Power Play (5 page)

I knew what a compliment that was coming from him.

“They’re going to kick us both off soon so they can resurface the ice. Put the pucks into the net and we’ll gather them from there,” he said.

We started shooting or tapping the pucks into the net. He shot them hard, still putting them in the corners. I did the same and quickly realized that we were in an unspoken contest. I’d shoot one into the bottom-left corner and he’d do the same with his next shot. If I went top shelf, then he went top shelf.

“I figure your dream is to make the Show, right?” he asked as he hit the net again.

“Isn’t that everybody’s dream?”

“Yeah, everybody I grew up with,” he agreed. “Of course, most don’t make it. Sixty kids in this camp and no more than six have a shot at it.”

“I was thinking it was less than that.”

He chuckled. “I said a shot. Not making it. And do you think you’re one of them?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” I replied. I snapped another shot, low, more centre than I would have liked—an easy stop for any goalie. “What’s more important is, what do
you
think?”

“I
think
there are players in this camp who are more skilled than you, and I
know
there are players who are bigger than you.”

“I heard that the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“Usually the harder they fall right on top of you,” he said, and laughed.

“So am I one of those six?” I asked.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” he said.

Well, maybe he didn’t believe in me, but I knew somebody who
did
.

“Making it is about more than skill or size,” he said.

The big gates at the end opened and the Zamboni was there, running, waiting to come on.

“We better clear off,” he said. “But there’s still one puck left.” He pointed into the far corner.

“I’ll get it.”

“We’ll see about that!” he exclaimed.

He put a hand on my shoulder and yanked me back as he started racing toward the corner. I jumped forward and chased. He was going to beat me there … but that was no guarantee of who would come out of the corner with the puck!

H
ey, Cody, we’re heading downtown to get some pizza,” Tanner said. “You want to join us?”

“First off, Watertown doesn’t have anything that could be called downtown, and second, I’m thinking no.”

Funny, I thought, if Coach Connors did draft me, this place would be my home for the next three or four years. Watertown wasn’t very big—it was nothing like living in Toronto—but I would have killed to call this place home. It would mean not just being in the OHL but having a great coach, somebody who believed in me, to help me make it to the next level, the ultimate level. I stopped myself again. No point in dreaming too much or too big. Not yet.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” said Colby, another one of my bunk mates. “You just gonna hang around here instead?”

“No, I’m going to head out. I got someplace to go.” Now I’d have to come up with a lie, fast, to explain where I was going and what I was going to be—

“Does she at least have a friend?” Tanner asked.

I smiled. So much for
me
having to come up with a lie.

“I’m sure she has lots of friends,” I said. “I just don’t know if any of them are desperate enough to want to be with you.”

“How about with me?” Colby asked.

“For you we’d have to find somebody who was desperate
and
blind.”

“And don’t forget me,” Ben added as he came out of the bathroom, wearing just a towel.

“Look, men—and believe me, I’m just using that term to be polite—I understand how you three probably
need
somebody to get women for you, but isn’t it enough that I carry your sorry butts around the ice? Do I really need to get you women as well?”

“
Need
is a pretty strong word,” Colby said. “We don’t need women.”

“Speak for yourself!” Ben said and gave him a push.

Colby grabbed Ben and the two started to wrestle.

“I told you he didn’t need women!” Ben screamed as his towel flopped off and he and Colby rolled around on the carpet. “He’s after my privates! Help, help, he’s trying to do me!”

Colby pushed him away and jumped to his feet while Ben grabbed his towel and wrapped it around himself again.

“Come on, Cody,” Tanner said. “She doesn’t have to have three friends, just one—okay, maybe two—for me.”

“You couldn’t handle two women!” Ben laughed.

“Shut up or I’ll shove you out the door and into the hall with just your towel … or with
no
towel,” Tanner said.

Ben looked worried. “I don’t know if Colby could control himself if he saw me naked again.” He pulled his towel a bit tighter around his waist. “So, are you going to get us some women?”

“Why don’t you just get your own puck-bunnies?” I suggested. “There have to be girls with low standards in this town.”

“There must be at least
one
,” Ben said. “After all,
you
have a date.”

In one move, I grabbed Ben and spun him around so that his arms were pinned behind him.

