…
It wasn’t the same anymore after the trade. I had a home in Toronto and New York, but it never felt like I fit with the Kings. I was never much for scoring goals, but I’d get a few through the year—pucks bouncing in off my arse usually. But I think I only scored twice in my whole time with the Kings. I lost a step and wasn’t much use to the team and I was foul about it. It changed the way I played. I never went looking for a fight before then, it was always fighting with a purpose: keeping guys honest, shifting momentum, protecting guys, intimidating the other team, stuff like that. That was my job. But near the end there, I was just spoiling to go with anyone. I’d chase guys down, throw dirty elbows, and got a little more creative with my stick use, if you catch my meaning. I think, for the first time in my whole life, I was just another goon.
…
I dunno, maybe life outside hockey made it all worse than it was. Vivian never came to Los Angeles. I wrote her letters, told her about the beaches—she always liked the beach—but she just wanted to be rid of me. I did visit you both a few times, and even then she barely said two words to me.
…
Not sure I could ever explain myself properly. Truth is, you weren’t wrong when you said I was a cheat. I did it. I did it more than once. I’m not proud of it, but I suppose it is what it is. First time was in Toronto, when we weren’t getting on so well. Like I said, it took us a few years to find our legs together after we got married. And one night I was on the road and out with the boys and it happened. I was sick about it, I really was. But it’s funny, how once you get away with something, it’s just a little easier to do it again. I thought she didn’t know about all that stuff. Anyways, she was mad about having to go to California, told me I should just quit and we could stay put. Not sure what she thought we’d do for money, but she was deadly serious about it. We fought a bunch, about moving and everything really. Stupid things. Eventually we were having a row and she called me on my cheating and I was either too mad or too stupid to just apologize. I really thought she’d come west once she calmed down. But she never did come. She was a lot stronger than that. We left damn near everything we owned in New York. I tried to have it packed up and sent to her, but she wanted nothing to do with it or me. She even told me if I wanted out of being a dad, I could have that. She said she was ready to let me go and never ask for nothing. She said you were just a baby and wouldn’t remember me. I could’ve just got on with whatever life I wanted. What the hell kind of thing is that to say to someone? She should have come west. She might have liked it. The beaches were nice.
…
Next? I got hurt and I couldn’t play no more. Fucking Lars and his stupid goddamned visor.
…
By that season everyone was supposed to wear helmets, but they grandfathered us through, so most of us never bothered. It was pretty fucking stupid, come to think of it. Ice is hard as concrete, pucks are flying around, we have goddamned knives on our feet—the league is lucky nobody got killed. But visors, Jesus, visors are for pansies, and Lars was the original visor-wearing pansy.
…
When all those Russians and Swedes and whatevers started coming over, they didn’t play right, but Lars was something else altogether. We’d had pests in the league, but Lars was a rat like no other. He’d get you mad and you’d start making mistakes or taking penalties. Which was fine, it’s part of the game, but he wouldn’t stand up and fight for himself. He was a chickenshit. I fought a lot of guys, but none of it was personal. Hell, some of them were my friends. But Lars Nilsen…I hated him. Truly. Might be the only guy I ever really wanted to hurt. So that night he said something that rubbed me wrong and I got my hands on him.
…
It don’t matter what he said.
…
If you must know, he called your mother something I won’t bother repeating. He didn’t know nothing about her. Didn’t know if she was fat or thin or tall or short, and he sure as hell didn’t know she’d long left me. His English was shit, but the guys on his team had taught him a few things to say. That’s what made him so good at riling people, hurling out insults you could only half understand through that goofy fucking grin of his. Trust me, everyone wanted a crack at him, I was just the guy who caught him. Just lucky, I guess.
…
Nah, he messed up. We were in a scrum and he said what he said and did his little smile, but he was blocked in and couldn’t twirl and skate away like he normally did. I spun him and twisted up my left hand in the front of his jersey so he couldn’t go nowhere.
…
You’ve seen it? Like on TV or something?
…
Well, I don’t know about that stuff. And I’ve never watched it. I imagine it looked a lot worse than it was. Most of the blood was mine, ferfucksakes. I know I hurt him, but it wasn’t as bad as all that. I dunno. Truth is, I couldn’t feel my hand at all. That fucking visor of his. There was a clip on the side of his lid to hold the visor in place. Just a small piece of metal. Anyways, I must have caught it on the first couple punches, and it ripped a hole in my hand pretty good. Damn thing was numb, which was how I managed to keep throwing it. I must have hit him fifty times before they pulled me off.
…
They knew it was bad. They wrapped my hand up in towels and ice and took me to the hospital. I was still wearing most of my gear. When the doc took the towels off, I laughed at the look of it. Damn thing looked like a ham hock. I didn’t get scared until I heard the word surgery. And even then, I figured I’d sit out the rest of the year and heal up. Never even crossed my mind that that was it. It just didn’t really hurt all that much. Stitch it up, slap a cast on it, you know? I still can’t feel these here fingers or anything across the back, except the scar itches sometimes. I told a doc that once and he said it was probably in my head, like I’m some kind of nut job.
