“That’s American, shit for brains, it’s one hundred and twenty Canadian. Ha!”
“I don’t believe it, we have finally found a silver lining on that despicable cloud and all you can do is laugh?”
“We? Nobody cares but you, and you know why? ’Cause you got no life.”
Fred grabbed a puck from the bucket and winged it. Ryan had to duck or it would have hit him in the head. Ryan wristed a puck right back. It hissed past Fred’s chin, missing him by inches. “That was too close!”
“If I’d wanted it between your eyes, that’s where you would’ve got it.”
“Watch it, Mister Ball of Gloom, or I’ll roll you right into the ditch.”
“Oh, ya will, eh?” Ryan skated over and cross-checked Fred playfully but firmly across the chest. He raised his stick to do it again and out of nowhere Fred unleashed a savage left hook that landed squarely on Ryan’s jaw and knocked him to the ice.
Fred waited, fist clenched, tongue hanging over his bottom lip. Ryan stood up slowly, woozy. Blood dripped from his lip. His fingers probed inside his mouth to make sure all his teeth were still there. “You cunt.”
“Buh, buh, you started it.”
“You’re a gutless prick. I can’t hit you back.”
“Says who?”
“You think I wanna be known as the fucking asshole that hit the crippled guy?”
“You’re already known as the fucking asshole and don’t call me the crippled guy.”
Fred launched another left hook that caught Ryan below the eye. This time, Ryan didn’t go down. And this time, instinct took over. Ryan grabbed Fred and started punching him hard. Fred fought back as best he could, with one arm.
Fred’s lack of balance finally did him in and he dropped. Ryan fell on top, fists still swinging. As quickly as Ryan was on him he was off again, looking more scared than angry. “Jesus Christ, Freddy, what the fuck are you doing baiting me like that?”
Fred rolled over, blood trickling from his nose. He licked the blood. It tasted good. “That makes me so mad. If I had two fists I would have ground you into hamburger.”
Ryan grabbed Fred’s elbow and helped him up. Fred rubbed his jaw. “You must be lifting weights because you are strong as an ox.” Ryan started to skate off the ice. Fred blew his whistle loud and long. “Buh, buh, you could be even stronger and we’re not done until wind sprints are over.”
Ryan’s wind sprints were made all the more challenging because Fred would hang onto the back of his jersey. The extra weight made it really difficult to get started. Fred was trying to teach Ryan that of all the skating skills the first four steps were the most important. If Ryan could learn to accelerate faster, he would be untouchable.
Ryan pulled. Stopped. Pulled again. He looked miserable. But Fred was beaming. The fronts of both of their jerseys were stained with blood. The afternoon was crisp. The ice was firm. He’d had a hockey fight for the first time since his accident. And he had a game to go to that night. Life, on that afternoon, was giving Fred everything he ever wanted. He wasn’t about to let go of Ryan’s jersey and let him stop.
three
Jiri’s truck was fifteen minutes down the highway when Fred checked his pockets, panicked, and started pulling out pieces of paper and piling them on the back seat beside Kenton. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, Jiri did a U-turn further down the road.
“No worries, we have lots of time,” said Bridget.
“It is not fair at all,” exclaimed Fred. “You have never been to a hockey game and your husband scored two free tickets because he saved a cat that ate antifreeze and Papa Joe was as happy as a pig in the poop and Kenton couldn’t believe that he got Papa Joe’s ticket, yet here we are driving back instead of making our way to a magical night filled with golden memories.”
Jiri skidded to a stop behind Jack’s truck. Fred squeezed out and made his way to the house. He saw two teenagers skating on his rink and waved. They waved back.
Fred opened the door and found Pearl lying beside Jack’s dirty boots. Her excited face made Fred frown. He said, “Spoiled hound,” and limped up the steps into the kitchen. He found his tickets on the table and turned to go. Dink scrambled into the kitchen from the hall. And right behind Dink was a naked woman. She stopped when she saw Fred.
“Holy angel, Batman,” said Fred.
She wrapped one arm across her chest and the other down across her thighs. Fred was spellbound. Mrs. Feniak was horrified.