“Open the door!” I yelled.

“No, you can’t—!”

Tanner opened the door and I pushed Ben toward the opening. Just as he was about to exit, Colby grabbed the towel away and I shoved the naked Ben out the door and into the hall. I released his arms and he just got his hands up before he smacked into the wall on the other side of the hallway! I slammed the door closed.

Ben threw himself against the door. “Come on, let me in!” he hollered and started pounding against it.

I put on the chain lock and opened the door just the little distance it would go.

“Let me in!” he screamed.

“You should try to keep it down so you don’t attract attention,” I suggested. I turned to Colby and took the towel. “Here,” I said as I offered it to Ben. He tried to take it, but I snatched it back inside and out of his reach. “You don’t look grateful. Shouldn’t you at least say thank you for my generous offer?”

He looked too stunned, embarrassed, and angry to even think of what to reply.

“Because if the local girls get a look at your, shall we say, merchandise, the only puck-bunnies you’re going to get will have short expectations or little dreams.”

Tanner and Colby were cracking up behind me.

“Give me my towel!” he yelled.

“So what’s the magic word?” I asked.

Ben looked mad enough to spit.

“Well?”

“Could I
please
have my towel?” he asked.

“I’m
hearing
the word, but I’m just not
feeling
it.”

“Cody, don’t—”

He stopped as we both heard voices coming down the hall.

“Too late to apologize,” I said, and I slammed the door closed.

He started pounding on the door again. I clicked off the chain, opened it, and he fell into the room, landing on the floor!

“Here’s your towel,” I said, and we all exploded into laughter.

He scrambled for it, covering up and jumping to his feet.

This was the moment. Either he was going to take a swing at me or—he burst into a big smile. “You pervert.”

“Me? It wasn’t me who was butt-naked in the hall, flashing people as they went by. You’re the perv!”

I opened the door. “Do you know where you’re going for that pizza?”

“Dominic’s is the name of it, I think,” Tanner said.

“We’ll see what happens. Maybe I’ll show up with her and some of her friends.”

“That would be fantastic!” Colby said.

“Yeah, amazing,” Ben agreed.

“But no promises. If I’m choosing between a piece of pizza and a
piece
, you know which one I’m gonna take!”

They all laughed and gave me high-fives and slaps on the back. This was all so convincing that I had to remind myself that I wasn’t really going to see some girl. That would have been good, but new gloves and shoulder pads were even better. I started thinking that the ideal girl would have a father who owned a sporting goods store and a pizza place.

I bent down and picked up my sports bag.

“What’s in the bag?” Tanner asked.

At that moment, the answer was “Nothing”—I was just bringing it to put my new stuff in—but I couldn’t say that.

“You never know what you might need. A guy has to be like a boy scout … prepared for anything.”

They all hooted.

“So if I’m not here at curfew, could you three cover for me?” I asked.

“Who says
we’re
going to be here?” Ben asked.

“Why, are you going to order a second pizza?”

More laughter. I figured he was smart enough not to chirp at me anymore.

“I guess we’ll see,” I said. “Don’t wait up.”

I left, closing the door behind me. The only issue was that I couldn’t show up back at the residence before them, or until just before curfew, or they’d figure that my date had gone bad. I chuckled. I now had to make a fake date appear successful. That could be a problem. It wasn’t like it was going to take me long to pick up the equipment, and I couldn’t wander around downtown without the risk of being seen by them. I’d just have to make up some story about her father coming home early, or how she was a churchy girl and I knew I was wasting my time. I had always been able to come up with a lie pretty fast to cover up for something that I’d done wrong. My father wasn’t into forgiveness or understanding, so I’d learned that a lie was often easier than the truth—and a lot less painful.

Passing through the common room on my way out the door, I had to walk through about thirty guys who were all focused on the big-screen TV and the Xbox NHL game going on. Four players were working the controls while everybody else was cheering them on like it was a real game. They were all yelling and laughing and screaming to be heard over the loud music they had playing.

For most of them, this was as close as they were ever going to get to the NHL unless they bought a ticket. Video games were such a waste of time. If some of these guys had spent nearly as much time working on their wrist shots as twisting their wrists around to work the controller, they might actually have had a shot at the real thing.

