by Dave Belisle
Artie tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to his watch. Time to pick. Derek looked back to the map and its flashing red light in Wetaskiwin. They hadn't bothered discussing strategy. Bellwether Agency didn't have a portfolio on this one. This was where inbred Canadian chromosomes ransacked a poolie's stomach, coughing up "gut feelings".
This fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants approach was one of their few options, given their shortage of funds. There had been no advance legwork, no pre-draft scouting trips or marketing blitzes. But hell, thought Marcotte. This was Canada. You couldn't slap a puck without hitting someone who played the game.
With time winding down, Derek decided to go with the game plan that wayward hikers, Amelia Earhart and Canadian pro football's expansion committee adhered to. Aim for civilization.
"New Westminster," Derek said.
Seconds later, the Vancouver suburb turned white.
"You may as well say New Guinea," Erskine said. "You don't have the money to travel to either."
"Who's traveling anywhere? I'll be busy logging frequent dialer minutes on my fax machine."
Marcotte knew they probably had enough money to fly to the west coast, but he didn't want to tip his hand. Why waste a trip to Vancouver when Erskine had the resources and manpower to find half a dozen players in B.C. before Derek and Artie could say Squamish? Besides, Derek had never been west of Winnipeg. If he could get Erskine to thinking he knew his way around western Canada it would allow him to sneak in and steal some of the areas he was more familiar with in the east.
It quickly became a game of cat and mouse. Erskine, the looming big game animal, waiting to pounce ... while Derek played the prairie ground hog, popping up here and there across the western half of the map.
Like a cartoon light bulb signalling an idea, the twenty-cent light bulb protruding from Wetaskawin, Alberta had triggered Derek's new strategy. After his partner's fourth straight pick in northern Saskatchewan, Artie lifted his head from his laptop, not quite sure what was going on. Had his partner detected another Floral, Saskatchewan -- birthplace of Gordie Howe? A grain exchange by the interchange, with more dogs than citizens ... mortals and mutts with their tongues hanging out at the sight of the local rink rat? With a wink, Derek let him know things were under control.
The ploy worked. Erskine firmly believed that where there was smoke there was fire. Red Herculean fortresses quickly encircled the white May-Ja-Look zones on the map as Erskine used most of his early picks to try and quash Derek's haphazard forays into the Canadian wild. While Erskine was blindly building these walls, Derek occasionally snapped up a lone area in Ontario. He was careful to spread them out so as not to arouse suspicion.
The clock read 1:30. A light in 100 Mile House, British Columbia lit up. Erskine eyed Derek warily.
"Who the hell do you know there?"
"The mileage marker. I think I can find a spot for him on our blue line."
"Your team will be nothing but a rag tag group of replacement players ... in search of a sport. Certainly not hockey."
Hockey pools are always more fun when your competition ridicules your picks. This player was damaged goods -- hadn't you heard? He sprained his knee in training camp. Or that player couldn't put the puck in the ocean if he was standing on the pier. When a player's livelihood hung in the balance however, the digs went deeper. Derek shoveled them right back.
"Actually," Derek said, "I was hoping we would have included drafting in the states. A win would be a sure thing if I could pick a few players from the Philadelphia girls road hockey team."
Erskine's grin peeled into his patented sneer -- a sneer as long-running as those of the dastardly villains who tied squealing damsels in distress to train tracks.
The Herculean boss strummed his fingers on the table. It was his pick but he wanted to show Marcotte how he dealt with pressure. How he could turn the tables and make three minutes sit on the edge of its seat. Erskine may as well have been pool-side at Club Med, sipping a pina colada and pondering an afternoon golf or tennis date.
"I get the impression you're not sure what you're doing," Erskine said.
"I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm just seeing how long you're going to follow me around the country like some poor mongrel trying to return a video rental of "The Incredible Journey."
Erskine bristled. His pina colada suddenly tasted like chlorine. He turned to Bittman and whispered something into his ear. The whispering was interrupted by the occasional heated look thrown Derek's way. The gloves were off and Erskine's plan "B" kicked into motion.
