Searching for Terry Punchout

by Tyler Hellard

  I don’t have a response for Carol calling me lonely. What can I say? She isn’t wrong—I am alone, after all. The point-form version of my life doesn’t include other people. I stare at the framed photographs sitting on the table next to me. Front and centre is a picture from Dave and Stephanie’s wedding. It’s cheesy and posed and they both look much closer to the people I remember than the people I’ve seen over these past few days. They look happy, like a couple of kids in love.

  “The wedding was really lovely,” Carol says, looking past me and to the photo. “It really was. We had a beautiful day. I’ll never understand how those two ended up treating each other the way they do.”

  “How do they treat each other?”

  “It’s not my place to say. You can ask David. Much as I’d love to have grandchildren, I thank the Lord those two haven’t had any kids. What a mess that would be.” Carol’s shoulders shrink as her eyes shift from the photo to her drink.

  “So how is Terry doing?” she finally says. “I don’t see much of him these days. I imagine puttering around his rink keeps him busy.” I’ve never heard anyone refer to the rink as being his before. I suppose, in a way, it is. His name is on the building and his sweat is in the ice.

  “He’s good,” I say. “You know, he’s Dad. Same as ever.”

  “I’m sure he is, but that isn’t necessarily good. Your father’s a strange bird. There’s a man who you think would be lonely to death, but he seems happy enough with it, I guess. It takes all kinds. Maybe you’re like him that way.”

  I wince at the suggestion, not just that I’m like my dad, but that I’m happy to be alone. I’ve been conditioned to know that that isn’t how people are supposed to be, so it’s insulting to be branded that way. It’s like being told I’m built wrong.

  “Your mother was a bit like that, too, come to think of it. She had you, but I really think she could take or leave the rest of us.”

  I have never thought of my mother as a lonely person, but I’m also not sure children consider their parents much of anything when they are young. Kids are inherently selfish. My mother died before I was old enough to form a real opinion of her. Looking back, maybe Carol is right. I certainly remember that my mother had time for me—she always had time for me. And I know she went to work and delivered meals to patients’ rooms in the hospital each day. But she also spent a lot of time sitting alone, either on our couch or out on the balcony, half reading a Harlequin romance, half staring out at the sky. I don’t really know if she ever went out of her way to spend time with other people. Again, I’m discovering that the specifics of my mother—the day-to-day minutiae of her life—are mostly gone from my memory.

  “Did she regret coming back here?” I ask. “I mean, did she regret moving back to Pennington after the divorce?” Part of me doesn’t really want to know. It’s tragic enough that she died so young, but to think that she didn’t enjoy her life before that is too sad to think about.

  “Of course not, love,” Carol reassures me. “This was her home.”

  •

  I was with the Leafs for ten years and the Marlies for three before that. Toronto became my home without me even really noticing it. I suppose I knew there was always a chance I could get shipped out of town, but after a while, you get comfortable. I didn’t think about it—none of us players really did—until it happened. Lots of guys had come and gone while I was there, but I didn’t think it’d be my turn until the day it was.

  …

  I wasn’t thrilled about it, but Vivian was mad at the team, at me, at the league. Hell, I think she was mad at hockey itself. Which was fair—she didn’t ask to be in Toronto, so once she found herself liking it, she was mad that someone else was telling her she had to leave.

  …

  Well, nobody likes being told what to do, do they? Ended up it didn’t matter. Sure, I missed the guys and the city. I even missed the uniform—Leafs always did have sharp sweaters—but we loved it in New York almost right away, both of us. It was a surprise, but there you go.

  …

  Playing with the Islanders isn’t like playing with the Rangers. We weren’t in New York proper, but out in Nassau. We got a real house with a yard and some space, but we were still close to the city, too. Best of both worlds, I guess. The team was only there because someone got it in his head to start another hockey league—they called it the World Hockey Association and set it up to compete with the NHL. It seemed like a fool idea to me, but they actually stole a few of the guys I was on the Leafs with—some guys were just unhappy, others got more money. I never had to choose between the NHL and the WHA because truth is, no one ever called and asked me to make the jump. The NHL got a bit nervous about the whole thing, though, which is why the Islanders even existed. The WHA wanted a team in New York, where the NHL already had the Rangers. Long Island was the logical spot, so the NHL put in the Islanders to block anyone else from moving in. But the folks who ran that Isles team were smart sons of bitches and put together a real good team real quick.

  …

  Well, it was different being an Islander than being a Leaf. I was older, for one. I don’t just mean I’d aged, but I was a little bit older than most of the other players. I’d been in the league longer and had experience. And that was one of the reasons they wanted me there—to show the young’uns the ropes. They was just kids, most of them, but we got on well and Viv made friends with some of the wives and neighbours.

  …

  It was a good little team. More than good, really, but the boys were still coming into their own. They liked the way I came and stuck up for them from day one. Made it easier for them to get around the ice, having me around, because everyone knew that if anyone took a cheap shot, they’d have me to answer to. We won a lot of games and they put together a helluva squad for those Cup runs. It was without question the best team I ever played with—one of the best teams anyone could ever play with. Mike Bossy scored near seventy goals! As a pup! They were all pups, Bobby and Clark and Dennis. But they could fly. I couldn’t keep up with any of them, not really, but I kept the other teams honest and that was good enough.