“Um, um, I thought I lost my tickets, buh, buh, guess what? They were right here where I left them.”
Mrs. Feniak nodded. She had two choices: stand her ground and hope like hell Fred left right away, or make a mad, embarrassed dash back to Jack’s bedroom. Her pride required that she forego the mad dash. “Enjoy the game,” she sputtered, her ivory skin turning a light crimson.
“Thanks.” Fred’s eyes roamed around the kitchen and swerved over Mrs. Feniak’s shadows and curves. Dink was oblivious. He was bent over, licking beneath his tail.
“Okay, bye.” Fred turned and started down the steps.
“Fred, I hope you can be a gentleman about this.”
Fred was thrilled that Mrs. Feniak had spoken. It meant he could turn around, respond and roam a little longer. “Okay, so I am not the type of fellow who hurts people with not-so-idle gossip. I don’t know who cares anyway because when two people are lonely and they get together then God smiles, buh, buh, Kenton already knows you are here because he saw your snowmobile out front, less obvious than the truck I suppose, and I am quick enough on the draw, bang, bang, to say you are playing cards with Papa Joe, buh, buh, I don’t think he will ask because he has his mind on hockey and soon I will forget what a beautiful body you have for an older lady and I will be thinking about hockey as well.”
Fred lumbered out the back door and pulled himself into Jiri’s truck. Kenton asked Fred what his mom was doing. Fred said she was running around the house naked. Kenton giggled. Bridget imitated the second half of Fred’s double-barrelled laugh, which she had mastered. Jiri smirked. And Fred gripped his hockey tickets tightly in his fist so he wouldn’t drop them.
Fred and Kenton moved slowly through the boisterous crowd of fans gathered at the south end of the parking lot. Jiri and Bridget trailed behind. The smell of beer hung heavy in the air. Small Canadian flags fluttered from the ends of ten-inch sticks. Many of the fans held up signs: Save Our Team. Save Our Game. There were other homemade signs, poorly punctuated, some with misspelled words, that condemned Andrew Madison to hell.
Fans milled around bumping into one another. A few spilled beer from plastic cups. Every so often a chant would go up: “Save our team, save our game.”
Fred spotted someone he thought he recognized and sneezed. “Hey, Miss Universe, you sure look good tonight.”
She held up a hand. Fred slapped it and inspected her clothes. He plucked a green thread from her collar. “Um, um, now you are perfect, okay, so I hardly recognized you in your high-class, goose-down jacket, buh, buh, please, please, tell me your name for old time’s sake.”
“Bendy Wendy, section 225.”
Fred gushed, “Tell the truth. What are we doing here?”
“Saving our team.”
“Sounds good, um, um, you smell like hot dogs and beer.”
Feedback from an amplifier brought everyone’s attention to a makeshift stage, which was actually the back of a pickup truck.
The first speaker introduced himself as the owner of the truck. He thanked a man named Ralph for letting them borrow his amplifier and microphone. He spoke for far too long about the great tradition of hockey in Canada and handed the microphone to the next speaker, who told everyone he owned a furniture store and had a March clearance sale starting on Monday. They could get an eighty-four-inch, solid wood, seven-piece dining room set with butterfly leaf for only $799 or twelve easy payments of $70.58. He pledged five hundred dollars to the purchase of the team.
Badger stood alone, lean
ing over a railing, overlooking the gathering. His hands were folded together as a cigar burned between his thumb and forefinger. This pre-game rally had been expected to draw thousands of fans. Instead, it had attracted a few hundred.
Normally Badger might have laughed arrogantly at the fans scurrying around, chanting their slogans, drinking their beer. But he’d been watching Fred Pickle intently as he clumsily but enthusiastically banged his way through the crowd. He had continued watching until Fred stood silently, listening to the speakers with a hopeful look that almost broke Badger’s heart.
Once the news of Madison’s intention to move the team had become public, Badger had been on the phone with Juliette. Something had to be done. To Andrew Madison. Juliette had told Badger she had spoken with the other three members scattered across Canada. The Flin Flon Five were ready to roll. All Badger had to do was give the word.
