Twizzlers and Hockey Cardsby Justin Ludwig

3095 words Justin Ludwig

This is what I remember about Roberton, that weekend: it was a small

town with no flashing lights. We’d been there before, either for early

morning practices or just in passing, and it was familiar, like any of the

myriad of towns evaporating off of Saskatchewan’s mighty plain. The

people there all seemed to wear the same smile and muted, lazy

church clothes. There was one very general store that sold just

enough to get people by day-to-day, and one restaurant that was

attached to the gas station. It was just called The Restaurant; it didn’t

need a spicier name because it had no competition. We would eat

breakfast with my grandparents there on morning drives across the

prairie; gravy-slathered cutlets were under five dollars and came with

three sides. There were vinyl tablecloths and vinyl seats and vinyl in

the jukebox, still.

Nothing moved very quickly in town, maybe because it didn’t

have to. It was a community built around dying farms and pee-wee

hockey. Families would come out to tournaments they weren’t

involved in, just to be there. Even old men in faded, flaccid Wheat Pool

caps – their own children grown up and moved on – would stand in cold

bleachers and watch us play. They cheered, as though it meant

something. That weekend, the weekend of the RMHA Valentine’s

tournament, it was as if Lord Stanley himself had dropped onto this

tiny world something monumental.

2

My father and I were always early; that particular Saturday I

really felt it. Our forty minute car trip began at exactly 6:00 AM and

was mostly silent. We listened to the oldies station on the way; I have

a strange memory of “So Happy Together” tugging at my eyelids as

though they were impossibly heavy curtains, while telephone poles

passed the truck so quickly that they became a flickering nuisance on

the otherwise tranquil prairie Nothing. During that car ride my father

spoke to me briefly, and for the first time about his own childhood. We

were the first car in the lot and we parked next to the side door, which

still wore a heavy chain. For long minutes we heard an engine

converse with the wind, and we waited.

The town’s population swelled by 7:00 AM. The snow covering

the few paved streets turned from white to the suffocating brown of

snow in the city. By that time the rink already smelled of sweat and

coffee and rubber and ice, that great hockey rink smell. Dads in brown

and black jackets shared laughs, themselves giddy despite the hour,

while Moms with buttons on their coats gossiped.

I was pulled aside. “I want you to shoot today, okay? I don’t

care if it’s not the perfect shot, if you don’t have the right angle…

there’s no reason to be afraid of shooting the puck. That’s the whole

point of the game right?” He gave a cold chuckle. “Let’s see some

goals today.”

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I nodded and heaved the neon-red monstrosity that housed my

equipment over my shoulder. The weight from the bag nearly took me

back down onto the rubber along with it, and for a moment I lost grip

on my stick. I turned without saying anything and shuffled to the

locker room while my dad took his place with the others.

The locker room itself had cement walls, crudely painted white

and blue, and was lit by buzzing fluorescents. The room made it feel

earlier than it was by imposing on us a mature degree of discomfort,

the kind that people with responsibilities typically had to endure. But

we didn’t care. It was noisy already, in the still-black morning: ten

year-old boys with greasy mops and no supervision – these were my

favorite times.

I took a spot next to Matt, the loudest kid in the world, my friend,

my brother. “Hey!”

“Ryyyyyyyy-annnnnn. Dijou guys just get here? Aren’t you

usually super-early?”

“Yeah, we got here just now,” I lied.

“Dijou have breakfast yet?”

“Not really. I had a granola bar.”

“Does that mean you’re going to the Restaurant after this game?

‘Cause we are.”

“Who’s going?”

“Me, Ben, maybe Andrew.”

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“Who do we play first?”

“The Sharks,” Andrew called out as he was wrapping black tape

around the butt of his stick, which looked new.

“They suck,” Matt stated, then laughed.

“Who do we play if we win?”

“I think it’s a Round Robin.”

“I wanna win A side this time.”

“I’m gonna get a hatrick.”

“I think we play the Bisons.”

“We better not go to B side.”

“Is there gonna be All-Stars?”

“’Kay, first line better be me, you and John-Paul.”

It all became one cacophonous stream, growing louder and

tougher the more suited for battle we became, red and black mesh

stretched across pounds of plastic and foam. Our coach, Mr. Hunter,

came in just before it was time to warm up on the ice. He wore sweat

pants and a mustache, and spoke with a prodding rhythm.

“First line: Hunter, Riley, Lukowski, second: McIntyre, Knowles,

Fink. I want Oleson and Zatulski up first on D. Now I don’t want to see

any drag-asses out there today. Skate, that’s what we’re here for, get

in the corners, take the puck. And shoot, I want to see tons of shots

today. Attack the goalie. Good? Alright, let’s get out there. Brad,

lead the circles.” And we were off.

5

My mom wasn’t at the game; she worked on Saturdays at a

flower shop in the mall. She wished me luck the night before, and

filled my belly with spaghetti so that I would be “fired up” in the

morning.

“Why would sp’getti make me fired up?”