…
No, I never heard about Lars, but I never asked neither. That arsehole Swede took my career from me.
…
I don’t think I hurt him so bad. I hit a hundred guys as hard as I hit him. It just looked bad is all, because of the blood.
…
Well, shit. He had it coming.
…
I had three surgeries to try and fix my hand and none of them did a goddamn thing to make it better. My contract ended and no one else was interested in picking me up. Made sense, I couldn’t even hold a stick.
…
Honestly, I never made plans for after hockey. I guess it’s like what I said to Dad way back when he asked me what I’d do with myself: “I’ll sort it out when I have to sort it out.” Well, I found out pretty quick I wasn’t so good at sorting it out. I went back to Toronto because it seemed like the thing to do. I talked to the Leafs and the Marlies about maybe coming in to help out, coach or something, but no one seemed all that interested and nothing came of it.
…
I had a long career and made enough money that if I’d been smart with it, I’d have been fine. I met a guy—it was actually a friend of Pistol Mackie’s, who I’d been in touch with when I got back to Toronto. He washed out of the league after only a few years, but did alright for himself with his money. Anyways, he put me in touch with this buddy who presented me with an investment opportunity or some such horseshit. We were gonna sell cars. I didn’t know anything about cars or selling them, but he said I didn’t need to. They could use my name as a draw. Truth is, I still don’t even know what really happened. Something about the land deal for the lot falling through. What I do know is most of my money disappeared. I suppose I could have got a lawyer or something, but I was embarrassed and I was tired. I was near forty years old and for the first time in twenty years, I was ready to go home.
…
I was mostly welcomed back. We had a little shindig down at the curling club, and I was looking forward to doing… something. Never worked out what, I guess.
Heh, no, your mum wasn’t happy to see me at all. She was never one for hiding her feelings about something. Anyways, you know the rest.
…
I don’t know what I expected. I don’t think I expected anything. Maybe that was my problem, I was just waiting around for something to happen and not making anything happen. Well, something happened alright—Vivian died. We weren’t together, but it still broke my heart. It was like losing her twice. She died and then you left, seemed easier just to keep my head down after that.
…
I didn’t give up on nothing, I just wanted to be in the background for a while, or maybe forever. You may not approve of how I live my life, but it’s mine to do with as I please.
•
My father and I are starting to find our rhythm, but our pace is slower than I’d like.
“You sure you don’t want to keep going?” I ask.
“No, no. I’ve got things to do.”
We’re in the Zamboni room, sitting on milk crates. His joints creak as he gets to his feet. When we start these interviews, he seems enthusiastic to talk, but it takes a toll on him. By the end of each session, his pauses get longer and he goes missing inside his own thoughts. Digging through his past leaves him spent, and this session seemed particularly exhausting. I’d let him rest, but there’s something that’s been on my mind.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Jesus, isn’t that all you’ve been doing?”
“Separate from that. Tape’s off. It’s just…when was the last time you set foot outside this building?”
My father stands unnaturally still, his eyes fixed on mine.
“It was just a hunch,” I say. “I’ve been here nearly a week and you haven’t even mentioned leaving. It doesn’t seem like a great way to live.”
“You don’t get to decide how I live,” he snaps, startling me enough that I take a step back.
“Sorry, I was just worried.”
“So now you’re concerned about me? It doesn’t work that way. You can’t vanish and then show up to judge me.”
“I can’t ignore it, though, can I? Living like this will kill you.”
“I’ve managed just fine, thanks.”
“What, eating French fries and popcorn from the canteen? Jesus Christ, Dad, you haven’t managed at all. Your life is a wreck.”
My father picks up a bucket with some tools in it, tucking the handle into the crook of the elbow above his bad hand. He heads to the door, then suddenly turns and sticks his finger into my face.
“Fuck you, you little shit. You blow back into town acting like everyone owes you a favour, but nobody in this world owes anybody else. You judge me and how I live? What about you? Figure your own shit out before telling me how I’m supposed to be.”
He turns and storms out, leaving me alone with the Zamboni.
•
Instead of heading back to the motel, I march upstairs to the bar. I’m shaking with anger, not so much because of what Dad said, but because he was right. I’m not in any position to tell him how to live his life. He lives in the rink? Great. I don’t live anywhere.
I expect the bar to be quiet. Instead, I find J.J. Johnstone with five of his guys, Paulie’s dad among them, laughing it up in the corner. Mr. Coleman spots me and says something to the group I can’t make out. A few of them look in my direction, so I nod politely and start toward the bar. I’m halfway there when J.J. lets out a loud whistle and waves me over. I pause, trying to figure a way out of this and, coming up with nothing, walk toward their table.
J.J. reaches his hand up to shake mine as I approach, but doesn’t stand.
“A little birdie tells me you’re the Macallister boy. Please, grab a seat and join us.”
“Thanks, but I really just came in for a quick drink, then I’ve got to be somewhere,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the door.
“Oh, come on. We’ve gathered for one of our infamous bullshit sessions, and I hear you’re a sports man of some seriousness. Indulge us old fellas for a few minutes.” His face is bright red and when he smiles I notice his teeth are oddly small, with narrow gaps between each of them, like a picket fence.
