by Dave Belisle
If wishes were horses, OTB would stand for Off-Track Beggars.
The gilt-edged hockey card holder beside the pen holder would go flying as well. Derek stopped. The card holder hadn't been there before.
Erskine followed Derek's stare.
"I thought you might like to see my latest acquisition ..."
Erskine spun the collector's item around to face Marcotte. Mounted in the card holder was Terry Sawchuk's rookie card.
"Picked it up at Swanson's. Terry's playing for me now."
Derek felt like he'd been kicked in the kidneys. He peered into Sawchuk's face. Had the gaping grin dimmed somewhat? It had the facade of a smile, like that of a hostage at the other end of the phone line, trying to sound cheery. It was a hopeful smile at best. The jersey hung limply on Sawchuk's frame. Had he lost weight? The smile said Sawchuk hadn't wanted to be traded ... but that maybe he'd make the best of it.
I'll get you back, Derek thought. I've got my business riding on the outcome of a hockey game and two women who are just plain riding me. I'll get you back, Terry. I'll get you back.
... 4 ...
Derek trudged uptown from Queen's Quay West under the Gardiner Expressway. He'd been down to the Lakefront. Usually the windy wake off Lake Ontario picked him up, rinsed his wrinkled demeanour and strapped him back into his Crooks cross trainers, raring to go. The wharf was a public place with plenty of private spots. He'd hoped that parking his butt on one of the many wide, wooden posts along the pier would help. An idea, a solution, a new mutual fund ... he needed something to spring forth from his subconscious. But tonight the harbour held no answers. He may as well have been waiting for a marlin. All the collar-rippling, stiff breeze did was advise him of anti-histamines he should seek out tomorrow.
His mental VCR was stuck on a clip featuring the glory years of the Toronto Maple Leafs with Foster Hewitt calling the action. The highlights were interwoven with shots of Derek's up and coming career. The dream footage included several vignettes of him playing with the Maple Leafs. He could never quite catch what number he was wearing. The director in the dream truck kept cutting to another camera, or going to commercial before Derek could make out his sweater number.
The mental commercials were public service announcements. They warned of gambling addicts who were willing to bet on the astronomical odds that, on a breakfast table somewhere in North America ... was a bowl of cereal whose box featured a professional athlete ... and the milk in that bowl of cereal was from a milk carton bearing the face of that same professional athlete's ... missing child.
When the dream sequence came back out of commercial, Derek was down on the ice, clutching his ankle. His Maple Leaf jersey slowly changed to the colors he wore while at Guelph. Erskine ominously glided away from the scene of the accident. Erskine's uniform transformed as well. It was an angry "morph" into the black robes of the Grim Reaper ... with his hockey stick changing into a gleaming scythe. With one swipe he had claimed the deep soul of Derek's best intentions.
Marcotte turned left onto Peter Street and looked up to see a man in a ball cap smiling from behind Bedrock sunglasses. The stoned fan to Bedrock Shades' right had his beer cup hoisted in good cheer -- and much straighter than one might expect -- given the pronounced jocularity. The woman beside him, her wild hair flying, reached out with her hands, begging for more.
The SkyDome cornerstone fanatics. They'd always fascinated Derek. Human gargoyles with a cement-grip on their beer cups. Their souvenir flags never went limp in the wave after wave of raucous laughter. Very cartoonish and all too campy, yet they highlighted the fun time being had by all. They were rooted rooters. Lifeless, lifetime season ticket holders.
This was as it should be, thought Derek. These gregarious emotions had escaped the confines of SkyDome. They elicited others to escape from everyday tension ... and to enter the fun-filled fray. Come on in and let off some steam. The boss's blowout three hours previous would be erased by a 4-6-3 double play. For those who spent all day crunching numbers, they could put away their Exceed spread sheets, sit back and relax. It was someone else's keyboard accessing and displaying every baseball statistic known to Elias.