I didn’t own an Xbox, so there wasn’t any big temptation for me to play, but even if I’d had one, I wouldn’t have played it … more than occasionally. I wasted enough time going to school, so there was no way I was going to waste any more on stupid video games. Ice time might have been expensive and hard to get, but a couple of pieces of plywood—one on the ground as the ice and the other on the wall as the net—were dirt cheap. I couldn’t even guess how much time I’d spent in the basement or on the driveway shooting. I guess the only real clues were the dents in the garage door and the marks on the basement wall … and a couple that dinged the dryer as well.

The secret to anything—whether it was hockey, hockey video games, or, I guess, playing the violin—was to just practise. I’d long ago figured out which of those was the
best use of my time, but I also knew that if I
did
decide to play the violin, I’d learn how to play it well. I wouldn’t be wasting my time playing violin video games … was there even such a thing? Probably not, because who wanted to even play the
real
violin to begin with?

I slipped around the mob as they watched the game unfold. I opened the door and exited, nobody having seen me leave.

I
looked up at the building and down at the piece of paper Coach Connors had given me. This was the right place. It just wasn’t what I’d expected. This dump didn’t match either his fancy car or his expensive suits.

I pushed open the door and there was a strange odour … stale … sour … it smelled
poor
. I knew that smell. I went into the stairwell and another aroma was added—urine. Up two flights to the top floor and then down the hall, looking for 311. I stopped at the door and listened. Music was coming through the door. It was faint but familiar. I listened harder and recognized the voice. It was one of my father’s favourites, The Rolling Stones.

I knocked on the door, and within seconds it opened up and the music got louder.

“Hey, Cody!” Coach Connors exclaimed. “Good to see you! Come on in!”

I walked into the apartment. The furniture wasn’t much better than the rest of the building. And strangely, the curtains were not just pulled shut but held shut with duct tape—why would he do that?

“Hang on!” he yelled over the music. He walked over to an iPod dock and turned down the volume. “I guess that isn’t the kind of thing you listen to.”

“Not really, but my father loves The Stones and Led Zeppelin and all that classic rock stuff.”

“Classic rock rules!” he said with a laugh. “They are never going to make music like that again. Mick and Keith strutted the stage like nobody else ever did or ever will.”

I shrugged. Whatever. Anyway, liking something my father liked wasn’t impressive.

“You have to think of them as being to music what guys like Gretzky, Messier, and Coffey—or before that Howe, Lindsay, and Abel—were to hockey. The Stones weren’t just about music but about attitude. They
knew
who they were.”

“Okay …”

“So, do you want something to drink?” he asked.

“Sure, that would be great.”

He picked up a glass. “I’m drinking wine myself. Would you like some wine, or maybe a beer?”

“A beer?”

He laughed. “Don’t act like you’ve never had one before.”

“Of course I’ve had a beer.”

“I could get you a soft drink instead, if you really want one.”

“No, I’ll take the beer,” I said.

“Good. I mean, what’s the point of pretending? And anyway, I think it’s artificial to assign an age when somebody is old enough to have a drink. I know some sixteen-year-olds who are mature enough to drink and some sixty-year-olds who shouldn’t be allowed anything stronger than fruit punch, you know what I mean? So, I have Blue, Canadian, Coors Light … what do you want?”

“Canadian would be fine.”

“Is that what your father drinks?” he asked.

“My father drinks whatever’s put in front of him.”

I sat down on a couch. Coach went into the kitchen and I could see through the doorway as he opened up the fridge. There wasn’t much food in there, but there was a lot of beer. Funny, he’d never struck me as much of a drinker—maybe he had more in common with my father than his taste in music.

He walked back in and handed me the beer, and I twisted off the cap.

“Cheers,” he said, and he clinked his glass against the bottle.

“Cheers.”

I hesitated. I felt a little uneasy. Was this a test or something?

“Drink up,” he said.

If it was a test, I’d already failed, so what else could I do? I took a sip of the beer.

“Probably better to keep this just between us,” he said. “Or maybe just tell your old man … he’d understand.”

Again, not much question there. He
would
understand having a drink, but I’d learned not to tell him anything.

