Chapter 12 #2
Maybe that’s a significant reason why he and I haven’t talked about mom. Maybe he’s already processed his pain and come to terms with it thanks to his writings while I’m…
While I’m trying to navigate life day to day, hoping success will somehow lessen the pain.
Afterwards, there’s a post-lecture mixer with drinks and snacks in the amphitheater’s lobby.
I spot my dad talking to the colleague who invited him to speak, and I step up to the group to join them.
However, my dad’s too caught up in a story he’s sharing (about me, to my surprise), so he doesn’t notice me standing beside him until one of his colleagues clears his throat.
“James!” My dad gives me a quick hug. “I’m glad you could make it. You look great. Did you enjoy the lecture?”
The group’s eyes shift to me. No pressure. “You did great, dad.”
My dad beams. “You remember Dan Jacobs, right? You used to play with his son all the time before they moved to Chicago.”
Dan’s son wasn’t into hockey, but he was my best friend nonetheless. Probably my first crush too, if I’m being completely honest. It sucked when the Jacobs family moved away; I didn’t exactly bounce back as a notoriously shy kid.
“I remember when you only came to my waist,” Dan says, marveling at my height. “You sure shot up like a vine like your old man! Still playing hockey, right? The Stars?”
“They’re the Comets, Dan,” my dad corrects before I can. “His team made the playoffs again this year. Second overall in the league, first in the Central Division!”
“Really? Well, good luck with that.”
“They’re going up against Denver in the first round. Should be a great series. Denver plays very defensively, but the Comets have the best rising goalie in the league. If their offense can score goals, then James can make the saves they need.”
Both myself and Dan look at my father as if he’s grown a second head. Why is he talking about hockey to a colleague who knows nothing about sports at a university mixer?
Dan tips his glass towards me. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t surprise me to hear you’re so talented at hockey, James. You’ve always taken after your mother.”
A lump forms in my throat, but I spare a glance towards my dad. He stares at me with warmth in his eyes—the same color as mine.
My dad chuckles softly. “Jane and I couldn’t keep him off the ice for long.”
How can my dad just talk about my mom so casually? How can he not get choked up every time someone brings her up? It hasn’t even been a year since she passed away.
I tug on the sleeve of my dad’s tweed jacket, a gesture I haven’t done since I was a boy whenever I wanted his attention. “Hey, Dad, can we talk?”
“Sure, James,” he says without hesitation.
I pull him away from the conversation circle, well-aware his colleagues’ eyes are following us, to retreat to a quieter section of the lobby where there’s less chance of being overheard.
When we’re alone, my dad raises a brow and asks, “Is something wrong?”
“What was that?" I ask, unable to contain my irritation.
“What do you mean? Talking to Dan?”
I scoff and shake my head. “You’re waxing poetic about hockey with a person who knows nothing about it.”
My father frowns, confused. “Can’t I be excited about my son’s accomplishments?”
I don’t know how to process that. It’s not as though my dad’s never cared or said he was proud of me, it’s just…
he’s never been public about it, especially around his academic peers.
He’s never expressed it, but I’ve always sensed a twinge of disappointment from him over the fact I chose hockey as a career instead of his profession, academia.
“You don’t have to pretend to like it.”
A heavy beat passes.
“Who said anything about pretending? I happen to be quite invested in the season so far.”
I blink. “What do you mean, ‘invested’?”
“I’ve watched every single one of your games this year, and after the All-Star game, I started watching some of Mr. Sinclair’s games just for comparison. I’ve been trying to learn more about the sport—about goaltending.”
He shrugs and scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick I’ve caught myself doing as I’ve gotten older.
“Forgive me for not understanding all the nuances yet, but I’m trying, James.”
Why now? Why not years ago when this interest could have felt natural instead of sudden and forced?
“Do you not want me to?” he asks, pushing up his glasses. “Because I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable—”
“You can’t replace her, dad.”
As soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, I regret them. He deflates faster than a balloon. All the remnants of joy and enthusiasm evaporate from my father.
“I have to get back to the group, James,” he says, his expression hard as stone. He moves to leave, but I try to stop him.
“Wait, dad, I didn’t mean it like that…”
But it’s too late.
My dad walks away, but instead of returning to the mixer, he heads out the door, leaving the party behind.
Dan and the other young students from the conversation I interrupted glance between my dad’s retreating form and where I stand alone.
This was my dad's special night, and I ruined it by opening my mouth.
This was one of my last chances to spend time with my dad before he returned home to Massachusetts and I became busy with the playoffs, and I blew it.
I leave before I do something else to upset my dad. After all, I don’t belong here, not really. I’m a hockey player. I have no place among the brilliant, creative minds who admire my dad and understand him in ways I’ll never be able to.
I’m not the son my father wanted. I’m a product of my mother’s meticulous parenting and dedication to goaltending.
I study plays and act on them for a living.
Day by day, I review footage to prepare for future matchups.
My creativity emerges through self-crafted goaltending strategies—sometimes messy, sometimes chaotic, matching my own rhythm.
My office isn’t some static room inside a department building on a college campus.
Sometimes it’s a backroom inside our arena, white-walled and unappealing, but our home away from home.
Sometimes it’s the impersonal insides of a bus or plane without privacy, amounting to a shared space every member of the team can claim.
I’m not the son my father describes in his poems through flowery figurative language—this is a projection, a fantasy, a dream. I’m not the boy he tried to mold into a poet, a scholar. I’m the antithesis of everything he holds dear, and the one person who could bridge us together is gone.
On the drive home, I grip the steering wheel tight and keep my focus narrowed to the road. Traffic in downtown’s terrible tonight, so I try to distract myself with the radio, one of the usual, Chicago based AM stations. Familiar talkshow personalities fill my car.
“…so tonight we’re focusing on some of our most important listeners ahead of the upcoming holiday in a few weeks… Mother’s Day!”
I turn off the radio in record time as tears make my vision blurry.
The hum of the engine, the thudding of my pulse in my ears, it’s all white noise, static, and I can’t catch my breath, I can’t fill my lungs without choking on a sob—at least until a loud blaring horn brings my attention back to the road and the green light blinding my eyes.
Faced with silence, I drive in a daze, my body handling the mechanics on its own. My dad’s wrecked expression can be found on the face of every man on the sidewalk, in the other cars around me.
I know what my dad was trying to do. I know he’s trying to fill the void, but he can’t. Not this soon. I’m not ready. For someone with such a profound grasp on the human condition, my dad doesn’t get it. He can’t fathom the storm in my head.
We should have never been put into this situation in the first place. My mom should have been here tonight, healthy and happy. It should have been her bragging about my hockey success to my dad’s colleagues, not the other way around. We’re supposed to be a family of three, not a family of two.
Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe deep down, I’m still stuck on the anger phase of grief while my dad’s already on step five. Acceptance might be part of his survival strategy, but it will never be part of mine.
When the door to my apartment closes behind me, my phone pings from my pocket. I loosen my bowtie, crash onto my couch, and wipe my face before checking my texts. For the first time since Eric and I exchanged numbers, I resent seeing a message from him.
Eric
How are things with your dad? Having a good time?
I stare down at the screen in total loss. What am I supposed to write? Hey Eric! Good news. I’m the world’s worst son. I made an ass of myself by saying the wrong thing to my dad on his special night. I’ll be lucky if he ever speaks to me again after tonight.
Eric and I aren’t close enough for me to dump that kind of baggage into his lap. I can’t deal with this tonight. I can’t pretend everything’s fine, when it’s the furthest from it.
Unable to muster up a fake response, I toss my phone aside and sob into the nearest pillow.