Searching for Terry Punchout

by Tyler Hellard

  I can’t help but laugh a little, which causes the pain to break through the numbness of the pills. “He hits hard, Dad. He literally broke my head.”

  My father leans toward me, getting a close look at where my face is bruised and swollen. “You know, there’s a trick to it,” he says. “To getting punched, I mean. You need to sort of roll your head with the momentum.” He pushes his own fist into the side of his face and turns his head to demonstrate. “It’s like how boxers do. Hurts less because they don’t get you flush. That’s where that thing comes from.”

  “What thing?”

  “That thing people say. Roll with the punches.”

  “Right. You know, this would have been some great advice before I had the shit kicked out of me.”

  “Oh, for sure it would have. Kind of wish you’d asked, now that I’m lookin’ at the mess of you.”

  I close my eyes again, because what the fuck can I even say to that?

  •

  The next week is mostly just the two of us watching TV. Mac comes and goes and doesn’t seem fussed that we’ve taken over his basement. The guys come by and visit in various combinations, but the bulk of the time is just me, my father, whatever television show happens to be on, and a bunch of short, surreal conversations, initiated by him and seemingly at random.

  On Monday, while watching the Canadiens play the Flames: “I like this TV. What do they call it?”

  “It’s a plasma.”

  “Plasma,” he says, as though making a mental note. “Good for watching the games. You can really follow the puck.”

  On Tuesday, while watching an old war movie starring John Wayne: “Your mother and I never got divorced.”

  “What?”

  “Divorced. We were never divorced. I had thought you knew that until you said something the other day about it.”

  “I didn’t know. Why not? She hated you—I’m sorry, but she did.”

  “Nah. She was mad at me, alright. I deserved that. But I always thought with enough time she’d take me back. I think she thought that, too.”

  “So wait, you were still married when she died?”

  “We were.”

  And just like that, several things make perfect sense.

  “You picked the gravestone. That’s why it says ‘Loving wife’ on it.”

  “Of course. I was her husband and she did love me. Even if she hated me sometimes.”

  “And you made sure I got her money?”

  He screws up his face. “Your mother didn’t have any money. She was a lot of things, but good with a buck wasn’t one of them.”

  “Sure she did. I got like fifty grand when she died.”

  “Aye, that was from me—all I had left over. She made me promise to give it to you for school. Was her dying wish.”

  “It was your money.” I can’t quite believe it.

  “Of course. Where the hell would Vivian get cash like that?”

  “I don’t know. Life insurance or something.”

  “If that was the case, you think you’d have got a wad of cash right after she died, what, with no paperwork or nothing? Nobody gives away money that easy. Well, almost nobody.”

  “I didn’t think about it. Everyone else took care of the funeral, so I just figured lawyers sorted it out, or something, I guess.” The feeling you get when you find out somebody who has always let you down has actually done something really substantial for you is difficult to describe. It’s sort of like the debilitating humiliation I’m used to feeling, except instead of wishing to instantly disappear from existence, I’m wishing a terribly painful and drawn-out death for myself. I deserve it and then some.

  “Jesus, you must have thought I was so ungrateful,” I say.

  “Not ungrateful,” he says. “Though I suppose I did think we were a bit closer to being even for all the things you blamed me for. When your mother died, people were ready to look after you. Carol Arsenault said she’d take you in. I’d have offered to take you myself if I’d thought you’d come. But you were determined to go, so I convinced everyone to leave you be. I arranged the money and we let you do what you needed to do.”

  On Wednesday, while watching the Leafs (minus Bobby Monaghan) play the Red Wings: “How did your article thing end? What did it say about me?”

  “The end needed work. They probably would have made me change it.”

  “But what did the thing you wrote say before changing it?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. What’s the end of your story? It said that. It said you got stuck here, driving a Zamboni until you die.”

  “I suppose that’s about what almost happened,” he says, as though only now realizing how close he’d come to dying. “I’m not stuck here, though. I can get up and go whenever I want.”

  “Seriously? You were famous once. You had everything and now you live in the fucking rink and this is the first time you’ve left it in who knows how long. This town made a joke out of you.”

  “This town saved me. They gave me a place when I had nowhere else. They did the same for you and for your mother. This town took me in and they left me well enough alone while doing it, which is exactly what I wanted. They did me a kindness.”

  I remember what J.J.’d said about leaving him be. It’s weird that it’s the thing they both wanted for him, but for completely different reasons.

  “How did you end up in a fight with J.J. that night? Why were you even in the bar?”

  “I was looking for you. I didn’t like how we left things.”

  “And the fight?”