  …

  I’d say that first year in New York was the best year we had, your mum and I. It was easygoing, the hockey was good, we were as happy as we’d ever been. But then, near the end of it, we found out she was pregnant with you.

  …

  No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. It was just, after all the rigmarole with having babies we’d already been through, it seemed like we were headed to the same result and I didn’t want that for her again. It was hard on her and that was hard on me. Because it was such a surprise, it really filled your mother with hope, and I didn’t want to see her crushed. But it all went smooth, no problems at all. And she was good at it, good at being pregnant and then good at being a mother. She seemed to understand every goddamned peep you made. I was useless, but that didn’t seem to matter because she was such a natural. I’d forgotten how badly she wanted a baby, but once she had you it was clear she’d been ready for it for a long time. She was happier than I’d ever known her.

  …

  Well, we both were happy. Her with you and me with the team. The early years of the Islanders were a bridge between Lafleur and the Habs and Gretzky’s Oilers, but we were as good as both of them. Better even. We cleared a hundred points every year I was there, which was a helluva change after coming over from the Leafs. There isn’t much that feels as good as winning.

  …

  You know what happened. I got fucking traded again, to the Los Angeles Kings, of all the goddamned teams.

  …

  Definitely was a surprise. Mr. Torrey—he was the manager—had the decency to call me himself and let me know. He was the one who wanted to bring me in and he seemed sad to see me go, but we’d been bumped early in the playoffs twice and, coming down the stretch that third year, he wanted a guy who could move the puc
k a bit on the second line. He thought it was best for the team, and I suppose history proved him right.

  …

  I cried after that phone call and then I packed my bags to meet up with the Kings on the road in Montreal. We lost that night and again two days later in Pittsburgh. Eventually, we found our legs and limped into the playoffs. Of course it was the Isles there waiting for us. They had their way and my season was over. I got into a scrap with Bam Bam Langevin in the last game, but he was a friend and it wasn’t much of a fight. We were bounced, and the Islanders went on to win the Cup. Then the bastards won three more. By the time they got the last one, my hockey days were done.

  •

  I meet Jennifer at Louie’s Pizzeria, which is a Pennington institution. The pizza is crispy, extra-cheesy, heavy on garlic, and legitimately delicious. It’s one of the few things about Pennington I talked up to people after leaving, especially at university, where every discussion about food devolved into some version of “My town’s pizza joint is better than your town’s pizza joint.” Not that I ever brought any friends home from school to prove it.

  Jennifer looks fantastic in a tight blue sweater, jeans, and brown leather boots. She seems effortlessly put together. I know enough to know that isn’t true, that effortlessness is a trick of confidence and well-fitting clothes, but that doesn’t make it any less attractive. I finally dragged my suitcase from the back of the truck, with the help of an unsuspecting guest at the motel who had the misfortune of parking next to me, but even with access to my own clothes, I’m a slob. I’ve always justified my fashion sense as being above the superficiality of brand-name clothing and expensive haircuts, but now I wish I had at least one decent shirt to throw on. Something that stresses my best aesthetic qualities, whatever those might be. At least something with a collar on it. Instead I’m left with the Nordiques T-shirt I picked up at the mall and a navy cardigan. My hair, not used to performing tricks, refused to do anything even remotely presentable, leaving me no choice but to wear my ball cap.

  “So I feel like I should congratulate you on the whole mom thing, but I guess it’s old news now.” I immediately wish I’d said something about how great she looks instead.

  “I’m not sure getting pregnant in high school is something you congratulate someone for, but thanks.”

  “I just mean, you seem to have done alright.” I have no idea if she’s done alright. She could be a raging crack addict for all I know. “You’ve done alright, haven’t you?”

  “It’s been up and down, but we manage.”

  “So what happened to Phil?” I shouldn’t ask, but I want to know. “You don’t have to talk about it if it’s hard or whatever.”

  She laughs in a way that would make any sane, heterosexual man fall in love. It’s all teeth and neck and shoulders, but, you know, sexy. “It’s okay. I’ve had a long time to come to terms with the kind of guy Phil turned out to be.”

  Has anyone ever had to come to terms with the kind of guy I am? If so, what kind of guy did they decide I was?

  “He wasn’t ready,” she says. “I wasn’t ready either, but I didn’t have much of a choice. To his credit, he tried for a while. He’s in Vancouver now, I think. He sends some money now and then. It’s fine.”

  “Wow. Sorry. That sucks.”

  “I’m over it. I’ve had a lot of help from my parents. And Phil’s parents, too. I think it’s tougher on Elvis. How do you tell a kid that his dad isn’t around just because he’s shitty at being a dad?”

  “I have some experience with this,” I say. “I promise you that us kids with shitty dads grow into amazing, successful, well-adjusted adults.”

