There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool (25 page)

He stared through the doorway at the team
inside. What had he done? He'd heaped his hopes onto the backs of a
bunch of strangers, expecting them to go and grab his Holy Grail.
He was the pacing, chafing coach ... a rookie in those ranks, a
one-game indoctrination for which he'd spend more than one summer
reflecting on the outcome.

The room rank of nervousness. He could smell
the ice. A gaggle of goose bumps honked up and down his spine. The
crisp cool air swept him back to his college days. Adrenalin
squeezed off another round as Marcotte watched the Zamboni exit the
ice. He longed to step out onto the immaculate, virgin-anew, frozen
surface. It was similar to getting into a cold car and waiting for
it to heat up. The initial chill in the air zipped through your
long underwear. It was forgotten however, after a lap and a half
around the rink.

Derek and Artie stood in the doorway. Artie
held two cups of coffee. Behind them, their goalie, Cal Arrette,
stood in full gear in the open area washroom. There were no doors
on the stalls. A no loitering policy was arena-wide. Arrette
checked his face in the mirror. The mug staring back at him was
creamy white, on the verge of turning a sour yellow.

"I didn't think we could afford an eye in the
sky," said Artie, pointing to the hardware Marcotte was
packing.

Derek winked at him.

"Thank god for CBC cutbacks."

Artie shook his head, not wanting to hear the
rest of the story. He handed Derek his coffee. They both took a
sip.

"You ready?" asked Derek.

"My resume is."

Behind them, Arrette grabbed the basin with
both hands and let loose a spew that included most of the Soft Jazz
Cafe's blue plate special. Derek nodded to Arrette.

"Looks like he's ready too."

"Okay, guys. Let's go," Derek said.

The players filed past Marcotte and Hammond
out through the door along the rubber-matted runway to the ice.
Tuckapuk ... Starsikov ... Hutchny ... they all shuffled by. Derek
watched their faces. He wondered if deep down inside they were
ready to bust their butts for a small advertising firm. Would they
realize this wasn't some kind of beer league game? He'd gone over
the pre-game preparations with them already. He reminded them of
the TV cameras, a good crowd on hand, a chance for some exposure
... and if they were going to party in the big city tonight, to at
least do something on the ice that would be worth talking about
later.

It was the first time Derek couldn't lead by
example. In a sense, he was out of his element, standing behind the
bench, unable to leap over the boards. The gap between the bench
and the dasher boards may as well have been the Grand Canyon.
Though he wasn't making the leap, Marcotte still suffered from Evel
Knievel-like pre-jump jitters.

Greg Arryus was the second last player out
the door, followed by Cal Arrette. The Leaf's goalie only had an
upset stomach -- the kind that flared up 35 minutes before game
time. His metabolism would quit red-lining after the first kick
save.

Derek looked back into the dressing room.
This was it. The troops were advancing. This was his Waterloo, his
destiny. Ever the diligent field marshal, Marcotte sensed his army
lacking a vital enlistment. Sylvie. Or perhaps Florence
Nightengale.

Ray Marcotte looked on from the crowd. He'd
bet the Brooks Brother suit beside him $50 that the Leafs would
prevail, at 20-to-1 odds. Bradley Muldowney had centre ice seats.
The Tortellini brothers were also in attendance. The seats
immediately in front of them had emptied out a few minutes after
the beer vendor had arrived. The three brothers were debating which
Toronto players should be traded since the team had missed the
play-offs again. The Tortellinis' animated discussion, jostled beer
cups, and sincere apologies did little to stem the tide of splashed
beer on the row of seats below them.

A couple of sections away, Helen sat knitting
a muffler for Derek. It kept her from chewing on her nails. She
looked up and noticed a big, lumbering Serpents defenseman, Art
Riddick, skate by. He spotted her. Their eyes met and he flashed
her a big, toothless grin. Embarrassed that she'd been caught
staring, she quickly looked back to her knitting. She forgot to
pearl. When Riddick passed again, her gaze followed him, watching
him skate behind the net.

High above the ice surface in the press box,
Syl Able and Harvey Kane, both in their fifties and passionate
collectors of Perry Como LPs, sat at their respective microphones.
Able was the balding play-by-play man. Every suit he owned was an
off-the-rack, off-brown shade. He spoke with a drilling, nasal
drone, which at times felt like the worst thirty seconds of a root
canal.