Madison represented everything Badger had spent his life fighting: greed, power, arrogance. He needed to be hit, and hit hard. Seeing Fred caused Badger to reconsider whether he should summon the gang for one last assault on the establishment. It wouldn’t save the team. Only one thing could do that. And Badger was mulling whether he was up to the challenge.
Down below, Wendy took Fred by the arm and pulled him toward the pickup truck. “C’mon, Fred, these guys suck.”
“I can’t talk. I don’t know what to say.”
Wendy pulled on Fred again. Fred looked as if he was going to be sick and turned to Kenton. Kenton shrugged. Bridget blew warm air into her cold hands and winked: “Go for it, Pickle, just be yourself.”
“Um, um, it is too high.” Two men hoisted Fred up. Three fans recognized him from their section and shouted his name. Fred blinked nervously and held the microphone like a suicidal man holding a knife to his throat in a standoff with the police. “Wowee.”
A few clapped. “C’mon, Fred!” yelled someone.
“Buh, buh, buh, buh, I don’t believe it.” Scattered cheers and a few laughs, one or two voices mimicking his stutter. “You are so smart it hurts.”
“Idiot!”
“Get him off a there!”
Fred looked helplessly at the strange faces. “Um, um, I didn’t ask to be here so try a little kindness and I thank you so much.” Fred lowered the microphone and bowed his head. And then he felt a strong hand squeeze his shoulder, “Don’t pay any attention to them.” Fred squealed with delight as Badger turned and faced the crowd. He’d come down from his perch ready to preach.
“I had better things to do tonight than talk to a bunch of drunken hockey fans.”
A few cheers. Scattered boos. “Give ’em hell, Badger!”
“You know, there’s rallies for things that actually matter. Like war and hunger and global warming. God knows I’ve fought those battles. Won some, lost most of them. What are you here for? A goddamn hockey team? Free beer?”
Cheers.
“I guess I’d like to know what it is we’re trying to save.” Near silence. Badger looked out at all the tuques and jackets and signs and moms and dads and banners.
“If you want to watch hockey, go watch the juniors or the midgets. They play for better reasons, anyway.” Applause. “And this isn’t really about jobs. All those ushers, they’ll get other work, with better wages and better uniforms.” Cheers. “And as far as having something to do with your time, read a book!” Boos.
“Rumour has it you want to buy a hockey team.” Cheers. “You don’t think you’re here for something else?” Murmurs. “You’re not sure.” More murmurs. “Well, I’ve got some good news. When you buy a professional sports team you don’t have to plunk down the whole wad. You pay a percentage.” Cheers. “Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?” Cheers.
“Oh, by the way, does anyone here have eighteen million dollars? Because that’s what fifteen percent of one hundred and twenty million comes to.” Mostly silence.
“Gosh, that’s a lot of money, isn’t it? Find a friend, hang on tight, it gets worse. Madison’s contract with the city guarantees that twenty percent—and you need to listen to this part very carefully—twenty percent of whatever you raise is non-refundable if you fail to meet the target.”
Badger lit a match and with a few puffs had his cigar tip burning bright. “What does that mean? Well, if you manage to raise eighteen million dollars it means nothing. You keep your team.” Cheers. “But if you raise, say, seventeen million and miss the deadline, which by the way used to be thirty days and now is twenty-four, then not only does Andrew Madison walk away with your team, he walks away with almost four million dollars of your money.”
Boos.
“He may be a greedy asshole but he didn’t get rich because he’s stupid.” Badger grimaced. “I’m sorry, there’s children out there. They’ve heard the word ‘greedy’ before haven’t they?”
Cheers.
“By putting this non-refundable condition in the contract he was hoping to scare investors off. Who wants to lose two hundred thousand dollars if you’ve put in a million? Who wants to lose twenty thousand if you’ve kicked in a hundred? If you own a furniture store, though, and all you kick in is five hundred dollars, then I hope you lose your hundred bucks.”
Howls.
“Are you ready now?” Cheers. “You didn’t come here to save your hockey team. You came here to save your country.”