Win or lose, the masonry's maniacal expressions didn't change. They were still as rabid as ever. In the crucial pennant chase, the catch phrase was that there was no tomorrow. The was for this bunch. Their worst fear was erosion and pigeon droppings. Derek chuckled. This motley mortared crew was too ribald for the staid Maple Leaf Gardens. Something like this would bring Harold Ballard back from the dead.
The fan with the upright beer cup took a sip.
Upright Beer Cup: Big things are expected of Marcotte this year.
Gargoyle Groupie: If he ever decides who he's going to play for.
Bedrock Shades: You don't think he's going to Montreal?
There's been interest lately.
GG: No, Toronto should keep him. Hogtown's been good to him.
UBC: He's not a team player, y'know.
GG: (sighing) Who is these days?
BS: I think he'd be a good fit for Montreal's up-tempo style of play.
GG: But he's been a stay-at-home defensive player for so long.
UBC: Or has he merely been in a rut?
GG: Okay, so he hasn't had many goals.
BS: Yeah. But he's been hurt.
GG: (sighing again) Who hasn't?
Mr. Upright Beer Cup turned and looked down at Derek.
"Better to be lucky than good ... eh, Marcotte? How is the knee these days?"
"You're nothing but a hopeless romantic," said the gargoyle groupie. "Me or her, Derek. Choose." Hands on hips, she leaned forward precariously out of the box seat.
The three cornerstone fanatics fell silent and, in unison, extended their right hands outward and gave him the thumbs-down sign.
Derek swore he could feel the weight of the three gigantic, granite digits. He exited the chiseled cheering section with a shudder.
Back in his apartment, Derek dozed in his lazy boy. The clock on the wall read 1:00 a.m. A Leafs baseball cap was pulled over his eyes. Derek twitched in the middle of a dream.
He was behind the player's bench. With a full head of steam, his teammate playing center lugged the puck up the middle. The right winger was flying down the right side, stride-for-stride with the center. Derek was afraid his center wouldn't see the wide open line-mate in time.
"You gotta winger! Hit him! Skate! Skate!"
The winger anticipated a pass that wasn't going to come. He started braking for the blue line, not wanting to slow down and lose the speed that had put him in the clear. He dragged his back leg, hoping to stay onside. Too far and too late. The play was offside. The linesman blew the whistle.
The phone rang.
"Damn!" Derek slapped his palms together. The center came off the ice with his tail between his legs. One of the other players was toying with the puck during the stoppage in play. The linesman tagged along behind the player, growing impatient for the puck. He blew his whistle.
The phone rang again.
"Pass the puck next time, eh? You gotta head-man it," Derek said to the embarrassed center who quickly found a spot on the bench and sat down. The referee dropped the puck and play continued. The other linesman had his back against the boards in front of their bench. He looked over his shoulder at Derek and the disgruntled player.
"What are you looking at?!" Derek shouted at the linesman. "The puck's over there. Do ya wanna map or do I havetuh draw you a fuckin' picture!?!"
The linesman, eyes wide, put the whistle in his mouth, puffed his cheeks and blew it loud.
The phone rang again.
"If you blow that damn thing one more time I'm gonna stick it up yer ass and make you play O Canada!"
Derek awoke with a start. He shook his head and picked up the phone.
"Derek. It's me, Artie."
"What is it?" Marcotte felt irritable but couldn't quite figure out why. Something about being his patriotic duty. The
feeling soon subsided.
"Can you meet me at the office?"
Derek entered the office. Artie paced the floor nervously. He walked past Derek over to the door. Artie leaned forward and, shading his eyes, peered through the glass.
"Something the matter?" Derek asked. "I haven't seen you this jumpy since you got that valentine from the redhead on the second floor."
"I think we have a security problem. Remember when I told you about calling LaBonneglace to check out a few details?"
"And he told you he was playing for Erskine?"
"Right. Well, LaBonneglace gave me some excuse about not wanting to play on our team because some of our players from out west weren't ... uh ... politically correct."
"Yeah?"
They both knew this to be an excuse orchestrated by Erskine. It had that certain unsavory aspect to it, like chasing cranberry juice with a glass of milk.
