Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The game against the Empire State Kings was a complete shutout. Granted, there were plenty of penalties, and Ted, one of our defensemen, dropped his mitts at one point, but no one lost any teeth, so I say it was a success ... and we won three-zero.
All the same, Coach Badaszek gives us an earful during the post-game debrief. “I want cleaner play. You’re gentlemen, not cavemen.”
The answer is a chorus of grumbly growls.
“Pilsen deserved that facewash,” Pierre says, also on defense.
“Coach, with all due respect, hockey isn’t a clean sport,” Micah says.
Badaszek’s lips press together in a thin line as if he’s holding back some choice words but knows our captain is correct. Instead, he says, “I want each one of you to showcase your skills and not get by on brute force.”
Vohn Brandt, our assistant coach, says, “Boys, listen to your mother.” Then he goes on to unpack some of the plays.
I’m half convinced Badaszek is going to blow a gasket, but they have their good cop, bad cop roles locked in and Vohn isn’t afraid to lay down the law.
He says, “Reddford, that pass during the second period may as well have been a grenade. Do you want to see Savage’s guts all over the ice? No, you don’t. I want smooth passes like Silky Hands over here.” He gestures to Micah.
He raises and lowers his eyebrows, gloating.
“Don’t be too pleased with yourself, Lemon. You cherry-picked all first period.” Badaszek grunts.
The lecture continues ad nauseam. For once, there’s no target on my back because I played aces, given the goose egg final drop.
“But we won,” Pierre says.
“With thanks to Hammer’s magic socks,” Ted says.
I swallow because this was the first time in a long time I didn’t have my lucky charm. In fact, if the guys were watching more closely, they’d notice I’ve given up several of my pregame habits, which was about as fun as having a tooth knocked out.
But I did it. Go me.
“The other teams are watching our every move. When they find our weaknesses, they will exploit them,” Badaszek says gravely.
The guys banter about each other’s shortcomings on and off the ice … and my lucky socks.
Vohn rivals me in the grouch department. They call him CC short for cantankerous curmudgeon, though not to his face. I’m known as the Grumpy Goalie, but that’s not exactly it. It’s not that I’m grumpy, more like quiet, reserved, stoic.
Badaszek adds, “Buckle up, boys. Moving forward, we’ll be closing these gaps and tightening our play.”
Leaving us to talk among ourselves, the coaches confer. This only means one thing. Next week’s practice will be brutal.
“Hammer, what’s your take?” asks Micah, team captain, always trying to include me.
“We all know Hammer doesn’t have opinions. He goes with the flow,” Hayden says.
Redd winks. “Hardly. Under that stoicism is a scholarly man, worldly even, with commentary on everything from Renaissance art to modern engineering.”
“And cereal milk.” Ted makes a gagging face.
Out of the six of us, it’s an even split between Pierre, me, and now Redd—with thanks to his daughter Blue—who’re pro cereal milk. The rest think it’s a vile abomination to beverages around the world.
The back and forth continues until they slowly filter out of the room, leaving me feeling heavy with the reminder of why I am the way I am. I wasn’t always so tight-lipped. I got tired of hearing my voice. I keep my trap shut, do what I’m here to do-–what I’m good at—and leave the rest to the big mouths in the room. That would be everyone else.
“Good job out there today, Hammer,” Badaszek says, brushing off the whiteboard.
I grunt in response as I get to my feet. He shifts so he’s blocking my path to the door, but I don’t get a feeling of aggression from him, though he was formidable in his day. He has a few daughters and I glimpse his paternal side for a moment as he looks up at me.
“Hammer, it’s okay to accept a compliment.” He searches my eyes as if trying to figure out what I keep hidden.
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
Even though I’m on the ice as frequently as the other guys on the team, I don’t move around quite as much and my protective equipment weighs over three stones. Kind of like my life outside of hockey—or more accurately, on the other side of the world, the life I’ve been avoiding. It’s baggage I try to leave in my locker.
Badaszek holds my gaze and says, “It’s okay to brag a little. Let the guys know that you were the star player this game. Shutouts don’t happen every day.”
I grunt in response.
“But you’re not going to let me pat you on the head and tell you what a good job you did, huh?”
“Probably not, sir.”
