There's a Shark in My Hockey Pool (28 page)

Did he deserve it? He deserved a
titanium-plated ptarmigan for traipsing all over Canada's
hinterland. If they won this game, maybe Anne Murray would write a
song about it. She could take the ignominy out of it all and make
it sound almost ... inspiring. It would need a rough edge to it ...
to do the rocky Helen-Sylvie quinella any justice. Gordon Lightfoot
could hook on for a duet. That would work. Marcotte could see
himself listening to the song while sitting in a sunny sandbox at
some sanitarium.

He resurfaced in reality a few seconds later
in the midst of a locker room that was on the losing end of the
second intermission score.

"That, uh ... that was Winston Churchill.
He's played in some big games ... and survived the battles to win
the war. Unfortunately you've got me, not Winston. And we don't
have the extra battles to draw experience from. Not one scar to
scratch. Not one reconnaissance mission or one bloody scouting
report. We're marching down the Gaza Strip with Gideon's Bible on
this one, fellas."

"Like Winston said, it ain't gonna be easy. I
don't have the answers. I thought I did once upon a time. But I've
been fighting my own wars."

Derek dug his hands into his pockets and
looked around the room.

"You know why you're here. You're hired
hockey sticks ... mercenaries ... and I'm the low bidder, in case
you hadn't guessed. Well, boys ... mercenaries or monarchs ... no
one can buy the bullets you'll have to squeeze out of your sticks
to win this one."

He slapped his palm with his fist.

"But I've seen the playmaking ... that lifts
the fans out of their seats. And the checking ... that made the
same crowd cringe. Right here in this room. I'm asking to see it
now."

Marcotte sat down beside Arrette, who was
sweating profusely by the door. White caps could be seen on the
rivulets streaming down the goalie's face.

Head down, the Leafs coach slowly rubbed his
palms together. He finally raised his head to address the
troops.

"I'd give my other knee to be out there with
you today. But I can't. Y'know ... life is like a two-line pass
that's too close to call. Does the referee blow the play dead -- or
give his blessing to a breakaway? Off-side or on-side? Failure or
success? This game today was never supposed to take place. Or maybe
it was. Guys ... this is my Stanley Cup final. Let's make it
ours."

Standing up, Marcotte patted Arrette on the
shoulder.

"And let's keep Cal off his head this period,
" Derek said. We can win this thing. Let's go."

... 5 ...

At rink side, the Serpents bench was empty
except for Bobby Birdwell, the team's 13-year-old stick boy. Until
last week he'd simply been Erskine's paper boy. He relished this
new promotion and guarded the stick rack as if it were the only
wood left this side of the Amazon rain forest. Half a pack of
Bubble-Trouble wallowed in his mouth. Birdwell occasionally snuck a
peek at the audience for foxy 14-year-olds.

The Maharishi Fishi rounded the corner with a
hearty helping of nacho cheese-covered jalapeno peppers. He bit
into one, winced with delight and approached the young man.

"Excuse me, boy with sticks."

Birdwell pretended not to hear him and leaned
over to take a closer look at the bottom of the stick rack. Try as
he might, it was impossible for the stick boy to ignore the guru.
Jalapeno juice rained down. Birdwell straightened up and stared as
dully as a 14-year-old could, at the Maharishi. The psychic grinned
foolishly.

"I have not seen this place before ... and I
would like to know more about this game, hooky," he said.

The boy suddenly longed for his problem-free
paper route.

"They're selling programs out in the
concourse, mister."

The Maharishi reached instead for another
jalapeno. He bit the end and pepper juice sprayed on Birdwell's
chromium white, push-button stop'n-start, Kareem Abdul
Jabber-Wocky-autographed $149 Snipe sneakers.

"Let me get to the pointy subject," the
psychic said, juice dribbling down his chin. "The men on sharp
skates use these ... sticks ... to make a score."

"Score a goal," said Birdwell, gritting his
teeth.

"Right. You are so right, my friend of much
wood. Thank you very much. And tell me if you please. Why are they
bent at the bottom like my blessed cow's horn?"

"The puck travels differently in the air
after it's shot." Birdwell's patience thinned. He wouldn't have
been quite as accommodating if the usher behind the Maharishi
wasn't looking their way. Birdwell's mother had taken him off
ritalin last year and he sensed a hyper-bout coming on. He mentally
pictured an aluminum shaft stick cracking the shin of the strange
man who'd just jalapeno pepper-sprayed his spankin' new Snipes.