"I asked him which players he was talking about," Artie said. "He mumbled something about a Short Hand from Raven Lake. LaBonneglace told me that Erskine had told him that Short Hand had an uncle who ran a construction business near Pembroke. Evidently whenever work was contracted out, it only went to Ontario companies. The French contractors were effectively shut out."
"But Short Hand's from Portage Beaucoup," Derek said.
"Exactly," said Artie. "I went back and checked the database on our computer. I must have entered the information in a hurry. I made a mistake and accidentally switched addresses for Short Hand and Tuckapuk."
Derek's mind raced. He picked up the LaBonneglace folder and tapped it against the desktop, trying to put it all together. This mess may have Erskine's fingerprints all over it -- but Sylvie was involved too. The questions was ... how deep?
Nonsense. They'd shared too many intimate secrets together. He didn't complain when she only mixed in half the pack of cheddar cheese with the Orel Pinkenpacker's microwave popcorn. She knew the torment he went through when the linesman in the face-off circle didn't drop the puck fast enough. For the past two weeks he'd made a concerted effort to remember that she didn't take sugar with her tea. At the drop of a hat, she could recite -- in order -- his ten favorite hockey buildings. They were a team.
One day while they were out for a stroll, he'd confided to her that he was a man of the 90s ... and was taking it upon himself to right some of the sexual discrimination practises of certain European cultures. On that note, he told her it was her turn to walk a few steps ahead of him and he would follow her, head down. She did so ... knowing he just wanted to watch her wiggle as she walked.
Had she walked out of his life? Was it now him and Helen? Had Sylvie made the choice for him? Derek was looking at major multiple choice questions that didn't have any dud answers he could quickly toss out.
"Did Sylvie have access to the computer?" he finally asked.
"All the hockey software is kept under a password. It would take twenty of Bill Gate's best hackers working day and night to crack it."
"Erskine," they said together.
"Alright. It's obvious that bastard has tapped into our computers," said Derek.
Marcotte continued tapping the folder against the desktop. They weren't any closer to figuring how Sylvie was mixed up in this.
"You're not going to tell Muldowney?" asked Artie.
"We can't. We're in too deep. Erskine has nothing to lose."
Derek looked Artie square in the eyes and said, "Besides ... I've been making excuses long enough."
The look in Derek's eyes hooked Artie. It was a tackle-box full of trust, honesty and genuine friendship. If Artie at the age of four had paused long enough -- while making his latest L'il Stinker-Toy creation -- to look up at the TV, he would have seen the same determination during Sunday Night Showcase on CBC (Cameral Broadcasting Corporation). The identical expression was on John Wayne's rugged mug as Rooster Cogburn, the cagey U.S. Marshall, when he stared across a field at a few foul-mouthed fools packing six-guns in True Gristle.
The Duke threw the reins between his teeth and caution to the wind. He kicked his heels hard into the flanks of his sturdy steed and charged into action. He filled the screen. With a gun in each hand and firing from the hip, Cogburn maintained such a high level of concentration while at full gallop ... that the viewing audience had to wonder if the top half of the screen was connected to the bottom half. Even with the hailstorm of bullets, the bad guys still missed this fast-approaching, side-of-a-barn target.
Artie's generation would instead compare Derek's stiff upper lip to Clint Eastwood's from The Outcast Josey Wales. Derek's right cheek was minus the beef jerky juice and the nearest cockroach to be spat at was in the next room. But Marcotte's squinting, steely eyes seemed to ask, "Is there something wrong with my poncho?"
There would be no changing Derek's mind on this one. Artie wasn't about to. He'd hitch his wagon to Derek's new found attitude and sing Oklahoma if he had to. Artie knew it was something Derek had to get out of his system.
Marcotte nodded toward the computer.
"Alright then. Let's get this database bouncin'."
"But ..."
"No buts, Artie. Fire it up."
Artie sat at his desk. Derek leaned over his shoulder. They were pouring over minor pro, junior and college hockey guides from the past five years. The names blurred into each other. Name after name ... so many players thinking a pair of skates, a hockey stick and a wrist shot with Raymond Bourque-like accuracy would be their ticket to the show. Hundreds of players who were household names -- but only in their own homes. They couldn't buy a cup of coffee in the big league ... so they had to settle for Peppy-Cola in Kelowna.