  She laughs again and I fall in love again. “Is that what you are?”

  “I definitely might be some of those things,” I say.

  I catch her up on my life: four years at St. Mary’s, another one at journalism school in Toronto, an exceedingly dull year interning in Saskatoon, followed by an even duller year and a half in Medicine Hat. Freelancing while bartending in Calgary before finally landing a full-time reporting job nearly two years ago. Is that really the entire decade? I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve delivered these bullet points lately, but every time I do it, it feels less substantial. It’s a resumé, not a life.

  “It’s like you’ve been running away really slowly,” she says, noting that each move took me farther from Pennington. “Actually, I should probably thank you. Your disappearing act distracted people from talking about me for a little while.”

  “People noticed I was gone?”

  “Sure. People notice everything around here. How do you do that, anyway?”

  “Do what?”

  “Disappear for ten years?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose if you’re properly motivated, you can do anything.”

  “Motivated to do what, though? Just run?”

  “Sort of. When Mom died, there was something in me that wanted to get out of here.”

  “I get that,” she says. “I mean, I don’t know what it was like for you, but I can see wanting to get away after something like that. I remember how sad it was—how sad we were for you.” It’s hard for me to imagine a whole town of people feeling bad for that younger version of me, but hearing her say so, I can’t help but feel guilty about the way I bailed.

  “That was part of it, but I was also very determined to go do… something. I hadn’t worked out what at the time. Actually, I’m still not sure I have.”

  “You wanted to go be successful so you could come back and rub it in,” she says.

  “Is there a way to say that that makes me sound like less of a prick?”

  “Okay, you wanted to prove something to people.”

  “No, prove it to myself! That sounds more noble.”

  “Okay, you wanted to prove something to yourself. Very noble. Did you do it?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Well, there’s always tomorrow.”

  The waiter—a ginger kid who looks about twelve—drops our pepperoni and mushroom at the table and we each grab a slice. The pizza is just like I remember, a perfect mix of greasy and cheesy, doughy and crunchy, messy and tasty.

  “So are you seeing someone?” Jennifer asks after finishing a slice. Is she asking because she’s interested or is this just making conversation?

  “I was. Sort of, I guess. What does ‘seeing someone’ mean, right?”

  “Did you spend time with them, possibly be intimate with them and do other things with them that you don’t do with the other people in your life?”

  “Yes,” I respond.

  “That’s seeing someone.”

  “I don’t like to label things,” I say. I don’t want to explain my relationship with Jana, deciding it probably won’t make me look very good.

  “Not putting a label on something doesn’t actually change what the thing is or isn’t.”

  “It was casual,” I say.

  “I only bring it up because you seem kind of lonely.”

  “You know, you’re the second person to say something like that to me today. Am I putting out some kind of vibe?”

  “It’s just, you don’t seem to have settled anywhere. A few years here, a few more there. I can’t even imagine a life like that. I’ve got Elvis and my parents and my brother and his kids. I couldn’t get away from people even if I wanted to. Your life sounds, I don’t know, solitary?”

  “Actually, I was going for a lone-wolf thing,” I joke, hoping to avoid any deeper examination.

  “Oh, well obviously that’s working for you,” she says.

  “It’s sexy, right?”

  “It’s something,” she says, and we both laugh.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “Seeing someone? Not very often. It gets tricky with Elvis.”

  Jennifer talks a lot about Elvis in that loving way good mothers do. She took clas
ses at the community college over in Pictou and is now the office manager at the county medical centre. She’s spent the last ten years raising a person and working hard to build a full life for the two of them. In the same period, I’ve been watching sports, writing paint-by-number articles no one reads, and avoiding anything more adult than paying rent. It’s not that I haven’t lived. I’ve been over most of the country, seen the Royal Ontario Museum, toured Parliament, and surfed in Tofino. I had friends in Calgary and my apartment wasn’t terrible. I’m an interesting guy (I hope) who has done interesting things (I think), but next to Jennifer—Jennifer who hasn’t really left Pennington—my life feels unambitious and small.

  As we get to the end of Jennifer’s second slice, my third, Stephanie Smith walks up to our table. She’s decked out in a stylish black top, leather jacket, and matching leather pants, and is on the arm of a guy I don’t recognize.

  “Hi, Jen,” Stephanie says, leaning in to deliver a quick kiss on Jennifer’s cheek.

  “Hi,” Jennifer replies, awkwardly accepting the kiss. “You remember Adam.”

  “Of course.” She flashes me the smile I wanted from her four days ago.

  “Actually, we bumped into each other the other day,” I say.

  “We did,” Stephanie says in a way that confirms that we did, in fact, bump into each other, while also questioning whether anyone has ever bumped into someone else in the entire history of the world.

  “Well, I’ll let you two eat. Just wanted to say hi.” And just like that, Stephanie goes, her unintroduced companion ignoring us as he lumbers by.

  “Was that weird? Is she just nuts?” I ask.

  “She’s,” Jennifer says, pausing, “Stephanie.”

  “And who’s the guy?”