Having grown up in a small country north of England, I’m used to the cold, but sometimes it digs into my bones, making me especially tired after a game. I’m not a grandfather in hockey years—that’s like dog years—quite yet, but I’m getting towards the end of my career. I can feel it. Sense it.
This means the hiatus I have taken from my family will soon come to an end.
Have I been avoiding them? Yes.
Do I hate them? No.
But love is a word never exchanged among the Hammers. Far from it. I’m not looking for it either. I’ve watched the rise and fall of many good hockey players—not taken out by injuries but by women. Not looking for that either, even though it’s the key to my freedom after my career is over.
Coach says, “Hammer.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Maybe try smiling. Especially during post-game comments.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry, but it wouldn’t hurt for you not to look like you’re contemplating whether a better weapon would be a hockey stick or a puck to knock out everyone in the room to temporarily put you out of your public-facing misery.”
I despise cameras. Video is worse. But it’s what I signed up for.
“That bad, sir?”
“I know you’d rather play without a single fan in the arena, but they’re part of the package. The press too.”
Hockey is the thing that saved me from a different audience altogether. So yeah, I’d rather play to the void.
“Or maybe don’t scowl.”
I snort a laugh.
“See, that’s more like it.”
“Just keeping focused, sir.”
I heard the fans chanting ‘Drop the Hammer,’ meaning don’t let the biscuit in the basket. I try to ignore when the classic nineties tune by MC Hammer blasts through the arena when the opposing team races the puck toward the goal.
Badaszek snaps his fingers and points at me. “I understand. But it’s okay to enjoy yourself. To have fun too.” He arches his eyebrow. “Just not too much.”
Like a good father, he presses, but not too hard. He’s present, but not smothering. The guys were right. I do go with the flow, but I also have opinions. Strong ones usually. I just keep them to myself.
Badaszek grips my shoulders and gives me a little shake and then squeezes in a fraternal way. If he could reach the top of my head, he’d probably ruffle my hair. He strides out of the room, leaving me in thoughtful silence.
When his footsteps recede down the hallway, I realize I’ve just been Badaszeked. He has the reputation for being the toughest coach in the league, but not because he’s loud or aggressive. Though he can be. He holds his players’ feet to the fire. He hangs in there with us for as long as is necessary for him to get the desired results. He’s a dad.
Haven’t seen mine in a couple of decades.
Not going to lie, I don’t mind the enthusiasm of fans and encouragement from my coach, but I keep everything close to my hockey jersey. Sometimes less is more.
I take the team flight back to Omaha where the Nebraska Knights are based—specifically a small town called Cobbiton that had available land for the arena, parking, and a veritable playground for hockey fans with a proposal for a hockey museum. Here, if it’s not corn-themed, it’s all hockey all the time. Fans call it Hockey Town.
I rarely travel with my phone. Our assistant coach, Vohn, says he likes that I’m old school. The other guys tease that I’m old , even though they’re all on my heels, some of them by mere months. Actually, Micah is in his thirties, making our captain older than me.
When I charge my phone, those little red dots glow, meaning I have missed calls, voicemails, and texts. They’re like mosquitos. If only I could swat them away.
Without so much as opening the messages, I know what they say. Reminders about the wedding this weekend. I already agreed to make an appearance out of familial obligation. My cousin Marlon is marrying a local woman. My mother—Sukie—likes to remind me that I have until thirty “to sow my wild oats.” I don’t have oats. I prefer cereal. Cereal milk specifically.
I’m hardly what anyone would call wild. Maybe a little feral at times. I don’t do late nights out or get involved in drama. That’s why Badaszek once said he’s keeping me forever. He seemed pleased about the shutout. I’m perfectly suited to the Nebraska Knights, which is a family organization rather than a flashy organization like some of the other teams. Namely, the one we just routed. They should spend more time focusing and less time fooling around. Fun is overrated.
I quickly peruse the messages. As suspected, they’re from my mother.
As my twenty-ninth birthday creeps closer, I only have so many tokens left to cash in. If I remain unmarried, my inheritance remains tied to Sukie. With frequency, she pesters me with demands to change my status. I don’t need the money, but a promise is a promise and I’d never break one. Least of all the one I made to my grandfather before he passed away.