“I hope so.”
Mr. Walsh nodded. He was the sort of man who was accustomed to things working out. “Big game today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Finnie’s first start.”
“Sure is.”
“How do you think he’ll do?”
“Well…,” I paused, wondering if Mr. Walsh wanted to hear what I really thought. I decided to hedge my bet. “I think he’ll do OK as long as he keeps sharp with his glove.”
“Hmm. Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Thirty seconds into the game, Finnie let one in from outside the blue line. It was a high, rising shot that slipped over his glove into the net. Half of the people cheered, celebrating the goal, and the other half hung their heads in shame, feeling sorry for Finnie.
Fortunately, his team responded several minutes later, scoring on a play that was, given the ages of the players, an admirable combination of passing and skating. With the score tied, his team was back in the game and Finnie wasn’t about to make any more mistakes. For the rest of the period, he played brilliantly, stopping several shots that by all rights should have scored.
Every time Finnie made a good save, his father jumped to his feet. “That’s the way to do it, Finnie boy. That’s the way to do it!”
Even Finnie’s brothers seemed appreciative. Pat leapt out of his seat when Finnie managed to stop the puck from going in on a three-on-one rush that had given up several rebounds before Finnie smothered the play. As the game went on, his brothers tried less and less to hide the fact that they were enjoying themselves.
I was having mixed feelings about the game. I was completely impressed with Finnie’s performance; it was clear that he was a much better goaltender than I had thought and I was happy that he was finally the centre of attention, but I wasn’t impressed with the defencemen. Finnie was having to make saves he shouldn’t have had to make; I should have been there. On top of all that, I was bitten by the magic, that almost supernatural feeling that comes with being in the stands watching a game when you know you could be playing. It does strange things to your mind.
Finnie’s team won by a score of 6-1, a resounding victory. After the game, Finnie was showered with praise from his teammates and their parents as well as from his own family. He didn’t seem to be affected by it; his face was blank and he was little more than polite to his admirers. When I asked him what was wrong, he hesitated before answering quietly, “I shouldn’t have let in that first goal and you should have been out there.”
I didn’t know what to say. He was right, he shouldn’t have let in that first goal, but everyone, including me, thought that he’d more than made up for it by the way he’d played for the rest of the game. On the subject of whether or not I belonged on the ice, I was in complete agreement, but I didn’t want to belabour the point. “Next year,” I said. “Maybe I can play next year.”
“Next year isn’t good enough,” he said.
“There’s nothing we can do about it.”
Finnie smiled. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
When my mother became pregnant, for the third time, she was 41. That is not necessarily too old for a woman to have children, but in my mother’s case it was pushing the limits. By the time December rolled around, she was five months pregnant and she was having a difficult time coping. My father talked to Louise and me about this and we were instructed to give my mother a fair degree of latitude. Because of this, I was slower to suspect that something was wrong when I arrived home from school and discovered her seated on the kitchen counter, engaged in a heated debate with the blender.
“You think you know a lot about blending, with your fancy settings and whirring blades? Well, let me tell you, you don’t know nothing about it. Nothing!” she slurred.
I remembered my father’s warnings and silently went to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of juice.
“You drinking juice, Paul? I hope you’re not drinking that juice. That juice is for special occasions.”
“Oh. Sorry,” I said.
“I’m just pulling your leg, Paul-o. That’s just ordinary juice there. No such thing as special juice, Paul-o. No such thing.” My mother collapsed to the floor, laughing. “No such thing!”
I decided that this behaviour was more than likely outside the bounds of what my father had told me to expect, so I went out to the backyard to get him. I told him what was going on and he immediately rushed inside, arriving just in time to see my mother trying to beat the toaster to death.
“You’ll be toast, toaster,” she screamed, slamming it against the counter.
“What the hell are you doing, Mary?” my father yelled, grabbing at her with his missing arm.
“Something I should’ve done a long time ago,” she answered, resuming her assault. “I’m showing this damned toaster who’s the boss around here.” She threw the toaster onto the floor, where it shattered, sending pieces flying across the kitchen. “Who’s laughing now, huh?” my mother said as she fell to the floor, unconscious. We picked her up, piled into the car and drove to the hospital.
I was sure my mother was going to die and that Louise and I were going to be put into a foster home, since it was obvious to all of us that my father was not fit to raise two children on his own. I was understandably relieved when the doctor came out and told us that she was recovering. She had, it turned out, developed gestational diabetes. Her erratic behaviour was the result of her blood sugar being off-kilter. With insulin and closer medical supervision, she would be fine. The health of the baby was less certain, but all we could do was wait and see.
As if that weren’t trouble enough, Finnie began avoiding me. Whenever I asked him if he wanted to do something after school, he would get a peculiar look on his face and tell me he was busy. He was like that for most of the month of December and over the Christmas holidays I didn’t see him at all. I phoned his house several times, but Clarice informed me that young master Walsh was out and wasn’t expected back until much later.
I didn’t have a clue why Finnie would want to avoid me. He was the most loyal person I had ever known; I would have had to do something very, very bad to lose his friendship.
Without Finnie, I began to experience the same sense of isolation that plagued Louise. Unlike her, though, I was unprepared to sit quietly by myself, so I resorted to following my father around. I didn’t think he had noticed Finnie’s absence, but he had.
“Where’s Finnie these days?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think he wants to be friends with me anymore.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” my father said. “I have a feeling that boy’s up to something.” He reached into his pocket and handed me another rock. I spent the better part of the day trying to figure out what the rocks were for and couldn’t, but it did help me to forget about Finnie.
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 h
it 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 even
ly 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.
Second Period
In 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.
Finnie Walsh Page 6