The 100th zone was snapped up at 2:00 p.m. With ample resources available for advance scouting, Erskine focused on Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver with his next twenty picks. Derek had no choice but to follow suit. Canada's wilderness had served its purpose. It was time to go for the meat and potatoes of their line-up. The picks came quicker now, neither person waiting the full three minutes.
When 4 p.m. and the 150th pick rolled around, no one had to be reminded it was time to break. Both parties logged off their computers and packed their papers away.
"We'll pick up where we left off at 9 a.m. tomorrow," said Erskine. "That is, if you still think you have a snowball's chance in hell of winning."
"Oh, we'll be alright," Derek said. "Our touring of the country's hinterland was just to see if you realized that Alberta was west of Saskatchewan. Tomorrow we may touch upon the spawning patterns of Coho salmon in the Fraser River. Uh ... that's in B.C."
... 4 ...
Derek and his cheeseburger were locked in a staring match. He was waiting for one -- any one -- of the sesame seeds to blink. It had seemed the safest thing on the menu to order. His metabolism was chopping down redwoods of angst. Marcotte checked the diner's counter for anti-acid relief medicine and tree huggers. Artie waded with his fork through his fish and chips.
"You've been staring at that burger for five minutes. If you're wondering where the blinking lights and buzzers are ... we're not at Herculean anymore." Artie dug into his flounder. "What zone were you going to pick anyway?"
"Oba ... in Ontario"
"Eh? Why's that?"
"It's short and easy to remember." Derek finally looked away from the cheeseburger. The bun had won.
"We'll be okay," Artie said. "The tough part is done. The major recruiting areas are gone now. We'll just be picking from all the places named after rivers and lakes."
"Rivers or lakes," Derek said with a chuckle. "You'd think we were organizing a fishing derby."
He picked up his cheeseburger and wrenched a bite out of it. He eyed the ashtray at Artie's elbow and spit a sesame seed at it for good measure. The aim was true but it skipped out.
... 5 ...
Bittman turned an Ontario zone white. Erskine huddled with him over their computer. It was their goose with random memory on which they were counting for plenty of golden eggs. The clock said 9:45 a.m. The ostentatious Herculean surroundings almost convinced the fast food egg surprise in Derek's stomach to take wing and fly. He sipped his coffee and looked at the computerized Canada on the screen in front of him. The coffee was too hot ... while his and Artie's leads to legitimate talent had grown bitterly cold.
It was their turn. Again. The novelty had worn off. He may as well be looking for needles in a haystack with Edward Balloonhands.
Their three minutes were almost up. Derek looked over Artie's shoulder and they stared at their screen, waiting for their 85th pick -- 169 overall -- to announce itself. Artie shrugged and pointed to Owen Sound, Ontario.
Derek shook his head. Never.
Owen Sound was located in a peninsula-like area drawn out by the borders of the southeastern part of the province. This area bore a remarkable resemblance to an elephant making a one-point landing on its trunk. Windsor was the nostril of a 50-mile section of sinus problems. Niagara Falls was the front foot.
The forefathers of Owen Sound would surely have reconsidered where they would place the town ... had they had known it was
smack dab in the elephant's butt. Derek wasn't sure that Erskine was aware of this, but he wasn't about to take that chance. The Herculean president would not be making an ass of him. Derek pointed eastward from Owen Sound, just a fart away across Georgian Bay to ...
"Parry Sound," he said.
"Ah, hometown to Bobby Orr ... number four. Er ... he's retired, you know. He had leg problems too. A pity. Now there was a player who played through pain."
Derek's knee stiffened, demanding retribution.
Artie would have been content to make their remaining picks in alphabetical order, or draw them out of a hat. Or have Erskine pick for them. The doom and gloom that clouded the surroundings was not unlike that which hung over Ottawa during its expansion draft into the big leagues.
"I'm surprised you didn't go with Gretzky's home town, Brantford," Erskine said.
"Well, his parking lot attendant doesn't get out to play much. Too busy moving the cars around, y'know ..."
"But he is more in your price range."
