“Searching for Terry Punchout does just what its title promises—packs a punch. Readers will be knocked out by Hellard’s dry and bittersweet humour as protagonist Adam attempts to navigate a return to the ‘charming’ small-town and father he bid adios to years ago. Hilarious and heartbreaking—an excellent debut novel.”
— Theanna Bischoff, author of Cleavage, Swallow, and Left
“It doesn’t take much to get me to read a novel featuring hockey and a guy named Terry, but Tyler Hellard’s stellar debut hit me like an errant stick to the head. A big story set in a small town, by turns funny and sad, moving and melancholy, Searching for Terry Punchout stays with you long after the final buzzer. Masterful.”
—Terry Fallis, two-time winner of the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour
“Funny, quirky, sad, and sweet. Searching for Terry Punchout is a story of friendship and family, of hockey heroes and small-town hangovers, of Zamboni lessons, and thrift store beauty queens. Highly recommended!”
— Will Ferguson, author of The Shoe on the Roof
“Tyler Hellard has created a thoughtful, warm-hearted, and deeply human sports tale, one that will resonate with any read`er who has wondered if you can ever really go home again. Searching For Terry Punchout is a vivid portrait of small town hockey life, of fathers and sons, of feeling left behind and leaving things behind, of clinging to glory and grasping for meaning. With this strong debut, Hellard makes sense of what home really means, and in doing so reveals how close we actually are to the people and places that can often feel so far away.”
— Stacey May Fowles, author of Baseball Life Advice
“Tyler Hellard’s Searching for Terry Punchout is utterly complete and heartbreakingly authentic. If all the rinks in small-town Canada and the game of hockey itself were to suddenly disappear from the earth, they could be reconstructed from the blueprint that is this excellent novel. And if you know the game at all at its grassroots, you’ll recognize characters from these pages and never look at them the same way again.”
— Gare Joyce, author of The Code, The Black Ace, and Every Spring a Parade
“Searching for Terry Punchout is a funny, profane, charming romp of a novel about hockey culture in small-town Canada, which would be enough to recommend it on its own. But it’s also an engaging and insightful look at the way men try and mostly fail to be honest and emotional in their relationships with other men, and that makes it a must-read.”
— Chris Turner, author of The Patch and The Geography of Hope
Invisible Publishing
Halifax & Picton
Text copyright © Tyler Hellard, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any method, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or, in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hellard, Tyler, 1978-, author
Searching for Terry Punchout / Tyler Hellard.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-988784-10-6 (softcover).– ISBN 978-1-988784-14-4 (EPUB)
I. Title.
PS8615.E4365S43 2018 C813’.6 C2018-904414-4
C2018-904415-2
Edited by Leigh Nash
Cover and interior design by Megan Fildes | Typeset in Laurentian
With thanks to type designer Rod McDonald
Printed and bound in Canada
Invisible Publishing | Halifax & Picton
www.invisiblepublishing.com
Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.
The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place,
He too is all qualities, he is action and power,
The flush of the known universe is in him,
Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and
defiance become him well,
The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost,
sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him,
The full-spread pride of man is calming and
excellent to the soul,
Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings
every thing to the test of himself,
Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and
the sail he strikes soundings at last only here,
(Where else does he strike soundings except here?)
— Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”
It’s always been a part of the game. The fans love fighting. The players don’t mind. The coaches like the fights. What’s the big deal?
— Don Cherry
CHAPTER ONE
This bed is my reward after three long days of driving. My body is stiff and aches with exhaustion. When I collapsed here, I was sure the bed would swallow me and I’d sleep for days, but the groaning springs, the mattress that smells of stale rust, and my own creeping anxiety won’t let me settle. If I’m being honest, it’s probably just the anxiety.
The Goode Night Inn sits on the edge of Pennington in northeastern Nova Scotia. It’s a motel for tourists: better people from better places who find musty mattresses quaint and charming. Every surface in the room is covered with lighthouses and mayflower patterns and decorative shells. There’s a coffee table made from an old lobster trap. Being here makes my chest tight, East Coast kitsch fuelling my panic.
I remember the people who own this place, or rather, I remember their son, Mark. Four years older than me, Mark Goode was leaving junior high as I arrived, and it was the same in high school. Talented, handsome, and popular, Mark never seemed like a real person. He was a Class President 1992 photo in our high school’s front hall and a name filling trophies in the glass case at the rink. Mark was captain of the Pennington Royals back when I believed playing for the Royals was all anyone could hope to achieve in life. Where had Mark Goode ended up? Wherever he is, I’m sure he has success and money and a pretty wife with whom he’s made a dozen pretty babies. How could someone like him not?
The motel ceiling is dirty, but even the dirt feels quaint. I can’t say for sure how long I’ve been staring at it. This is not where I belong. In fact, cutting out war zones and leper colonies and the really cold parts of Manitoba, this is the last place in the world I want to be. Pennington is a rot. It’s a stink that sticks to you like smoke from a campfire. It’s a glue trap; to escape means chewing off your own limbs.