The Maharishi raised one finger to his temple
and squinted at the curved blade with "WOODLEY" stamped on the
shaft of the stick. Birdwell eyed the East Indian suspiciously. The
stick boy's once-abrupt attitude softened somewhat. Perhaps it was
the peppers. He'd seen his father go through the same mood swings
as well, when agonizing over which team to pick on his Quick Pucks
ticket.

"Is there something wrong, mister?"

The Maharishi Fishi ignored Birdwell and
continued his trance-like concentration. If the drone of the
Zamboni hadn't settled in over the rink, the stick boy would have
heard a low hum coming from the Maharishi. The guru in the gossamer
gown rolled his head -- and hips -- in a halting, circular motion.
He was doing the macarena. After a few seconds, the psychic lowered
his hand from his head, breathed deeply, hitched his drawers and
coughed twice. He munched on another pepper.

"Oh, do not think two times about it," the
psychic said to the stick boy. This part of the year is time for my
straw fever. My nose is running all over the place. Thank you again
for pointing me to the ropes."

The beginning of the third period drew near.
Fans returned to their seats, passing in front of the Maharishi
Fishi. A beer vendor squeezed passed the psychic.

"Cold beer! Get yer cold beer here!"

The vendor continued on, passing in front of
Sylvie. She looked down at Derek from the first row of seats
directly behind him. She leaned over the railing.

"Just thought you'd like to know ..."

"Sylvie!"

"LaBonneglace is done for the day -- and
they'll be shadowing Coolidge." Her face didn't change. She was a
TV anchor woman segueing from a British Columbia brush fire to a
flood in Fredericton.

She turned to leave. Her segment was over.
Stay tuned for sports.

"Sylvie. Wait."

She didn't stop or turn around, but exited by
the corridor. A few rows above, buried elbow-deep in her knitting,
sat Helen.

The teams stepped onto the ice surface and
skated around their own halves of the rink, loosening up for the
start of the third period.

"The teams are on the ice and we're just
about set for third period action," said Able.

Artie nudged Derek and nodded toward the
Serpents bench. LaBonneglace, wearing his streetclothes, stood near
the end of the bench. He squirmed and grimaced, his hands dug deep
in his pants pockets. Derek quizzed Artie with look. Hammond
shrugged.

An elderly woman and her grandson sat in the
first row immediately behind LaBonneglace. The woman watched the
sidelined player bounce from one foot to the other, his hands
stuffed in his front pockets ... doing more than staying warm. She
shook her head in disgust. Her grandson's attention had also been
diverted from the players on the ice to LaBonneglace.

"Does he have to go to the bathroom,
Grandma?"

"No, Billy. He's handicapped. It's not nice
to stare, dear."

The boy sat to her left. LaBonneglace was
doing the Twist Sans Shout to her right. With her left hand the
woman gripped her grandson's jaw and turned it away from
LaBonneglace, to the left to face the ice. With her right hand she
raised her purse by the strap and clobbered LaBonneglace.

As LaBonneglace fell to the floor, the
referee dropped the puck at center ice and third period action
began. Derek leaned between Coolidge and Hoover.

"I want you two to swap sweaters."

"Aw, coach," said Hoover. "I had number nine
first."

"I'm not trading," said Coolidge. "Ever take
a whiff of his equipment bag?"

"Let's go," said Derek. "The uniform doesn't
make the soldier."

Coolidge grudgingly doffed his jersey. Artie
bent over, pretending to examine the player's shoulder for an
injury. Hoover slipped out of his jersey and adjusted his elbow
pads. The jersey switch was made and both players put on their new
numbers.

"There's a stoppage in play with fifty-three
seconds gone here in the third period," said Able. "The Leafs send
out the President-Select line ... Coolidge, Hoover and
Tuckapuk."

At the Serpents bench, Erskine leaned over
the backs of Corcoran and Hicks.

"Remember, if Coolidge has to take a leak
..."

"... keep the urinal bar dry. We know, we
know," Corcoran and Hicks replied as one.

The referee dropped the puck. Able waited for
his stomach to stop growling before speaking.

"The Leafs win the face-off and Hoover -- I
mean, Coolidge ... controls the puck. Darn it, Harv. I keep mixing
those two up."