"You're going to pay your players?" Derek said with mock surprise. This also caught Artie off guard. He looked up from his keyboard, wondering if Derek's sarcasm had suddenly turned serious.
Derek's response gave Erskine little pause.
"When one wants quality, one digs a little deeper now, doesn't one?"
A smirk curled on Derek's lip. Erskine would only have to dip, not dig. The loquacious lug had never had to handle a shovel. Derek's reply got his own pistons pumping. Why was Erskine prepared to pay big money to beat May-Ja-Look? To keep him in his place? Maybe. To financially wipe him out? Definitely. Winning wasn't enough for Erskine. He'd already dabbled in personal injury. Now the game was public embarrassment. Bankrupting Derek and his company -- that was the key. Chapter 11 behind closed doors wasn't good enough. A hockey game for all the country to see Derek come tumbling down. Erskine was stopping just sort of parking a car bomb outside May-Ja-Look.
... 6 ...
"Owen Sound," said Erskine, with a cough.
"Elephant butt," said Marcotte, under his breath.
"What's that?"
"Oh, nothing."
Owen Sound was gone with pick number 212. This was much later than it should have gone, but any psychologist worth his sofa would point to common sense being humbled by humility.
Erskine and Derek exchanged glances. Erskine lowered his gaze. Marcotte didn't add anything to his barb. He swore he could almost detect a sigh of relief from Erskine. Silent victories made being smug a virtue. Derek peered over Artie's shoulder at their laptop's screen. After conferring with Artie, he looked at Bittman.
"York Factory, Manitoba."
"What do they do there," Erskine asked. "Make chocolate bars?"
"Sort of. They want to keep a low profile. It's a subsidiary plant for a leading laxative."
May-Ja-Look's lack of preparation showed itself a few picks later when they made another trek across the tundra of northern Saskatchewan.
"Uranium City, Saskatchewan."
"Ha!" Erskine spun on his heels like a crazed game show host. "I guess you don't know that place has been a ghost town since the mid-'80s?"
Derek looked at Artie. They shrugged simultaneously. Oh well. No sense being coy about it. Brilliance shuffled into the back seat and bullshit grabbed the wheel.
"Why we selected Uranium City is our business. But ... if you must know ..." Derek walked slowly around the desk. He paused at the head, a few feet from Erskine and leaned onto the desk. "Every team needs a ghost."
Erskine's eyes narrowed.
"Look at the famous "Galloping Ghost", Red Grange," Marcotte continued. "He played football in the 30's. Heck, a player like that only comes around every fifty years."
"What with ghost busters, y'know," added Artie.
... 7 ...
The draft had been going on too long. Drafts were fun ... for a couple of hours. The past two days were too much of a good thing. With regular pools, once you completed the draft, you sat back and watched ... and waited. Then waited some more. Poolers by the coolers. Water by day, whine by night. But his and Artie's work was just beginning. And they were still in the draft that wouldn't end.
Derek had read about scenes like this in the Hockey Bible. The team's brass at the table ... nose-to-nose for 18 hours. Coffees and colas started to taste the same. Jockey shorts plastered to fold-up chairs for hours on end starting taking on the comfort of greased vinyl. They were a sequestered group who couldn't agree on the particulars of a player trade, the revenue-sharing of a collective bargaining agreement, or which logo had been Vancouver's ugliest. The jersey they had gleefully draped over their first round pick, they'd just as soon strangle their eighth round pick with ... 200 players later.
Maybe this was why teams took flyers on unknown, untested players late in the proceedings. They were already armed with all the information their scouts had culled from long hours spent in countless arenas. The bird dog's itinerary could give any travel agent foot and mouth disease. It was insanity brought on by insomnia. All this, to pick a player who had as much chance of moving on to the NHL as Owen Sound had of moving elsewhere -- anywhere -- on Georgian Bay.
A Saskatchewan zone turned red at 6 o'clock. Soon after, one in Nova Scotia went white. Manitoba red, B.C. white. Derek was lost in some quarterback's creative signal-calling or a national wine tasting exhibition.