“’Cause, Ryan, it has carbohydrates, and those stick to your

ribs.” She was smiling again, her cheeks still red and puffy from

earlier. I always made her smile; I felt like I owed it to her. Her round,

cheap glasses were speckled with dust and water marks, skewering

slightly the flesh around her right eye, where purple was giving way to

cigarette-stain yellow.

My dad was out for the night, so it was just the two of us. We

were both in sweat pants; her hair, the same red as mine, fell from a

scrunchie into the hood of her sweatshirt.

“What’s it gonna be tonight?”

“You wanna watch a movie?”

“’Kay, but no more Ghostbusters, hon. We’ve watched it twenty

times.”

“B-“ I was going to complain that I wanted to watch it again, but

she looked tired, so I moved to the TV stand and picked Weird Science.

“I thought you didn’t like this movie.”

“No, I do.”

6

There always seemed to be a mist over the ice that early in the

morning, like it was kissing back. And what music we made together,

the scraping, the slapping, the ssshhhhhh of it all. It was so casual in

its rhythm, yet so abrupt and so perfect.

As soon as I got onto the fresh ice I skated as fast as I could to

the farthest corner of the rink, so that I could be the first one to disrupt

its perfect surface, leaving my own indelible mark in the fluid streaks

of white that trailed each skate. All lethargy was gone, instead

replaced by the kind of spastic adrenaline that thrives in the cold. The

feeling was diminished only slightly when I became aware of my father

in the stands, in position by himself despite the fact that the game

didn’t start for another half an hour. He was alone; the other Dads

were inside, still drinking coffee and talking about their garages. But

he was there, watching me. I kept skating but stopped laughing.

I never cared enough about winning. That became obvious to

me at a young age. Other kids built their entire identities around A-

side trophies or their high scores on Mario Bros. 3. Not me. I wanted

to win, it was more fun than losing, obviously. But the Win never felt

like it was something I controlled; I tried, and I skated well, but I was

never the difference between a win and a loss. There were other,

better players that made that decision.

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I was just as happy playing shinny with mini-sticks and rolled-up

socks in Shawn Hunter’s basement.

“I’m Lindros, ‘kay?”

“Nu-uh, you can’t be, you’re the Hawks.”

“No way, I’m the Leafs.”

“Yer dead.”

I scored a lot of goals in that basement. There were times I felt

untouchable, like the puck was an extension of a stick that was an

extension of my own arm, my own being. There was a purity in our

love of hockey at that time; it was fun that was free from

consciousness. I shoved sandwiches into my face after the games and

we watched Indiana Jones well into the night.

I was watching The Pink Panther when my dad told me I was

playing RMHA House League hockey in the fall. I was eight, and most

of the other kids had been in leagues since kindergarten. He bound

down the carpeted basement stairs, smiling and carrying a red jersey.

There was a bag of new equipment in the garage.

“So that means we’re goin to be hittin the rink a lot more, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“What? Aren’t you excited?” He smiled and sat down beside

me. A big thick paw rested on my shoulder.

“Yeah. Totally.”

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And I was. I wrapped my arms around his wide, lumpy frame and

buried my head in his chest until he started mussing up my hair, and I

pulled away laughing.

Before hockey, I was heavily involved in competitive skiing, with

the hottest gear and races every weekend. That all began after

watching the Calgary Olympics and being fascinated by the skiers.

Within a month, my father had spent thousands on equipment and it

was all we talked about. There were lessons and competitions; I was

relieved because it seemed to take some of the pressure off of

baseball in the spring, now that I was going to be a great Olympic

skier.

But I never won any races. In fact I was only an adequate skier

at best, and I had trouble turning. After another big Loss my father

complained to the league about the unfair divisions and uneven

playing field; I haven’t been on skis since.

Instead, like the changing of seasons, our house turned quickly

from skiing to hockey, and we went all the way. I used to buy hockey

cards at gas stations and grocery stores when I could, along with

Twizzlers and Rockets and Coke. There was a decent collection in my

bedroom, which I would lay out on the carpet to admire. By the fall, I

was enrolled in two different hockey schools. My father acted as

though I had been born into it, that this had been my life’s destiny all

along. He too had a great role to fill.

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The game started well; Ben scored within minutes. Our chests

puffed out and we cheered, shouted and slapped each other on the

helmet. I skated as hard as I could when I first got onto the ice, made

a few good stick-checks, and carried the puck across two lines before

making a solid pass to Matt, who lost the puck behind the net. The

other team looked smaller and meeker than we did, particularly in teal

uniforms.

I scored the second goal of the game with thirty seconds left in

the second period. I was in the right place at the right time, really:

grappling with a wide defenseman in front of the net when the puck

dribbled up to us from the corner. I just happened to get my stick on

the ice first; any later and it would have been fired down the ice by the

other player. But I caught it with my stick, and slipped it through the

goalie’s legs while his own defense blocked his view. The crowd

erupted, so did my father. He cheered so hard that I resented scoring

the goal. I looked at him from the bench; he was nodding at me. I

nodded quickly back and then leaned up against the boards to watch

the final few seconds of the period with my friends.

