Chapter 2
SAM
For a home opener, it wasn’t too bad. At least we had about half of the arena full for a change.
I know everyone was looking forward to seeing the rookie goaltender the Glads picked up in the draft this year, but he’s got a while until we can bring him up.
Since Clarke has to clear waivers to go down and the dickhead refuses to retire, we don’t have the roster spot for Charming just yet.
Pretty soon, the ownership isn’t going to be giving Clarke the choice if he keeps pretending to be Swiss cheese.
“Good job with the diva, Talbot!” Jason Callahan, this year’s captain, barks out and taps my shin with his stick before he set it on the rack behind me. “I can’t wait until Gramps gets it through his head that it’s not his age preventing him from making the Bigs.”
Jason and I struck up a friendship three years ago when he showed up at open tryouts as a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old kid with a dream.
I had just finished my degree program for sports management.
He refused to leave his fate up to the draft, while I refused to move away from Pops while he was battling prostate cancer.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
There’s barely enough time to brace before a blood red blocker is flying towards my face.
I might be shit on ice, but I was one hell of a catcher for my college baseball team.
And with the way the asshole has been playing lately, my reaction time is probably better than his.
If I didn’t look like Bambi on ice, I think Coach might actually suggest putting me in the net for a period to see if I could do better.
“What the fuck did you do to my lacing, Talbot?” he whines loud enough for all of the guys in the locker room to stop and look.
Thankfully, Coach comes in before Jason can jeopardize his position as captain coming to my defense.
Clarke has gone so far beyond everyone’s last nerve already and it’s only the third game of the season.
“That was a shit showing out there, gentlemen…”
I tune out the rest of his usual speech – losing with Clarke between the pipes has become routine over the last four years.
While Coach drones on, I start the long task of organizing the equipment for the guys into categories according to needs and preferences.
Some of the guys want their gear cleaned after each game – not all of them, though.
I’ve managed to develop a system that allows me to tackle the smell without actually cleaning the gear.
That took me two seasons to perfect. It’s a secret I will take to my grave – job security in today’s society is important.
“… meet them after the game. I know we all want to lick our wounds, but I need a few volunteers.”
Whatever Coach asked of the guys makes them groan.
Sometimes, scouts from the ownership in the NAPH show up, but this sounds more like international scouts.
A lot of those leagues that come to our games are from places where hockey dreams go to die.
I’ve got nothing against Australia, the UK, or even South Korea, but they aren’t exactly the places anyone thinks of when it comes to high skill and intense ice hockey.
Generally, once a player leaves North America to play for a league in another country, they don’t come back until retirement.
A few from the NAPH have done it, but no one from the PHL has come back that I’m aware of.
Of course, Jason steps up, but the only other person who remotely looks interested is Walendziewicz, our other tendie.
Where Clarke is pushing forty with the joints of a sixty-year-old and the attitude of a toddler, Wally is in his late twenties and fully committed to whatever is best for the team.
Right now, unfortunately, that means management has him riding the pine in order to keep his geriatric counterpart from making us look even worse – not that there’s much more negativity that could spread at this point.
Ignoring the drama in the locker room, I keep up my routine, making sure to put Clarke’s gear away exactly how he’s specified he wants it.
After my internship term four years ago – also known as two weeks of hell before my mentor quit on me and the team – I got into the habit of photographing his cubby with a meter stick propped next to it after I set it.
It manages to keep most of his tantrums off my shoulders so that I don’t have to deal with him more than necessary.
The last of the guys clear out while I’m still working.
This is typical for me. I’m supposed to have a few people under me to help with this, but the guys from last year are all done with school and working in the corporate world now – and good for them for making money because my position as the equipment manager barely covers the bills.
My assistant from the last two seasons, Anna, just got hired by the Vipers – the NAPH team in New York.
They originally offered the position to me, but Harrisburg is home.
Even with Pops gone now, it will always be home.
“Sammy, you still here?”
Coach’s voice breaks through my thoughts of how last season ended hurt in more than just a professional capacity.
“What’s up, Coach?” I yell over my shoulder as I slam the lid on the laundry cart that the cleaning company will grab in the morning.
I’ve managed to break most of the guys of the superstitions around not cleaning their jerseys and socks by pointing out that maybe their superstitions only need to be followed when you’re winning.
It’s really helped cut down on the funk day to day, but nothing will ever truly eliminate that smell without total demolition of the building.
“Do you have any openings for a high school kid? One of our long-term season ticket holders has a sixteen-year-old kid looking for a part time gig.”
I glance at my watch, surprised to see that it is almost midnight. With a full team under me, I’m usually home by now after a game. Even with the hour restrictions on a kid, it would definitely help to cut my time down and hopefully get me into my bed at a reasonable hour after games.
“If the kid can handle the stench, he’s more than welcome to fill out the paperwork,” I tell him as I lock the door to the equipment room. “I need to replace Eric, Stan, and Anna as well. Can you get Elise to put out some ads for me?”
Coach shakes his head in exasperation before waving me out ahead of him.
“I still can’t believe that both your guys just bailed without telling anyone,” he says as we wave to James, one of the arena security people. “I get that they got better jobs, but what happened to giving notice?”
Chuckling to myself, I unlock my car from across the lot.
It’s times like this that remind me that Coach is very much Gen X.
He doesn’t understand that giving notice is only a courtesy anymore.
If the companies don’t respect the employees enough to give notice before layoffs and dismissals or cutting hours, why should the employees need to be courteous?
“They gave me heads up that they were looking, Coach,” I say, throwing my backpack on the passenger seat of my car. “None of us thought they’d get hired this quickly. Most of their classmates are still looking for jobs.”
“Still shouldn’t leave you hanging like that,” Coach grumbles before climbing up into his truck.
I’ll make do. Pops always said that Talbots don’t know the meaning of the word quit.