"That's American history for you. There's
more to remember every year. I gave up on it a long time ago."

"The Serpents are double-teaming Coolidge,"
said Able. "Hoover has plenty of room. He hits the red line with a
burst of speed. Gosh, Harv. How'd he get so fast all of
sudden?"

"I'll bet Marcotte peeled the plaster off the
walls in his speech to the troops."

"Hoover goes wide on Dillabough," said Able.
"He rips a shot ... HE SCORES! Well, hold the fries and praise the
skies! Hoover cruises down the right side and rockets one by a
surprised DeChance. The Leafs pull within two."

The scoreboard read SERPENTS 5, LEAFS 3.
18:45 remained in the third period. Coolidge and Hoover slid down
the bench as the next line stepped onto the ice. Hoover clapped
Coolidge on the helmet.

"Nice goal. Now give me back my damn
sweater."

"With pleasure."

"We're just past the five-minute mark in the
third ..." said Able. "Riddick slaps the puck into the Leafs
zone."

From the stands, Helen looked up from her
knitting to watch the Serpent defenseman. Riddick was looking at
her already. He glided towards the boards, with eyes only for her.
He forgot he was holding his stick in front of him in a waist-high,
parallel position to the ice. Riddick stopped like a man doing a
100-yard dash in a 90-yard gym. His stick hit the boards and rammed
into his stomach. He collapsed in a heap.

The crowd erupted in cruel laughter.

"Oooh!" said Kane, his knees suddenly nailed
together.

"Riddick appeared to be admiring his shot,"
said Able. " ... And skated right into the boards, impaling himself
on his stick! But the Leafs have the puck so play continues. Dixon
slaps the puck back out ..."

"Oww!" said Kane.

"The puck hit Riddick in the back!" said
Able. "He'd just gotten to his feet after that slap shot faux pas
... only to take a blistering drive from Dixon square in the back.
Stay down, son. Stay down!"

Hilliard and George Gobelthorpe, the two Leaf
defensemen, suddenly swooped in from either direction, plowing into
Riddick with a sandwich bodycheck.

"Boom!" shouted Kane.

"Riddick is sandwiched by Hilliard and
Gobelthorpe!" said Able. "Hilliard low bridged him. Gobelthorpe's
up in the air. Uh-oh."

As Gobelthorpe twirled in the air, his left
skate caught one of the stanchions holding a section of plexiglass
in place.

"Look out!" hollered Kane.

The large pane of plexiglass fell, shattering
on Riddick. The crowd groaned. Helen pushed and shoved her way
through the stands to get to the aisle.

Stapleman skated up to Riddick to help him,
but caught a rut and landed full force on him. The crowd exhaled
for the downed defenseman. This spurred Helen on faster as she
raced across the ice. She caught up to the trainer, who was having
difficulty slide-stepping and putting on his anti-AIDS gloves at
the same time.

From the Leafs bench, Derek watched in
awe.

Further down the bench, behind Marcotte,
Sylvie poked her head out from the corridor to see what the
commotion was all about.

Helen dragged the trainer the last twenty
feet to Riddick. They knelt down beside the injured player. The
trainer shook his head at the mess spread before him. He hadn't
been sick since his intern days at Oshawa General, but the turkey
sandwich he had for lunch was starting to flap its wings in his
stomach. He took a deep breath.

"Multiple contusions, shoulder separation
..."

"Oh, no ..." said Helen.

"... lacerations, possible punctured lung,
bruised kidney ..." said the trainer.

"Oh, my ..." said Helen.

"Where do I start? This guy needs a new
body."

"Oh, yes ..."

From the Leafs bench, Derek punched the
air.

"Yes!"

The gods had answered. For games that went
into sudden death overtime, they always put in an obligatory
appearance. The gods did however, frown upon coaches who urged
their players that there was such a thing as a "good penalty" to
take. Finally, because all players were created equal, the heavens
smiled on games that ended in ties.

Coolidge watched the fallen Riddick, then
turned his attention to Derek, who was holding his fist high in the
air. The Leaf winger nudged Hoover.

"Morbid sucker, ain't he?"

Sylvie appeared beside the Leafs bench. Derek
strode over to her, smiled, and reached out for her. She slid into
his arms. Together they watched the Serpent players, trainer and
Helen wheel Riddick off the ice on a stretcher.