The man sitting to my right stands and offers me his chair. Another fills a plastic glass from one of the pitchers of beer on the table and gives it to me.
I drink my beer quietly as J.J. and his buddies talk shit to each other about hockey and life. It’s not all that different from most of the conversations I’ve had with Dave and Paulie and the guys over the last week, and, frankly, for pretty much my entire life. They’re just men hanging out. Or at least that’s how it feels for about ten minutes or so, until someone mentions Bobby Monaghan, and then I realize everyone is looking at me.
“So, what do you think of Bobby Monaghan?” J.J. asks, fixing his beady eyes on me.
“He’s fine, I guess,” I respond.
“I just mean he’s on the cusp of breaking your papa’s record. My birdie also told me Sports Illustrated is having a Terry Punchout issue. It seemed strange to me, but I suppose it has to do with that.”
“Yeah,” I answer, though he doesn’t seem to really be asking.
“Seems odd to give more attention to the fellow losing his place in the history books than the one gaining it, wouldn’t you say?”
I don’t answer, and instead take a slow sip from my beer. I can see this is all very deliberate. It’s not that he thinks I’ll change my mind about writing the story. He just wants to get a rise out of me.
“No offence to you or your father, young man, but I think a man like Bobby is probably better suited for holding records. I mean, he’s certainly a better player. More well-rounded. He scored two goals just last night.”
“And had a fight,” one of the others pipes in.
“Yes, and a good tussle to boot,” J.J. says. “He’s certainly truculent, but also a real talent. A strong career, and he’s got a few more good years in him yet, I figure.”
“Sure, he’s great,” I say, then finish the last swallow from my glass. “I should really get going.”
“It’s a different game today, isn’t it?” J.J. says, ignoring my attempt to leave. “Old Punch sure could brawl, but he was never much of a player, you know?”
“He did alright,” I say. “Scored more goals than you or me.”
“He did. And he spent a lot of years reminding us of that while taking our charity. That must have been hard for him, though, coming home with his hat out. He was never the biggest fan of this place or the people here.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I say, standing up so I’m looking down at J.J.’s bulbous face. “But from what I hear, you don’t have a problem giving handouts to hockey players.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I’m feeling tough, like I could take on the lot of them if it comes to that.
“Yes, I did hear you. But I don’t think I appreciate the tone or whatever it is you think you’re implying.”
I shrug. “I’m not implying anything. Just making an observation.”
“What you should observe is the kind of man your father really is. I’ve known him his whole life, and he’s never been decent. I’d even say he was a bit of a bully.”
“Like that time he stuffed a dog turd in your mouth,” Mr. Coleman offers. J.J. blasts him with a ferocious glare and Paulie’s dad’s cheeks turn red.
“The point is,” J.J. says, “Terry is exactly where he belongs, cleaning ice and emptying trash cans. I don’t see how bringing up his glory days for a magazine does anyone, especially him, much good.”
“I don’t really see why it’s any of your fucking business,” I say. My father has just screamed in my face, basically telling me my life is as useless as his, and still I feel compelled to defend him.
“No need to get upset. I’m just offering you good advice: I
think it’s best to leave him be.”
I’m pissed off, but a picture is starting to become clear in my head. People have let my father be for a long time and it’s been an absolute disaster. Why doesn’t anybody—including him—realize that leaving him alone might be the problem? Sparring with J.J. might be cathartic, but ideas are forming in my head and I want to get to work.
“Thanks for the drink, guys,” I say, and leave before anyone can get another word in.
•
“Well, shit. He had it coming.”
Click. Rewind.
“Well, shit. He had it coming.”
Click. Rewind.
I’ve been listening to this bit of tape for over an hour. There’s something in my father’s voice, a sadness I’ve never heard before. It’s big and tangible. It’s also exactly the thing you zero in on when writing a profile about somebody. This is a hook that’ll help me humanize my father, giving readers something to connect to. This is first-year journalism stuff, sure, but it’s effective. It makes for a very specific kind of story, but it’s the kind of story that actually gets published all the time. It’s something I can work with.
“Well, shit. He had it coming.”
I pull out my laptop and peck at the keys with purpose. Two hours and thirty-five hundred words later, I’ve created a written sketch of a man beaten and broken by a lifetime of hockey, fighting, and poor choices. He’s lonely and vulnerable. He’s swimming in regret, and it could be that hockey—our national sport, so entwined with our sense of Canadian identity—is to blame. And it’s bullshit. I never lie and I quote my father accurately, but as a profile it still doesn’t resemble the man I’ve spent the last few days talking to. Not really. How could it? I’ve got maybe ninety minutes’ worth of tape from him and a loose idea about solitude triggered by my conversation with J.J. It’s hardly enough to understand, much less adequately convey, who Terry Punchout is. Still, it’s a good story. Very good, even. It’s my father with dramatic flourish, and that’s what writers do: we add flourish. With some polish and the help of a decent editor, it can be a great story. I’m sure of it.
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