Louder cheers.
“A lousy hockey team has brought us together in this cold parking lot to mark a turning point in our destiny. This is a great day to be alive. The country is watching.”
Badger looked upon the expectant faces. “What is the price of a nation’s soul? Is it one hundred million dollars? Is it five billion? Three trillion? Is everything for sale? The average twelve-year-old spends forty-eight hours a week watching commercials. Not TV shows. Commercials. That same child spends only an hour and a half talking to his or her parents or grandparents. What the hell has happened to us?”
Silence.
“There’s a crisis coming that causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. Corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money power of the country will endeavour to prolong its reign by working on the prejudices and ignorance and apathy of the people until all the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the country will be destroyed.”
Badger shook his head fiercely. “You think that’s me talking foolish? That’s a quote from Abraham Lincoln. In 1864. His fears about the good old U.S.A. have all come true. Let’s not make the same mistake here. This country is not a Wal-Mart franchise. This team will not be moved!”
Cheers.
“I stand before you like a fool, dragging out tired clichés to get you all fired up. But you need to go home tonight and wake up tomorrow morning with your own fire burning. You have to want this. You have to give your time, your sweat. Because I’m going to give whatever blood I can squeeze out of these old veins. I also pledge ten thousand dollars with a cheque that I will hand-deliver to the bank first thing tomorrow morning.”
More cheers.
“That’s my contribution? Where’s yours?” Someone handed Badger a plastic garbage can. Badger held it up in the air. “Let’s start right here. Right now.”
A man fumbled open his wallet and dropped some bills inside. Badger shook the garbage can and pumped his fist. “Enough is enough. Let’s beat this son of a bitch at his own game.” Wild cheers. People started coming forward, dropping bills into the can. Children dropped coins. Fred fished in his pockets and found only scribbled notes.
The crowd surged toward the truck. Andrew Madison saw everything from one of the outside runways of the arena. He didn’t have his jacket on and his tie flapped in the wind. He sized things up and walked briskly to a door. His loyal assistant held the door for him and he disappeared inside the arena.
Bridget had been chattering non-stop since they had left the arena. The seats that Jiri had were right at ice level. She couldn’t believe the amount of sn
ot and saliva that ended up smeared on the glass when a player’s face was checked into it. She was more impressed than ever that Fred used to play such a rough sport. Kenton snoozed in the back while Fred stared out the window at the passing lights of the farms.
Jiri noticed Fred’s bouncing leg, which had been bouncing since they left the arena. “Do you know that when President Kennedy goes to Berlin he was supposed to say he is a Berliner but he got the pronunciation wrong and said, ‘I am a jelly doughnut.’”
“I forgot what an idiot I made of myself on the back of the pickup truck, buh, buh, thanks for reminding me and please stop talking about doughnuts. You are making me hungry and I am trying to remember to go home tonight and wake up in the morning with my belly burning bright.”
four
The early days of March were busy ones for Jack—ordering his lambing supplies, preparing the lambing pens, giving his ewes their vaccinations and, this year, trying to make a dent in that mountain of firewood.
As for Fred, when he wasn’t reminding everyone to wake up with a hot stomach or pestering Jack to drive him around so he could collect money for the team, he was working Ryan.
Ryan’s skating had improved dramatically. Part of this was due to the healing of his ankle, but most of the credit had to go to Fred. Ryan would never have admitted it, but Fred had knowingly created something special—a tough, heat-seeking missile with soft hands.
Ryan was set to start practising again with his midget team. Fred seemed sad that his student was moving on. Even though Ryan had remained as arrogant and difficult as ever, Fred had loved the teaching. And the results.
Fred watched as Ryan wired a slapshot into the upper corner of the net. Ryan skated over and sprayed ice all over Fred’s legs. “Um, um, that wasn’t funny the first time and it’s not funny the seventy-fifth time.”
“Thanks for letting me use your rink.”
Ryan slapped Fred lightly on the face and off he went. Fred stood there a moment trying to figure out why he was so angry, and when he did, he blew his whistle.
The Horn of a Lamb Page 15