"Who've we got?" Derek asked.
"There's Gerry Sandman from Campbelltown, New Brunswick. He scored three goals on his own team last year before he was diagnosed as being color blind."
"No," said Marcotte. "Too dangerous."
"How about Biff Porkowsky from Moose Jaw? Six-one, 275 pounds ... defenseman. Played a couple of games in junior B two years ago but quit after he was traded."
"Let me guess. For a bag of pucks?"
"CAHA stamped and approved, said Artie. "It says here it was a big bag too."
"Hey. No one wants to get traded for a small bag of pucks. Before you know it, there's the emotional duress, the league has to look into it, the pucks are analyzed, etc., etc. It's just better to cough up the extra pucks and save yourself the hassle."
"So we're gonna take him?" asked Artie.
"Sure. Just be sure that when you enter him in the computer, you put him down for the full year. Give him a few goals and 300-plus penalty minutes. We'll beat Erskine at his own game."
"What if he decides to check it out?"
"Why should he?" said Derek. "We're doing his homework for him. All right. Who's next?"
"Let's see here. We've got Binky Feinstein ... a kid from Downsview. Five-seven, 148 pounds."
Derek leaned closer to the screen.
"He scored 68 goals?"
"No, that's his typing speed. The kid is the sports editor for the Downsview Update."
"Yes, but can he play hockey?" asked Derek.
"It says here he's seen more ice time at the Gardens than most young players coming up through the ranks."
"No shit?"
"That's right. He hasn't missed a Fan Appreciation Day skate in 12 years."
"Wait a minute," said Derek. "How the hell did he wind up in these stats?"
"Well, you know those media types. They play pick-up hockey against each other. One of them takes a post-game verbal poke at another and it becomes a never ending game of one-upmanship. Except they don't leave it on the ice. No, they take it to print. I guess the Downsview Update doesn't have the circulation or enough copy space for both parties involved. So Binky snuck his name into the ..."
Derek closed the hockey guide so they could see the cover. It was the 1992-93 NHL Entry Draft.
"Let's give him a call," Derek said. "The little shyster might give Ersk
ine a run for his money."
At Herculean, Erskine and Bittman crowded behind MacIlroy at his computer. Feinstein's nerdy, pock-marked face and his bogus statistics appeared on the screen. MacIlroy pressed a button and the chubby face of Porkowsky and his likewise inflated stats popped up. MacIlroy frowned.
"Who are these guys?" he asked.
"Never heard of'em," said Bittman.
"Of course not," said Erskine. "Marcotte is filling his final roster spots with ringers. He's looking under the rocks for us. Get them on the horn, boys."
Artie entered Derek's office. It was the day after they'd picked up Porkowsky and Feinstein. Derek was playing a computer hockey game. His team, the Leafs, scored on the Red Wings.
"Hah! Take that, octopussies ..."
"I just got off the phone with Porkowsky and Feinstein," said Artie. "Erskine went for it. They're flying out here later today."
"Yes!" Derek and Artie snapped off a high-five. "Time for phase two of Operation Dummy Drop," Marcotte said. He turned to his desk, grabbed the handset and put it on speaker phone. He punched in numbers and waited.
A mildewy voice answered the phone.
"Herculean ... may I help you?" asked the receptionist.
"This is Derek Marcotte. I want to talk with Erskine. Now."
The receptionist put him on hold. Forty-five seconds passed before Erskine answered.
"Yes, Marcotte? What can I do for you?"
"Don't you mean, what have you already done?"
"Oh, you mean Porkowsky and Feinstein," said Erskine. Yes, that is a tough break. But in this day and age, most men are surprisingly quick at pulling a number out of the air when you put a blank check in front of them."
"So now you're just a blatant corporate raider."
"Don't flatter yourself, Marcotte. You have to be a corporation first. But I am surprised how well you're taking all this."