“I don’t know anybody who didn’t have a beer or two before they were legal age. I just think it’s better that it’s done under supervision instead of in some alley or in a park,” Coach said.

That did make sense.

“Not much of a place,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed as he glanced around the apartment. He settled into a chair that sat directly across from a big-screen TV—for sure the most expensive thing there. “I just rented it when Terry appointed me coach. To be honest, I don’t plan on spending much time here anyway. I practically live at the arena during the season.”

“What’s up with the windows?” I asked, gesturing to the curtains, which were duct-taped shut.

“Sometimes I sleep at strange times and I like it dark. Besides, I don’t like people peeking in, snooping into my life. I like my privacy … which is hard when you live in the public eye. Especially in a place as small as Watertown.” He paused. “So, what do you think of the camp so far?”

“It’s good. I’m enjoying it … learning a lot.”

“I watched you go into the corner with Terry after
practice today,” he said. “Pretty cool to be going up against a former big-leaguer.”

I smiled. It was pretty cool.

“He’s still as strong as an ox,” Coach Connors said.

“Tell me about it. I gave him a shoulder and he just shrugged me off.”

“Man against boy. You’ll grow and develop, build some more muscle. Who knows where you might end up … someday …”

He let the sentence trail off, but we both knew what he meant—maybe someday I could be in the Show too.

“Terry’s a solid guy,” Coach Connors said. “This is the fifth year I’ve worked with him at the camps, and now, being his next head coach, it’s even better. He’s always straightforward, no problems, no hassles. He’s a pillar of this community … so respected. He and I are
tight
,” he said, holding up two fingers side by side. “Like I already told you, who you know counts for a lot in this business.”

“But you’re a great coach. Isn’t that enough?”

“I
am
a great coach, but it’s connections that get you where you need to go. Remember that. My connection to Terry opened the door … maybe for both of us.”

“I guess he’s a good guy,” I said.

“He is. Not much of a coach, mind you, but a good guy.” He paused. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that. You might think he’s a great coach.”

I shook my head. “I know who’s really running the school.” I pointed at him, and he smiled.

“Thanks for noticing. You’re a smart kid.”

“You want to tell that to my teachers?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t worry about it too much. Some people are smart in school and stupid in life and on the ice. I know you had problems in school this year,” he said. “Your father told me all about it … a few times.”

“I’m passing,” I said defensively.

“I know, but the suspensions could have been avoided.”

I’d had three suspensions—one for cutting classes, one for being “disrespectful” to a teacher who didn’t deserve respect, and another for a fight. The last one I didn’t regret at all.

“The problem is that people see you having trouble in school and they think that means you’ll be trouble on their team,” he said.

“I’ve never been trouble for a team!” I protested.

“I know that. But it’s like having low marks and people not understanding that there are different types of smart. To some people, trouble is just trouble.” He finished off the wine in his glass and poured himself another. “So, tell me, what do you think about the other players in our camp?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure what to say. I had opinions, but was it really okay for me to share them?

“Don’t be shy; I’m not just asking for fun. I want to know more about your hockey IQ. I want to know if you
really
know hockey.”

I still wasn’t sure how honest I ought to be.

“Look, I’m not going to tell anybody what you think, and I know that you won’t tell them what I think about Terry. I trust
you
, and you have to learn to trust
me
. Okay?”

I nodded. “Well … there are some guys who really know what they’re doing,” I said. “You have some
players
.”

“And some who aren’t?”

I laughed. “Lots. There are
players
and there are
posers
,” I said. “Some people are only here because their parents have the money.”

“No argument from me there. The way I see it, there are really only three players that have any chance of moving up. A couple more may have the skills, but they don’t have the heart. If you don’t have the passion, the desire to learn, and a willingness to listen to the coach, then having the skills means nothing.”

I nodded again.

“I want you to look at these.” He pulled out a binder from underneath the coffee table and placed it in front of me, opening it up to reveal a picture of one of the guys in the camp. “There’s a section on every player,” he said. “A few pictures, and then extensive notes about them.”

That explained why he’d been taking pictures while we were on the ice.

“In a hockey camp my goals are realistic. I just want to make everybody better. And for me to help them, I really have to know them. I look at strengths, weaknesses, tendencies. I can’t help them become better players until I know what they need to work on.”