Hockey Dads are a breed apart; somehow, everything else in

their world becomes distant. The cliché exists for a reason: he had a

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Red Wings cap that was probably as old as me that rested atop his

thinning hair, forever bent by sweat and useless nights at the rink.

He could barely even skate himself. He tried, I’ll give him that

much. But he wore winter boots for most of the training that I endured

on the St. Peter’s outdoor rink. It was more a lesson in competitive

desperation than anything.

“I am skating!”

“Like. You. Mean it.”

Eventually, I gave up trying. At first, I really wanted to do well,

make him happy. I skated like hell, and practiced wrist shots in the

basement. But gradually, I began to revel in failing to live up to

expectations. There was a sick thrill in watching my dad fumble about

the ice in Kodeaks, his breath a stark white cloud in the dark night,

yelling at me as though it hurt, or was prodding me on. It was spite

that chiseled underachievement into my small, undeveloped self,

strange wisdom for a child.

Of course, I still feared him. Not the way my mom feared him; I

knew he wouldn’t hit me. I got to know his sorry aftershock as well as I

knew that terrible sound, the sound of aggression and whimpering and

cracking and pleading. He would take me out for drives, his face still

red. They were mostly silent, like our drives to the rink.

11

The Sharks scored two fast goals in the early stages of the third

period. It took us all by surprise, particularly Mr. Hunter, who had

probably already boasted about his team’s guaranteed A-side position

to the other smoking dads over the zambonie break. At once, there

was a panic about our bench: everyone was on their feet, and it all

meant something. We skated and we fought, but the period drew

nearer and nearer to conclusion without a victor.

I was never placed on the power line. We all knew that line, it

was Hunter, Riley and Lukowski, but my goal in the second must have

put me in some Divine light, because with the clock reading 18:45 I

took the ice with Matt and Shawn for the game’s final face-off in enemy

territory.

I was along the boards; the brute lined up against me looked

ready to kill, but as soon as Matt fired the puck back to Rob I was well

past him, rounding the net. Rob held onto the puck for a while, long

enough to draw two of the Sharks’ offence towards him before firing off

to Brad, who was in the clear on the boards against the bleachers. By

this point I had circled the net and was in position in front, grappling

with the defenseman, waiting for the puck to hit the pocket. The clock

read 19:13 when I looked up for an instant.

The puck hit the pocket but was kicked away by the same blonde

defenseman I was locked into. It sailed most of the way down the ice,

nearing our own blue line. I hung my head.

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But Rob grabbed it, and at once the puck became a fluid

extension of his own stick, his own being. He wove through opposition

until he found himself at centre ice, when our eyes met. By that point I

was against the boards, but alone. The puck hit my stick with a tender

crack, and I looked up at the world around me. Everything slowed to a

blurry stutter.

I was almost alone; there was but one lumbering defenseman

skating awkwardly between me and the net. There was just a puck on

my stick, choppy ice, and a net. For a fleeting moment, I felt

untouchable.

I looked again and saw my father’s face in stands. I knew how

much it meant to him; his son was about to score the game-winning

goal. I knew how he craved this moment, and I knew how he would

feel.

There was nothing but the sound of aggression and whimpering

and cracking and pleading.

I shot wide. There was a colossal moan from the stands, He

swore. I kept my head down and skated for the bench. I didn’t say

much for the rest of game; there was nothing I could say. I just tried to

keep from laughing.

She couldn’t hit back, but I could.

The Sharks scored within minutes of Overtime. I think we won

the C side trophy.

13

In the truck, crossing the black morning prairie at 6:22 a.m., my

father looked out over the highway and said

“I’m not sure if I ever really pushed you like I should’ve. When I

was younger, I woulda loved to have your opportunity, to have the

chance to play like this.

I never even played hockey, myself. Basketball was…well, you

seen the pictures. It’s too bad you never got into basketball there.

Those classes were expensive.

But that’s what I mean, I’m not sure if you ever got pu – aw Jesus

Christ, why haven’t they cleared this? Godamnit…

What was I saying? Grab me a smoke.

See, a game like this though, I can’t just push you, you gotta

push yourself. It’s supposed to be fun, remember? It’s not fun to lose.

When I was your age I was pushing myself every day to get better.

My dad wouldn’t have put up with any ass-dragging from me,

that’s for sure. I want you to skate today. I dunno. Maybe if your

mother gave a damn. She’s probably a lot of the reason for you not

being very…motivated.”

And I watched the frozen morning lay still, at peace. It went on

and on and on, like it was also reaching for something that wasn’t

there. My father’s words hung like stones in the air. There were huge

gaps between them, as he puffed from his DuMaurier or looked

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contemptuously at the same still morning that I so longed to escape to.

It felt as though he was being as honest with me as he’d ever been, in

my whole life. And I wanted to hurt him.

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