Marcotte rolled up his sleeves. He was looking for a zone with a phone. The pickings were slim. The coffee cups, sandwich wrappings and crumpled napkins gave the surroundings a locker room aura following the post game meal. The feverish but controlled pace had slowed to one of let-your-hair-down nonchalance.
"What the hell ... Charity Pond, New Brunswick," said Erskine. "I vacationed there in '85."
"Fort Nelson, B.C.," said Marcotte quickly. The sooner Erskine was forced to think about his next pick, the less time he would have to crow about his forty-foot yacht.
"When this is over, you'll be paying off fax bills til you're old and gray," Erskine said. "Churchill, Manitoba."
An hour later, old and gray looked attractive to Derek. He was hallucinating.
Derek stared down at the old, gray suitcase on the floor. It belonged to the airline passenger standing in front of him ... a penguin. Short for his size, the squat but dapper figure nudged the suitcase ahead with his webbed right foot.
A nearby poster, stocked with Flamingos in evergreen everglades, asked "Flying south for the winter?"
Derek caught the penguin eyeing the long-legged birds.
"Miami Beach, here I come," Derek said in his best Jackie Gleason impersonation.
"I'm off to Mecca, myself," the penguin said. "I won the trip from one of those seed companies ... the ones in the comic books. I sold the most begonia seeds in Greenland and was entered in a draw. The odds were five million to one."
The penguin turned away, humming the chorus from Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World". Seconds later, he turned back to Derek.
"Say, do you know if the in-flight meal is fish?"
"Bread. We need bread," said Derek.
"I'll say," said Artie. He was looking at his paperwork, not realizing his reply had snapped Derek out of his stupor. Marcotte snuck a peek at Erskine and Bittman. They too were absorbed in their work. Derek leaned over Artie's shoulder.
"Are we done yet?"
"Almost. Just two left. Baffin Island and Aklavik in the Yukon."
"You're kidding. Hockey players live up there?"
"Sure. It's the zamboni drivers that are hard to find."
Marcotte turned to Erskine.
"Baffin Island."
"And that leaves me with Aklavik. That's it. It's open season on hockey players."
Artie stood and gathered up his paperwork into a satchel. He closed his laptop computer and tucked it under his arm. Stepping in behind Derek, they were about to exit when Erskine stopped them.
"Oh, yes ... one of our cable TV clients has agreed to help promote and b
roadcast the game. Call it a token bargaining chip I've tossed your way. I'm sorry. This means you'll have to shell out extra money for your players names on sweaters. Your mother sews, doesn't she?"
Artie clutched Derek's arm as Marcotte stepped towards their long-running nemesis. Erskine leered from across the table. Marcotte stopped. Not here. This wasn't the time or place. The battle had only begun.
Derek turned away and walked with Artie to the door. He leaned close to Artie so Erskine couldn't hear them.
"How much money do we have to swing this thing?"
"Twenty-six hundred dollars."
The Plunge Checklist
... 1 ...
It was like any other neighborhood bar in Scarborough. Above the corner bar's door, neon gas poured through the green glass tubing that spelt "MAC'S". Inside, a couple pennants of local teams and other sports memorabilia adorned the walls. A pool table, dartboard and shuffleboard kept the drinking elbows loose. Happy hours and Sunday football promotions helped the locals overlook the broken tiles in the washroom floor.
Behind the bar, Mac cracked open a case of Laratts Blue and loaded bottles into the cooler. Though Mac was pushing 60, thoughts of retirement rarely entered his well-shorn head. He knew if he wasn't behind the bar he'd merely be on the other side, getting the Blue Jay coasters soggy. He'd sneak a drink on the weekend shift now and again. If Toronto was winning. Argos or Leafs, spare the grief. The sport didn't matter. As long as the home team was winning.
Dennis, Donnie and Dino Tortellini stood at the end of the bar, each with a draw of draught in front of them. They were brothers, all wearing powder blue mechanic shirts with the odd splash of three-in-one oil. Patches atop right-side pockets had their names in flowing script letters. They were arguing about the late owner of the Leafs, Harold Ballard. Three rounds of drinks already beneath their belts, facts were bordering on fiction.