I might be exaggerating, but only a little. I’m in the throes of an existential crisis, which can bring on certain failures of perspective.
“How long will you be staying with us?” Mrs. Goode asked me from behind the counter in the motel office when I checked in.
“I don’t know. A week?” Would I really be here for a week? Maybe more. Probably more. Indefinitely? Fuck.
Mrs. Goode raised her eyebrows when she read the name on my credit card, then furrowed them as she tried to solve the puzzle of my family tree. Lineage matters around here. She knew my stock was Macallister, though not which sort of Macallister.
“You’re Vivian’s boy.”
Rats. Besides my father’s name, I also have my mother’s eyes.
“Yes.”
“Your mother and I used to run around
together,” Mrs. Goode said, holding her hands over her heart. “She was a lovely woman.”
I pulled my lips back in a way that wasn’t wholly a smile, head down, eyes up, like a four-year-old who’s shit his pants and isn’t sure if he’s in trouble or not. Mrs. Goode, showing incredible kindness, let me off easy by handing over my room key without more discussion.
Pennington is a small town the way all towns in Nova Scotia are small. In the summer, it smells like salt, and in the winter it snows that wet, heavy Maritime snow—heart-attack snow, they call it. Everybody knows of everybody else and their business. The same guy has been mayor for thirty years and will be until he doesn’t want it or, more likely, he drops dead, at which time his son will probably take over. It’s a town that thrives on routine and expectation and neighbourly kindness. There are hundreds of towns just like this—Pennington, Pugwash, Tatamagouche, Antigonish, Pictou. The specifics don’t matter.
I need a drink. Maybe two. The Goode Night Inn doesn’t keep a stocked mini-bar. It feels late—in a Nova Scotia November, the sun sets shortly after lunch and doesn’t come up again until May—but my watch says it’s not quite nine o’clock. Actually, it says it’s not quite six o’clock because I haven’t spun it forward from Calgary time yet. I definitely need a drink. Probably two. It’s the only thing that will keep me from getting back into my truck and driving three more days to, well, anywhere else. I have nowhere to be, but I also can’t sit here anymore marinating in my own overwrought tension.
I dial the number to Sunshine Cabs from memory, surprising myself after all these years. Sunshine is two cars driven in shifts by a handful of guys, one of whom arrives in front of the motel in an old Monte Carlo about five minutes after I call. The cab’s interior reeks, a combination of the cigarette the driver is smoking now and the two hundred thousand that came before it. There’s no meter, Sunshine Cabs use a flat fee: five dollars inside town limits, seven to the rural roads.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
“A bar,” I say. “Pat’s Pub, I guess.”
He looks at me through the rear-view mirror. “Pub closes at nine on Wednesdays.”
Shit. “Are there any bars open?”
He considers my question for a second. “I s’pose J.J.’s will do ya.”
I’ve never heard of it, so it must have opened in the last ten years. “Sure, take me there.”
He pulls out of the lot of the Goode Night Inn and, four and a half minutes later, into the lot of the Pennington Recreation Centre. The rec centre, as its name hints, isn’t a bar. I spent a lot of time here as a kid and, from the outside, the building doesn’t seem to have changed at all. I make no effort to either pay or get out of the cab, and the driver eventually turns in his seat to look at me. Time and experience and smoke have weathered his face. I can tell this is a man who knows things—life lessons learned first-hand through circumstance and questionable decisions. I am in need of sage words of comfort and direction. He takes a long pull on his cigarette, the cherry glowing in dark silence.
“Bar’s upstairs. Five bucks.”
As sage words go, they’re a bit lacking in comfort, but at least the direction is clear.
•
Built in the mid-1980s, the Pennington Rec Centre houses the local hockey rink, a small canteen, and eight lanes of five-pin bowling. The rink, Macallister Stadium, seats about four thousand, a little less than half the population of the entire town, and used to be filled for each of the twenty-eight home games the Pennington Royals play each season. The bowling alley, on the other hand, was used almost exclusively by Rotary Club members and kids’ birthday parties, and, truth be told, not even very many of those.
Since I was last here, the guts of the building have been renovated: the floor in the lobby upgraded from brown tile to blue tile, the old trophy case replaced with a newer, bigger trophy case. The box office—a small booth in the middle of the room—is dark and empty. About ten feet behind it, the double doors that lead into the rink are closed, though I can hear the echo of pucks banging off boards from inside, likely from a practising team or beer-league game, at this time of night. The biggest wall in the lobby has an old mural of hockey players—kids and seniors, some wearing old brown gear, others with more modern stuff. I think it’s supposed to represent hockey through the years or community spirit or whatever, but the guy who painted it was bad at faces so all the adults look like sad tropical birds, the kids like deranged cherubs. The only goalie in the image, standing to the far side of the wall, has had half his body covered with a large vinyl sign. Blocky red letters spell out “J.J.’s Sports Bar” and “Five Dollar Jugs Before Every Home Game.” There’s an arrow pointing to a dark staircase tucked around the corner.