Kane, the color analyst, was forty pounds
overweight and hated ties. Ever since one of the New York Islander
Stanley Cup parties, he had recurring nightmares where he saw
himself sitting on a Clydesdale horse. One end of a large polka-dot
tie was wrapped around his neck, the other end tied to the Statue
of Liberty's torch hand. The final siren of the period would sound,
sending the horse bolting and leaving Kane dangling in the wind.
One Coney Island gypsy told him the dream harkened back to distant
relatives of his who had arrived at Ellis Island at the turn of the
century. They were denied entrance after they'd listed their
occupation as polka party emcees. Another crystal ball doll told
him to lay off the beluga and beer.

Beluga, beer or not, Kane's booming voice had
been known to trample all over Able's nasal narrative when the
action on the ice turned up a notch.

Able received the cue from his producer to
begin the broadcast.

"Tonight, in a Cinderella match-up ... the
rag-tag Leafs will try and topple the Herculean Serpents. Both
teams' rosters have been stocked in a cross-country search where
their respective coaches have tried to get the proper feet to fit
into the glass slipper ... heh-heh ... or hockey skate. Your
thoughts, Harv."

"Well, besides being an extra day's pay for
us ... this game has it all. It's a who's who of the up and coming
stars, with some good ol' punch'em up parolees -- out for good
behaviour -- tossed into the mix. My mama told me to just sit back
and watch games like these, Syl."

"Smart woman," said Able.

Able turned his attention to the pre-game
activities below them.

"Both teams are on the ice. They've waived
the national anthems because of the vast number of differing
nationalities on the ice tonight. I understand this decision only
came down a few minutes before game time."

A wrenching scream came from the northwest
corner of the arena. The organist, Art Secord, stomped around the
organ, ranting and raving. He pulled out what little hair he had
left ... in white, wispy tufts. He had practised non-stop the past
week to learn 14 different national anthems.

Secord planted himself back at the organ,
cranked the volume and was a full minute into Led Zeppelin's Dazed
and Confused before security pulled the plug.

The players lined up for the opening
face-off. The Serpents were minus a winger and a defenseman on the
ice.

On the Serpents bench, Erskine walked behind
Porkowsky and Feinstein. He tapped them on the shoulders.

"Porkowsky. Feinstein. Let's go, boys. It's
show time."

"Uh, maybe you should have someone else take
the face-off, coach," said Porkowsky.

"Yes," said Feinstein. "We don't want to
appear to be too important. The other players might look down on
us."

A few players within earshot on either side
of Porkowsky and Feinstein turned and stared at them in
disbelief.

"There seems to be a bit of a delay at the
Serpents bench," said Able.

Porkowsky continued to stall.

"We could go out as the second line ..."

"Or even the third ..." said Feinstein.

Erskine shook his head in wonder. He
chuckled.

"You guys are too much. Dupuis ... Treadwell.
Get out there."

The referee dropped the puck and the game
began. The Serpents fired the puck into the Leafs zone.

"Dupuis shoots the puck in for the Serpents,"
said Able. "Arrette stops it behind the net. Tuckapuk picks up the
puck ... say that ten times fast, eh, Harv?"

"Tuckapik ... er, Puckatuk ... oh, fuck a
duck."

"Thank god we're on cable," said Able. "The
Inuit winger brings it out to center ice. He's stripped by the
Serpents player, Hicks. Hicks spots Sandersson crossing the red
line. Sandersson, the Swedish superstar, flies down the right side.
The Leafs defenseman, Bobby Hilliard, lines him up."

Hilliard slammed Sandersson into the end
boards. Kane bounced up and down in his seat.

"Boom! The guy's got rocks in his
pockets!"

"Ooh," said Able. "That was nasty. Sandersson
shakes it off, though. Play continues in the neutral zone.
Sandersson heads for the bench ... but he doesn't go off. He's
playing possum! Woodley hits him with a pass. Sandersson is in ...
stone-cold sober ... all alone. He scores! Well, beat my butt with
a big black boot! Serpents lead one nothing."

Sandersson circled behind the net, his hands
raised high in the air. An octopus came hurtling out of the stands,
hitting him flush in the face. Sandersson fell to the ice, out
cold.

Erskine looked on from the Serpents
bench.

"Tough crowd."

