The Monkeyface Chronicles

by Richard Scarsbrook

  Clarence Brush, the mayor of Faireville, strolls out onto the long strip of red rug, holding a wireless microphone and sticking his chin out like he’s about to deliver a victory speech. The music stops and there is a smattering of applause.

  “Good afternoon, everyone!” Mayor Brush’s voice echoes against the concrete-block walls. “Today is a special day for the Blue Flames, Faireville’s hockey team!”

  People cheer and whistle on cue. The mayor’s microphone hums with feedback.

  “Today, one of the fine young men from this team will be awarded the Plympwright County Hockey League Trophy for Most Goals Scored in the 2005-2006 regular season!”

  More cheering.

  “As the mayor of Faireville, I will personally hand the trophy to that young man and shake his hand. So . . . ” he flourishes his hand dramatically, “may the best man win, and let the game begin!”

  There is much cheering, whistling and foot-stomping. The crooked grin on Mr. Brush’s face makes his slim little moustache shift to one side, like a fuzzy caterpillar crawling from his lip to his cheek. He seems to think that the cheering is for him. Some of the noise is, in fact, for his son Grant, who is behind by only one goal for the scoring title. Some of Grant’s weekend drinking buddies are shouting “Grant! Grant! Grant!”

  The majority of the female voices in the arena are screaming for my brother Michael, who is only a goal behind Grant Brush. Caitlin Black sits in the bleachers at centre ice with Lara Lavender and Carrie Green, holding a banner made from a white bed sheet and blue spray paint that reads “MICHAEL SKYLER IS #1!!!!!!!!”

  This is not technically true. Although practically everyone in Faireville Memorial Arena is cheering for either Michael or Grant, in reality, I am Number One. I’m ahead of Grant by a goal, and ahead of Michael by two. I’m not going to let either of them beat me without a fight.

  Of the two hundred or so people in the place, no more than five are rooting for me: my cafeteria buddies Anthony, Caleb, and Cecil, and maybe my mother and my grandfather. Mom won’t cheer out loud for me, though, for fear of making Michael feel bad, and my grandfather sits with his arms folded and his lips pursed tightly, not wishing to add to the applause that Mayor Brush thinks belongs to him.

  I had so badly wanted my father to be here to see me beat Michael, his genetically perfect creation, for the scoring title. But, of course, he is not here. He’s locked away in his basement laboratory, scientific responsibilities once again trumping fatherhood. I’ll show him the trophy tonight, even if I have to kick down the steel door and force him to look at it.

  Mayor Brush waves, switches off the microphone, and says to the referee, “Now let’s have a fair game here, eh!”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Mayor!” the referee says. Mr. Brush gives him the thumbs-up sign, then saunters along the red carpet to his first row seat. When the mayor’s back is turned, the ref looks at the linesman and rolls his eyes. As the Zamboni guy rolls up the red carpet, the Lightning players skate to their bench, and our team does the same.

  Coach Packer paces back and forth. “Passmore and Blunt on defense,” he says, in a voice loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear. “Line One-A starts the game — Graham, Grant, Michael, you’re on. Keep the shifts short, and give ‘em something to cheer about, boys.”

  This is Mr. Packer’s moment in the sun, too. He’s never been married, never even had a steady girlfriend. He lives in his deceased mother’s home. This is what he lives for. This will be the year he finally coaches his team to the regional championship. This is the reason his life matters.

  The five starting players glide out for the opening face-off, and I glance up at my grandfather, who sits in the top row of the bleachers with my mother. He catches my eye and gives me a nod. My savvy grandfather suspected that Clarence Brush would use today’s hockey game as an opportunity to score some pre-election goals of his own with Faireville’s voters. If Grant wins the scoring trophy, as Mayor Brush expects him to, Brush will use the moment to announce that he’s running for re-election.

  But my grandfather and I have a plan to steal Mr. Brush’s thunder: I will win the scoring trophy, and when Mayor Brush hands the trophy over to me, I will announce to everyone in the arena that I’m dedicating my performance to my grandfather, Vernon Skyler, who taught me everything I ever needed to know about playing to win, and who is going to run once again for the office of mayor of Faireville. My grandfather has helped me practice my speech. I’m ready.