  “How does anyone end up in a fight? He said a thing, I said a thing. I hit him with my left hand. Never done that before. It wasn’t the prettiest punch I’ve thrown, but it did the trick. If I’d died it might’ve made a nice ending to that article of yours, ending my playing days with one fight and my life with another. Or something like that. You’re the writer.”

  I have to admit, it’s not without a certain poetry.

  “But what is it with you two? Why do you hate each other so much?”

  “Oh, J.J. has always been a right arsehole. Though I s’pose I wasn’t so nice to him when we was kids.”

  “That’s really all it is? You didn’t get along when you were young?”

  “Sure. Why not? I know what he’s been saying about me all these years, but nobody ever listens to that nonsense. Can you imagine such a thing as telling people I was bad for hockey because I got in fights? He never had a problem with anyone else getting in fights, just me. Take fights out of hockey and people’d lose their goddamned minds. J.J. never made any sense. He was just a prick, and I’ve spent a lot of years paying him no mind, even after he had them put in that stupid bar down the hall from me. I can’t imagine spending your life so mad at a person. Letting shit like that rot your insides ain’t good for you.”

  My father is right. For all his poor decisions, he hasn’t wasted his time being bitter about the past. Or, at least not that part of it.

  “I talked to Lars Nilsen the other day.”

  “How the hell did you manage that?” he asked, as though Lars were from the moon instead of Sweden.

  “Took a few calls, but I found him back in the same town he was born in. It’s called Fagersta.”

  “Is the rat Swede still a shithead prick?”

  “Actually, he was pretty funny. He laughed when I told him who I was.”

  “Son of a bitch was always laughing. So did you ask him why he quit? Did I hurt him so he couldn’t play no more, or did I leave him scared shitless?”

  “You messed him up good, but no. He actually went back because his father got sick. They had a family business, some sort of restaurant. He took it over, got married, had seven kids. One of them runs the place now.”

  “Just like that, he quit and went home to have kids?”

  “More or less. For what it’s worth, he said he
always knew someone would beat the hell out of him one day. He doesn’t seem to blame you for anything. He’s happy.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  On Thursday, while watching a home renovation show: “You know, I was thinking about it, and you might be the only person in the world to ever take a crack at both me and that Monaghan prick. I was trying to come up with someone else who might have been young enough when I was playing, they was still around when he started, but so far no one comes to mind. Just you.”

  “Not sure I’ll stick that one on my resumé.”

  “No, I’m just saying it’s funny, isn’t it? Not everyone is the only one to do something, you know.”

  “Yeah, it’s hilarious,” I say, popping the last of my pain pills.

  On Friday, while watching afternoon game shows: “It wasn’t that I couldn’t leave.”

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “The rink. I wasn’t stuck in the building, or at least, I didn’t mean to be. I just didn’t have nowhere else to be. After a while, the outside world sorta faded, you know?”

  And I do know. Just like I knew what Dave was talking about with solipsism—not the philosophy of it, but the reality. Other people are exhausting, and making the world smaller—letting it all fade out—makes it easier to ignore them. I get it. Hell, I’ve done it. I’m just not sure it’s a great way to live anymore.

  On Saturday, my father announces he’d like to go home.

  •

  I invite Jennifer to bring Elvis by to meet my dad before he leaves, but first I put in a call to Cousin Roger so she can pick up the boxes I left in his basement ten years ago. While they are still in her trunk, I dig through old photos, some of my mother’s belongings, and other things I want to go through later when I’m alone to find what I’m looking for—the small white case that holds my old hockey cards. I open it up and flip until I see it: the 1968 Terry Macallister rookie. The card is well-worn because I could never resist handling it when I was young. On the front stands my father, posed in his uniform with a goofy and youthful smile, his pompadour stiff and jet black. His body is cropped onto a garish pink background. 1968 was an ugly year for hockey cards.

  I hand the card to Elvis. “Here, you can have this.”

  “Oh, wow. Really? The old ones are worth a lot of money.”

  “I don’t think it’s worth that much, but I bet we can get it signed.”

  I take him and Jennifer to the basement where my father is still on the couch watching America’s Funniest Home Videos reruns on TV.

  “Dad, this is Elvis. Elvis, this is Terry Punchout.”

  “Who’s this now? This a grandson I don’t know about? You sure picked a hell of a time to tell me. My heart’s bad, you know.”

  “He’s not my kid,” I say, turning red at the suggestion he just made in front of Jennifer. “He’s my friend. And he wanted to meet you.” Elvis looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Go ahead and ask him, he’s harmless.”

  He smiles and thrusts the card at my father. “Can I have your autograph?”