The Swede lay flat on his back behind the
net. The Serpents trainer ran out onto the ice, slip-sliding down
the ice to him.

"Sandersson's been hit!" hollered Able.
"Somebody hit Sandersson with a ... a ..."

"An octopus, Syl," said Kane. "Looks to be
eight pounds ... maybe nine. Let's go to the replay for another
look."

From the section where the octopus was
thrown, fans waited for the red light at the top of the nearby TV
camera to go on before waving their hands. One big, meaty hand
belonged to Louie, the fish market owner. He waved toward the Leafs
bench.

Artie smiled and gave Louie the thumbs up
gesture.

Erskine paced behind the Serpents bench.

"Let's chang'em up. Porkowsky. Get out there
for Sandersson. Feinstein. Take Riddick off."

Porkowsky and Feinstein looked up at him
helplessly.

"Aw, coach," whined Porkowsky.

"Dillabough hasn't been on the ice yet," said
Feinstein.

Dillabough jumped to his feet and swung one
leg over the boards, ready to jump over.

"Easy, Dillabough," said Erskine. He turned
to Porkowsky and Feinstein.

"Look. I want you ..." Erskine jabbed
Porkowsky in the chest.

"Owww."

"And you ..." Erskine poked Feinstein in the
chest. Feinstein winced.

"On the ice. Now!"

The referee skated over to the Serpent
bench.

"Do your players need a written invitation
for every face-off?"

"Just discussing a little strategy," said
Erskine. He turned to Dahlgleish.

"Junkyard. Tell our friends here ..."

The goon stood up, growling. He slammed his
stick down, snapping the blade. Junkyard waved the jagged, busted
heel of the stick in front of Porkowsky's and Feinstein's noses.
The two players scrambled over the boards, falling onto the
ice.

"Binky Feinstein and Biff Porkowsky ..." said
Able. "Two late additions to the Serpents, take their spots for the
face-off."

"Coach Erskine must be a keen judge of
talent," said Kane. "I look at these two guys and I see a couple of
zeros."

"Er ... you must be talking about their point
totals."

"No, I'm --"

"The puck is dropped," said Able. "Coolidge
takes it for the Leafs. He blows by Feinstein."

Feinstein fell down, untouched. Able leaned
into his mike.

"Coolidge goes by Porkowsky like he's
standing still. He is standing still!"

The puck passed between Porkowsky's legs. He
bent over, lost his balance and tumbled into a heap.

"Coolidge shoots! Oh! Pad save by Pa
DeChance! Another shot by Coolidge! And another! He jams it in!
They score! Well, grab my go-o-o-o-o-o-se with gardening
gloves!"

Erskine was livid. At the Leafs bench, Derek
and Artie shared a chuckle.

A calico cat walked along the top of a closed
dumpster in the alley behind the rink. The cat scurried off the top
as the dumpster lid slowly opened, revealing two pairs of eyes.
They belonged to Feinstein and Porkowsky.

"The coast is clear," said Feinstein.

Feinstein propped the lid all the way back.
Throwing one leg over the side, he mounted the side of the
dumpster. He dusted the garbage off himself.

"We're lucky we didn't get killed," said
Feinstein.

"Yeah," said Porkowsky from below. "Good
thing Erskine reminded Junkyard about the rules of his
probation."
"Three times. You comin'?" asked Feinstein.

Porkowsky stood up. He held two large plastic
bags. One was full of donuts, the other chicken wings.

"Here. Hold these." He handed the two bags to
Feinstein and disappeared back into the dumpster. Porkowsky rustled
about for a few seconds and stopped. A hollow question came from
below.

"Barbecue sauce or honey and garlic?"

On the Serpents bench, Erskine tapped
LaBonneglace on the shoulder.

"Okay, LaBonneglace. Let's see if you're all
smoke and no sizzle."

"Quit playing wit' my mind, coach."

LaBonneglace hopped over the boards.

The referee dropped the puck and LaBonneglace
quickly gained control. He passed the puck back to Dillabough, who
hit him with a return pass at the Leafs blue line. The French
Canadian, a left-handed shooter, skated at a slant for the right
boards. At the top of the right face-off circle he turned on his
skates, gliding backwards. Hitting the brakes and using the
defenseman as a screen, he one-timed a blistering drive over
Arrette's right shoulder.