  The puck drops, and Michael easily wins the face-off. Brian Passmore sends the puck right back to Michael, who maneuvers around a Lightning defenseman and fires at the net. Clementville’s goalie seems sharper than last time we played them, and stacks his pads to block Michael’s shot. Grants Brush wheels in to pick up the rebound, and lobs the puck over the fallen goalie.

  The arena roars with screaming and stomping. Grant’s buddies in the crowd holler “Grant! Grant! Grant!” Less than a minute into the game, Grant Brush has scored the first goal. The notorious Grunt is now tied with me for the league scoring title. He looks over at the bench and blows me a kiss.

  That’s right, Grunt, get the gloating out of your system, because that’s as close as you’re going to get to the prize. I’m about to leap over the boards for my first shift of the game, when Coach Packer grabs me by the shoulder and gestures at Michael, Grant and Graham to stay on the ice.

  “What?” I protest.

  “Individual awards are nice and everything,” Packer says, “but this is a team sport, boys. Remember that.”

  “What about ‘short shifts,’ coach?” my line mate Billy protests.

  “Their shift was a little too short,” Coach Packer says. “You guys’ll get your chance in another minute.”

  The early goal charges up the Clementville Lightning, and they fight back hard. For the next two minutes, there is no opportunity for a shift change. The puck goes up and down the ice a half dozen times before Michael manages to get open in the slot. He slaps his stick on the ice to signal Graham Brush, who ignores him and chips the puck to his brother Grant. The Clementville goalie reads this play easily, and comes way out of the net to take away Grant’s shot. Grant could pass the puck over to Michael, who is in the clear on the open side of the net, but instead he wrists the puck right at the goalie and gets lucky. His weak shot trickles between goalie’s pads.

  Mayor Brush jumps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air; his son is now in the lead for the League Scoring Trophy. Grant’s buddies chant, “Grant! Grant! Grant!” with a lot of other voices joining in this time. Grant raises his stick in the air and skates a circle around the Lightning goalie, which is his routine whenever he scores. “Got a hole in those pads, buddy?” Grant says. Agitating the opposing goaltender is part of Grant’s post-scoring ritual.

  Toby, Billy and I are about to jump onto the ice, when Packer says, “Give ‘em another minute, boys. Line One-A is hot.”

  “They’re gonna be tired,” Toby says.

  “They’ll be fine,” Packer says, without looking at any of us. “They got a rest in between whistles.”

  For the remainder of the first period, the forward line of Michael, Grant and Graham plays twelve minutes. My line, One-B, plays four, and the third line gets just two thirty-second shifts. Coach Packer is stacking the deck in favour of Grant and Michael; I can’t score if I’m not on the ice. This is not his usual style. You don’t win hockey games by playing one line to death. I wonder what Mayor Brush, Mr. Packer’s former boss at Faireville Elementary, is holding over his head.

  The horn blows, ending the first period. Grant Brush is ahead of me by one goal for the league scoring title.

  It’s nineteen minutes into the second period now, and I’ve been on the ice for just three shifts of less than a minute each. Three lousy minutes. And it isn’t just that Mr. Packer is coaching against me, my own teammates are playing against me. Of our defensemen, Michael’s buddy Brian has been passing pretty much exclusively to him, w
hile Turner Thrift and Trevor Blunt have been consistently delivering the puck to one of the two Brush brothers. The only two guys who haven’t been playing favorites are my line mates Billy and Toby, who I suppose will get to share the glory if I win the scoring trophy at the end of the game. But that result seems less and less likely as Michael and the Brush brothers continue to get four times as much ice time as Billy and Toby and me.

  The score is still two-nothing. The Clementville Lightning are playing a tough defensive game against us, maybe their best game of the season. They refuse to just roll over and die. I, for one, understand.