“That makes sense,” I agreed.

“Have a look at the book and let me know what you think. I’ll get you another beer.”

“I’m not finished this one,” I said, holding it up.

“Well, when you’re ready, there’s plenty more where that came from … unless you can’t handle your alcohol?”

“I can handle it.” I tipped the bottle back and chugged it down, a little escaping from my mouth and dripping down my chin as the rest went down my throat.

He went to the kitchen while I drained the dregs in my bottle. When he came back, he had another Canadian for me.

“By the way,” he said, “you should read the section on you.”

I closed the book on the final player and took a slug from my fourth beer.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

“I agree with what you wrote … you just wrote so much.”

“Some coaches think that scouting is just about watching what a player does on the ice, but I know better. You really have to get to know the guy, who he is, his family background, what makes him tick.”

“And what you wrote about me … do you really think I could make it …?” I let the sentence trail off.

“I believe you have the potential. If you have the right coaching, you have a shot at the big time. Like I said at the rink, I believe in you enough to risk a draft pick on you this summer.”

“Really?”

“If you’re still available at the right place in the draft, then I’m going to pull the trigger. But you have to understand that I’m not going to take you with my first or second pick.”

“You’re not?”

“Don’t be disappointed,” he said.

He was even better at reading my feelings than I was at hiding them, and I’d spent years learning to bury them deep.

“The draft is just a big game. I have to make guesses, educated guesses, about where players will go, what value other scouts have assigned them, and I have to risk that you won’t be taken until later. It’s not that other coaches don’t think you have the skills. They just wonder if the problems in school and with your family make you a risk. You have to understand that none of that is a secret. Like I said, everybody is connected one way or another.”

“I understand … it’s just that school isn’t the rink, and it’s not fair to blame me if my father gets mouthy at the arena!”

“I know that,” he said. “Part of being a good scout and a good coach is that you have to learn about the person. And I like what I see.”

“Thanks.” It was a relief to hear that he believed in me. I didn’t get that from many people.

“There are lots of coaches, but not a lot of
good
coaches,” he said.

“And you’re a good coach.” I laughed. “Although this is the first time I’ve ever shared a beer with one of my coaches.”

“Well, you’re not a kid anymore—I can see that every time you’re on the ice—so drink up. You’ve earned it!” He knocked back the wine in his own glass—I always thought wine was for sipping, but maybe not.

“Part of being a coach,” he said, picking up the subject again, “is knowing the players I coach
against
. You have to know how to exploit weaknesses, look for bad habits, patterns. Good scouting and good coaching work together to win games. I think I showed that again this year.”

“For sure … congratulations on winning the division again,” I said.

“Three years in a row. That’s what gave me the chance to move up a level—well, that and knowing Terry. Never forget the personal connections.”

“Do you ever think about coaching at the next level, in the NHL?”

“Who wouldn’t? But I really think my strength is with younger players. Coaching them, helping them to develop—that’s where my passion is,” he explained. “You never know, though, what will happen in the future. Life is full of surprises. But for now I’m going to work with
those players who are willing to make the sacrifices.” He lifted his glass in a toast. We clinked again, and then I gulped some more down.

“So, does anybody know you’re here this evening?” he asked.

“Nobody. Hardly anybody even knows that I’m out.”

“Hardly anybody?”

“My roommates know I was heading out, but they don’t know where,” I explained.

“And they weren’t curious?”

“I told them I was going out to see some girl in town.”

He laughed. “Very smart, and very believable. You are obviously a very good liar.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that.

He laughed again. “Don’t worry. That’s all right. When I’m coaching, there are lots of things I don’t say. Some things don’t need to be talked about, or shouldn’t be talked about.”

Okay, that was better.

“Come here, I want to show you something,” he said.

I got up—I felt a little buzzed. The beer, especially drunk that fast, had gone to my head and my legs. He led me out of the room and into the bedroom. Taped to the wall were a bunch of big white bristol boards, and on them were pictures of hockey players and newspaper and magazine stories about them.

“This is my wall of fame. Do you know what all of these players have in common?” he asked.

I looked, studying, trying to figure out the answer to his question. I knew some of them—they were NHL players—but there were others in minor league uniforms who I didn’t know.