wayne Gretzky were cast aside. He had scored 50 goals in the first 39 games, shattering Maurice “the Rocket” Richard’s record. Gretzky would go on to score 92 goals and 120 assists that season, setting a record that many think will never be broken. Peter Stastny had 139 points that year, his second in the league. Gretzky and Stastny were playing the best hockey of their
careers, but both the Edmonton Oilers and the Quebec Nordiques were eventually eliminated in the playoffs.

I had been following the progress of both teams since the start of the season and in early January it still looked as though they would be contenders for the playoffs. Meanwhile, Finnie was still avoiding me.

Then, one afternoon in the second week of January, I was on the driveway practising my stickhandling when I turned around and saw Finnie.

“Come on,” he said, “I have something important to show you.”

He led me through the snow-covered streets toward the sawmill. I tried to get him to tell me what was up, but he wouldn’t even give me a hint. When we got to the sawmill and turned up the path, I knew where we were going. I was so surprised to see Louise at the reservoir that I didn’t notice what they had done. “What are
you
doing here?” I said testily.

She just smiled.

Then I saw it. The large cement slab was now coated by a sheet of ice. At the edges, boards stamped with the Walsh logo had been placed perpendicular to the ice. A net stood at either end. “Did you do this?” I asked Finnie.

“I
helped him,” Louise said.

Finnie shrugged. “You wanted to play on ice. Here’s the ice.”

Finnie had turned the pumping-station shack into a locker room. Before we could put on our equipment, we had to warm it over a large metal barrel filled with waste wood that Finnie had procured from the sawmill.

Because the water in the reservoir was insulated by earth and snow it didn’t freeze all the way down. We used a hand pump in the shack and connected it to a hose. Finnie was a dedicated ice maker. He used a lawn sprinkler to ensure that the water was evenly distributed across the ice’s surface. He moved
the water around with a giant squeegee and then meticulously rolled up the hose and drained the pump. He often reminded me that it was very important no water be left in either the hose or the pump because if they froze they would be ruined. We could get a new hose if we had to, but there would be no replacing the pump.

Finnie also made periodic inspections of the boards and nets, making repairs when necessary. My only job was to operate the hand pump. It was a tough job physically, but Finnie assured me that it would toughen me up. I did what he told me to do.

Occasionally, kids Finnie and I knew and trusted were invited up to the rink to play. Mostly they were players from Finnie’s team or friends from school. Once in a while we’d be joined by Jim Stockdale, Jordi Svenson or Bruce Selby. We hadn’t actually invited them, but we didn’t mind if they played. For the most part, we were left alone because of the remote location of the rink. We were never joined by any of Finnie’s brothers, which was just as well. I was allowed to develop my skating and shooting skills without having to watch out for Ahab.

Finnie spent an enormous amount of time playing hockey that winter. The rink stayed frozen until the end of March, the same month his league play ended.

I
n his first season, Finnie was easily his team’s most valuable player, posting many performances similar to the one I had first witnessed. For my part, I was steadily improving because of the ice time I managed to get on the reservoir rink. By the time the ice melted, I was a capable and confident player, sure of my abilities and gaining both speed and strength.

Things were hectic at home. Our family was in the midst of a full-scale recession; every penny was pinched and scrimped and saved. My father even cut down on his goldfish supply. He didn’t go cold turkey, but instead of buying 25 goldfish every month he bought only five. As it turned out, this was good for the goldfish too; because there were fewer of them, the oxygen supply lasted longer. However, because there were fewer dead goldfish as food for the survivors, my father was forced to start feeding them.

My mother didn’t have any more “spells;” she was very good about controlling her diet and taking her insulin so she managed to keep the diabetes in check for the rest of her pregnancy. That’s the way she was: steady, unflappable.

It was announced that Louise and I would have to share a bedroom to make room for the baby, a prospect that didn’t really appeal to either of us. Although I think that we got along fairly
well compared to other brothers and sisters our age, Louise was a private person and quite protective of her personal space. We both knew this and foresaw trouble.

Louise came up with a solution: she would move into the basement. At first my parents were against the plan, but they slowly came around. My father and Pal spent an afternoon building a makeshift room, a crude construction but, all things considered, a good little space. Louise wouldn’t have cared if it was a cardboard box; she was just happy to have her own place. She moved in as soon as it was finished and her old room was just as quickly filled with cribs and stuffed animals and other baby-related things. It seemed strange to me that something so small could require so much stuff.

While I was a little hesitant about the whole ordeal, Finnie was beside himself with anticipation. “Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?” he asked me.

“I don’t know.”

“I hope it’s a boy.”

“Why?”

“Because then we can show him all the stuff we know, without him having to figure it out for himself.”

“Oh.”

“And there will be no oaths.”

I saw where Finnie was coming from; he hated his brothers and was determined that this child would have the benefit of siblings less homicidal than his own. He liked my family precisely because, without trying, my parents had made Finnie feel like he was one of us.

“Of course, it’s fine if it’s a girl,” Finnie said, “it’ll just make things a little harder.”