  The play moves back into the Lightning zone. Michael once again out-maneuvers the Lightning defensemen and is unchecked in the slot, but, rather than pass the puck to him, Graham Brush risks a long cross-ice pass to his brother, who is wheeling in on the left wing. Clementville’s fastest forward hustles in from the neutral zone, intercepts the pass, turns and blows past Grant toward our goalie. Grant chases after the Lightning player and slams him into the boards in front of our bench with a nasty but legal body check. The whistle blows, and the guy wobbles on his skates as he gets up off the ice.

  “When they give me the scoring trophy,” Grant mumbles as he skates past the Lightning player, “they should give you the pussy award, ya fag.”

  The Lightning player swipes at the back of Grant’s helmet with his gloved right hand, and Grant embellishes the tap by pitching his head forward and sprawling on the ice. The referee blows the whistle — a two-minute penalty to the Lightning player for roughing. As the Lightning player skates to the penalty box, Grant taunts, “Suck-AAAAAHHHH!”

  “Power Play Unit Number One on the ice!” Coach Packer hollers theatrically. Our top power play squad normally consists of our top four scorers — Michael, Grant, Graham, and me, along with one of our defensemen, usually Brian Passmore. Before Packer has a chance to reconsider this arrangement, I jump onto the ice.

  Michael wins the face-off in the Lightning zone, and chips the puck to me. Graham, Grant and Michael immediately form a passing box around the goal. Michael is open again, and he shouts for the pass, but I surprise our opponents and my own teammates when I rush straight at the net. I snap a high shot into the corner, but the Lighting goalie’s blocker flashes in front it. Robbed! The puck bounces to my left, and I backhand it toward the net again, which the goalie kicks away. I feel the puck against the curve of my stick blade for the third time. Half the net is open now. I aim. My stick shaft flexes.

  My skates are hauled out from under me and I hit the ice, sliding on my chest. I look back to see Graham Brush pulling his stick away. He has tripped me to keep me from tying his brother for the scoring title. Then I look toward the goal; the puck floats there in front of the net. I slash at it one-handed with my stick. It flips end-over-end, over the goaltender, against the twine.

  The whistle blows. Goal!

  I am even with Grant Brush once again.

  The ref blows the whistle, gestures at a nearby Lightning player, who he gives a two-minute penalty for tripping. The guy shakes his head and skates to the box.

  The Lightning goalie is enraged. He saw Graham, my own teammate, trip me. When Graham skates past him and says, “Hey, man, stellar moves! No wonder you pussies aren’t in the playoffs,” the furious goaltender chops at Graham’s shin pad with his stick. The whistle blows, and the referee calls him for unsportsmanlike conduct. Another dejected Lightning player skates to the penalty box.

  I look up at the scoreboard. 19:32. Twenty-eight seconds left in the second period, and we’re playing with a five-on-three advantage. Twenty-eight seconds for me to take the lead again.

  Michael takes the face-off again. The puck hits the ice, and Michael passes it right onto the blade of my stick. One Lightning player skates after me, the second rushes to the blue line after our defenseman, and the third covers Grant. A stupid play by the flustered Lightning — they’ve left Michael and Graham wide open in front of the net. I wind up to pass the puck to Michael, but my peripheral vision detects a slight crack between the goalie’s pad and the goalpost, so I redirect and take the shot myself.

  The shot rings off the post and careens out into the neutral zone. Michael and a Lightning player race after the puck, but the buzzer sounds, and the second period is over.

  Faireville Memorial Arena rings with cheering as we file off the ice toward the dressing room. Michael grabs me by the shoulder. “Come with me, Philip,” he says, his eyes burning with anger. “We need to talk.”

  I follow him into the empty nurse’s room between the two dressing rooms. He closes the door behind us.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” he shouts, gesturing wildly with his gloved hands. “Twice I was wide open, and twice you took a crappy shot instead of passing to me for a sure goal. Why? Would you rather have Grant win the scoring title than one of us?”

  “Grant’s a dick,” I reply.

  “But you’d rather have him win it than me, wouldn’t you?” Michael says. “Why, Philip? You’ve had this chip on your shoulder all season. What are you trying to prove?”