  My dad takes the card in his fingers. “Well, look at that. Handsome devil, wasn’t I?”

  Before signing the card, my dad starts telling Elvis about the day of the photo shoot and how they used makeup to cover a black eye. “See, if you look closely, you can see my left eye is a little more shut than my right from the swelling.”

  I tap Jennifer on the shoulder and we sneak up to the kitchen, where I put on a pot of coffee.

  “Thanks for that,” she says. “You made his day.”

  “No problem. I think Dad likes the attention. I should have the money I owe you in a few days. Sports Illustrated is sending me a cheque.”

  “It’s okay, it’s not that much money. So when will your thing be in the magazine?”

  “Oh, it won’t. Not ever. They definitely can’t run my story after what happened, but they felt bad about me nearly getting killed and were probably afraid I’d sue or something, so they paid me anyway.” They also offered me more work if I was planning on going back out west, where they needed someone covering Pacific Division teams. I said I’d get back to them, but see no point in telling Jennifer about it.

  “That’s good. So what’s your plan?”

  “Well, I was actually wondering if I could borrow Elvis this afternoon.”

  “You can, but I meant after that. You know, what’s your plan?”

  “Dunno. But I’ll keep you posted.”

  After an hour I have to pry Elvis away from my father, who seems perfectly content to keep talking to him. “Sorry, Dad, I have work for this kid.”

  “Work?” Elvis asks. “Where’s my mom?”

  “Bad news, she lent you to me for the rest of the afternoon. How much do you weigh?”

  •

  After the week convalescing in Mac’s basement and my father’s announcement that it’s time for him to go home, the town council got together and found the funds to hire him an assistant. Paulie is the only person who applies for the job and, despite some initial protests, my father realizes it might be good to have someone around to do all the shitty things he doesn’t like doing.

  On the afternoon I borrow Elvis, we meet Paulie and Shitty at the rink and carry my TV and stereo to my father’s small room. We use Elvis to climb into the ceiling and splice the cable from J.J.’s bar to hook up the TV. When my father arrived home and saw his new set-up, all he could say was, “That’s just lovely, that is.”

  A few years ago I was watching Don Cherry doing his Hockey Night in Canada shtick when suddenly he said, “Everybody should live their lives the way Terry Punchout played hockey.” At the time, I laughed. Cherry was extolling the virtues of being a tough guy, and it seemed like such a ridiculous thing to say. I got his point, inelegant as it was, that my father was fearless and dogged on the ice. He would put everything on the line to win. I suppose it’s not terrible life advice, but my father has never lived his life the way he played hockey. When he was playing, he was bold and determined and did what was expected of him. Away from hockey, he never found his place or purpose. He let life happen to him; he rarely jumped in to try and shift the momentum. Terry Punchout has his flaws, to be sure, but it’s like what J.J. said: being an asshole isn’t the same as being a bad person. And I no longer believe my father is a bad person. He’s Terry. Good old Punch. He could go years without talking to anyone and still be part of the fabric of this community. That’s something.

  Without really realizing it, I started rewriting my father’s story in my head. What I sent to Sports Illustrated was a simple caricature of a man who isn’t so simple. I know a lot of things about Terry Punchout, but I don’t know him. Not really.

  A few days after he goes home, I stop by for a visit and take out my tape recorder.

  “I thought that nonsense was done with,” he says as I put it in front of him.

  “It is,” I say. “This is for something else.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s say it’s for posterity.”

  He laughs at that.

  The truth is, I think knowing his full story is still worth something, even if it’s only for me.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Team

  My eternal thanks and undying gratitude to everyone who helped me get this thing into the world: Chris Turner, Colin Leach, Jill Thompson, Rachelle Pinnow, Laurie Fisher-Zottman, Laurie McCulloch, Felicia Zuniga, Kimberly Gilbert, Robin Van Eck and the Alexandra Writers’ Centre Society, Erica Lenti, Lisa Whittington-Hill, THIS Magazine, Swans of Inglewood, Adam Bassett, Dr. Pat Walsh, The Banjo Hitters Social Club, Julie Wilson, Megan Fildes, Will Ferguson, Stacey May Fowles, Gare Joyce, Terry Fallis, Sam, Norrie, Thea, Mom, Dad, Rhonda, Sarah, marilyn, and Gordon.

  All Stars

  Extra special thanks to those who worked directly on the book: Leigh Nash, you changed my life; Carrie Mumford, I would
n’t have got here without your friendship and support; Theanna Bischoff and Lori Hahnel, I’m so, so thankful for your guidance.

  MVP

  My wife, my partner, my best friend: Käthe Lemon I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this book, for my wonderful life and for all that other stuff.

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