Up the stairs and through a door, I find the bar. The space used to be a Legion-sponsored room where veterans could smoke cigars and watch hockey through a bank of windows looking out onto the ice, above the scoreboard at the visitors’ end. Add a bar, some tables and chairs, stick a pool table in the corner, and presto—a perfectly acceptable drinking establishment is born.
It isn’t busy in here. There’s just me, the bartender, two old guys watching sports highlights on the TV behind the bar, and a guy in a Leafs toque shooting pool by himself.
I want to order a gin and tonic, but I’m worried I’ll be judged. This is rum country. Rye for special occasions. I ask for a rum and Coke and let the bartender know to keep them coming, which is unnecessary; drinking with purpose is the Pennington default. The old men, one hidden behind a bushy beard, the other behind a swollen red nose, look me over with mild curiosity. I offer a stiff, deliberate nod. They aren’t impressed and turn their attention back to the TV. Fair enough. I am, if nothing else, unimpressive.
During the first drink, the glass shakes in my hand.
During the second, I’m able to relax my neck and shoulders, tense from driving and stress and twenty-eight years of bad posture.
During the third drink, I take stock of my situation. Everything I own is wedged into the back of my 1993 Dodge Ramcharger sitting outside the Goode Night Inn. I haven’t showered in three days because I’ve been driving and sleeping in the truck. My brown hair is dark with grease and pressed flat under a frayed Flames ball cap. I haven’t changed my clothes since leaving Calgary because, with a stunning lack of foresight, I buried them in a suitcase under a large flat-screen TV, a pretty decent stereo, one box of books, two boxes of CDs, and two miscellaneous boxes marked “STUFF,” and couldn’t be bothered to dig them out along the way. Now I’m drinking in Pennington, Nova Scotia, the place I was raised and the place I left without fanfare as soon as I could. My bank account is worth about $300 and my credit card, now being charged $49 a night by the Goode family, has limited runway. I think that’s about it.
During the fourth drink, I wallow in a deep and profound melancholy, questioning every choice I’ve ever made and throwing blame anywhere I think it might stick.
On the fifth drink, I am recognized.
“Macallister?”
Shit.
“Hey, Macallister!”
Turning on my stool, I meet the eyes that belong to the head that belongs to the pool-playing Leafs toque. Paulie Coleman. He’s older and quite a bit heavier, but it’s definitely him.
“Paul. Paulie. Hi,” I say, without smiling.
“Hey, man. Wow. Adam fucking Macallister. Long time,” he says with enough smile for both of us.
I haven’t thought about Paulie in a decade, but suddenly remember everything about him. Nice guy, kind of dim, enthusiastic without discrimination. He has apple cheeks and everything he says is too loud by half. When we played peewee hockey, he took a wild swing at a flying puck and clipped a kid on the other team. The kid went down like, well, like someone had just tried to decapitate him with a hockey stick. Paulie got suspended for six games, though if you asked him, it was a bullshit call. “I was going for the puck,” he’d
cried. “How is that against the rules?” He didn’t make a lot of time for nuance.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I say.
“Yeah, man, like forever.” He rubs his forehead with his wrist, pushing his toque askew. “So, what have you been up to?”
It’s a vague and open-ended question, considering he hasn’t seen me in ten years. If anyone else had asked it, I’d assume they were making polite conversation. But Paulie oozes earnestness. He’s genuinely curious and, for reasons that have more to do with the rum than a burning desire to play catch-up, we grab some stools overlooking the ice and we talk. We talk and we drink. We drink a lot, actually, and the more I drink, the more I offer details of my life—a careful selection of the places I’ve been and things I’ve done that might impress a guy like Paulie. I dial everything up about thirty percent because why the hell not, and when I get to the part about being a sports reporter in Calgary, I build myself up like I’m the second coming of Ring Lardner.
“And you’re just here for a visit?” he asks, nonplussed by everything I’ve just said.
“I guess I’m sort of working. I’m only here for a week, but it’s not a vacation or anything.” This is sort of true.
“Oh yeah? What do you mean?” he asks.
“It’s just this thing I’m writing about my dad.” Not strictly untrue. “It’s a feature for Sports Illustrated.” Now I’m mostly lying. “You know, the way he played hockey and how people remember him, but really it’s about how hockey’s violent culture fits into today’s society.” I made that part up just now. “And it’s about redemption.” Oh god, stop talking already.
“What about you,” I ask, trying to shift the onus onto him. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh, you know, nothing really,” he says, scratching the inside of his ear with his pinky finger. “Just caught in the comfort zone. I do some roadwork in the summer, get my pogey in the winter. Live lean when it runs out.” He’s still living with his parents, a fact he offers without excuse or embarrassment. It’s the simple truth of Paulie.
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