  “There isn’t anything to prove, is there, Michael? You already know that you were designed to be better than me, don’t you?”

  The volume of his voice drops. “What?”

  “Come on. You know. You were designed to be the perfect offspring, and I’m just the waste material.”

  “What the . . . ?”

  “Aw, don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Mister Nice Guy. You and I were a genetic engineering experiment. Our father designed you to be perfect, and me to be the waste material. And you know it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Michael yells.

  “Dennis told me everything, Michael.”

  Michael shakes his head and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the fire is gone. “Philip,” he sighs, “he told me the same thing about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He told me the same thing about you,” he repeats. “Dennis told me that you were genetically engineered by Dad to be smarter and stronger than me and him, and that your facial deformity was an unexpected consequence of your genetic modifications. Dennis said that they schooled you at home to make sure you got a superior education, not just cookie-cutter public school learning. He said that your genetic engineering was why you got so good at everything so fast — school, hockey, everything.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I say, as much to myself as to Michael, “Why would he play us against each other like that?”

  “He didn’t play us against each other, Philip. He played you against me. You actually believed him. I never believe anything Dennis says.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Look, Philip,” Michael says, “Forget about it for now. There’s something else at stake here.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Our grandfather wants to run for mayor again, and he doesn’t want Brush to have the opportunity to showboat if Grant wins the scoring trophy today.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He explained it to me a few nights ago. I’ve been going over to his house every once in a while for drinks and cigars.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay.” I feel so stupid. I thought that this was something special that my grandfather did with me.

  “Listen, Philip, we’re starting the next period with a power play, and we’ll be on the ice together almost the whole time. The only person Graham is going to pass to out there is Grant. You and I can play the same game. If you’re open, I’ll pass to you. And I want you to do the same thing.”

  “Okay, Michael.”

  “Grant Brush can’t win the scoring trophy today. It has to be one of us. You only need a goal to beat him. I need four now, but I’m feeling lucky today. Really lucky. But I don’t care if it’s you or me who wins, as long as it’s one of us.”

  He slaps me on the shoulder, and says, “Remember back in grade eight, that gym class when you and I scored ten
goals together?”

  “I remember.”

  “Let’s win that trophy. For our grandfather.”

  Only a few seconds have passed, but it seems like I’ve been hovering here forever in the slot with the puck on my stick. The goalie hesitates; he expects me to shoot, like I’ve done every other time. I hold onto the puck, dribbling it back and forth from forehand to backhand. Finally he lunges from his crease to poke-check the puck away, and I backhand it over to Michael, who blasts it decisively against the back of the net. The people in the crowd, especially the girls, go wild. Caitlin, Carrie and Lara jump up and down, screaming orgasmically and waving their “MICHAEL SKYLER IS #1!!!!!!!!” bed sheet.

  Mayor Brush glares at Coach Packer from across the rink.

  Packer calls us in to the bench. I’m expecting him to sit me again and put the forward line of Michael and the Brush brothers back out, but instead he says, “This game’s in the bag, boys, so I want to experiment with some line changes, just in case we need ‘em during the playoffs. O’Malley, you move up to Line One-A with the Brush boys, and Michael, you centre Line One-B with your brother and Frenier.”

  Fifteen minutes into the third period, Michael, Toby and I have had three quick defensive shifts, while O’Malley and the Brush brothers are so tired from skating, they’ve turned over the puck half a dozen times in our own zone. Clementville has managed to strike three times as a result. A four-goal shutout has turned into a desperate one-goal game. If this is supposed to be a practice for the playoffs, the Faireville Blue Flames don’t look so great. A few people in the crowd are booing.

  “Line One-B,” Packer yelps, sweating profusely and dancing on his toes, “get out there and give One-A a rest.”

  Without Grant and Graham out here to obstruct us, there is a real chance that Michael and I can score now. We weave around our opponents, passing the puck back and forth to each other, reading each other’s minds just like when we used to play on the frozen creek behind our house.